Sharon Sobel (25 page)

“I am going to tell you that,” Max said, standing naked but for his bandages. “But you are not going to believe me.”

Claire looked at him, realizing how little his scars and reddened, damaged skin mattered to her now. When they first made love, in the bright light of the open field, he allowed her to explore the injuries of his past and she did so unflinchingly. But she was never repelled, only upset for the pain he had endured. But now that was a distant memory as well, for so much of the pain had been replaced by pleasure, for both of them.

“Prospero,” she said suddenly.

“Prospero? I believe you have the wrong man, my lady. Please refrain from using your knife on me while I very quickly dress myself.”

“You are the right man. Your sister said something today that made me think her a modern Miranda, and thus you are her Prospero,” Claire explained.

“Do I understand that you think me a tired man whose life is spent? I warn you, I value my books too much to drown them.”

“I thought of you as someone who has had the wisdom to raise a sister into a confident lady. That is Camille’s Prospero,” Claire explained. “My Prospero is someone altogether different.”

“And how is that, my lady Claire?” Max asked.

“I should think it fairly obvious,” she answered. “I expect you to work your magic.”

Chapter 9

There was little time to talk during the stolen interlude in Claire’s bedroom, and for that Max was very grateful. Aside from the luxury of spending every minute exploring her perfect body, he did not have to answer the questions he already knew she had formed and would have articulated had he given her the briefest opportunity. And so, he told himself, in the name of her well-being and safety he kept her mouth too busy to hold an inquisition.

But he could not keep her distracted every time they met, and when his Camille informed him over breakfast that they were going to spend the entire day in Claire’s company, just as if they were back in Yorkshire, he knew he was doomed. He looked up from his French omelette.

“Do you not like it here in London?” he asked.

“Oh, I like it very well, Maxwell. But we thought it would be very diverting to spend a quiet evening in Claire’s house, and eat the foods we most enjoy.”

He looked at his omelette again, and decided it was overly rich. The notion of Mrs. Clark’s simple breads and preserves suddenly seemed very appealing.

“Is this what the two of you discussed at the ball last night?” he asked, praying it was so. If they made such plans, they could not have heard very much of what Longreaves told him.

“Yes. Is it not an excellent plan? I am looking forward to this day, but its pleasures must be deferred for a few hours while Claire and I go to Madame Lamartine.”

“Is she a mystic or something of that sort? She certainly sounds like one.”

Camille laughed in such a way that made her sound both superior and gracious.

“Madame Lamartine is the finest dressmaker in London. I daresay you will become more familiar with her name once she sends her bills.”

“I can scarcely wait. And of course Lady Claire has managed to arrange an appointment for you while other poor ladies must settle for sackcloth and rags,” he said.

“Indeed she has. She tells me you approve of her wardrobe.”

He did, particularly of her ball gowns that revealed her generous curves and lovely arms. But that did not mean he wished his sister to dress in such a manner.

“I do have a question, Maxwell.”

“Is it about Lady Claire?”

“Oh no. I assume you will tell me about Lady Claire when you are quite ready to do so,” Camille said confidently, knowingly. “It is about me.”

Max’s mind touched on matters of settlements, their mother’s missing jewels, his other properties. Camille deserved to know what was hers, and what she might take into a marriage. He did not think they would have this talk so soon after their arrival in London, but his sister seemed to do very well wherever they went.

“What would you like to know?” he asked, and cleared his throat.

“Do you think blue suits me better than green?” she asked. “I cannot tell, of course, and must rely on the opinions of others.”

Oh, yes. They had arrived in London.

***

James Cosgrove seemed delighted to receive Claire’s invitation to dinner, which is precisely what she hoped. Though he was never out of their orbit of social events, Claire wished to bring him closer so that he and Camille could revolve about each other in the manner to which they were so long accustomed.

While in Yorkshire, she endeavored to prepare her new friend for a season in London, where Camille might experience new things and meet stylish and worldly gentlemen. It was the only sort of life she, herself, had ever known, and it seemed perfectly reasonable to allow another young and eligible lady to do the same.

But now Claire doubted the value of such endeavors. Yes, she could justify the mission of giving Camille some basis for comparison between men and hope she would make a good choice; she had told herself this even before they left for London. However, it appeared she was overly successful at her task, for Camille seemed rather too engaged with several entirely worthy gentlemen, whose only flaw was that they were not Jamie Cosgrove.

Claire decided she liked Jamie very much. She wanted him to succeed with Camille, and take her back to Middlebury, where she would lead a perfectly comfortable life and have perfectly lovely children. Jamie’s home was large and gracious, much more so than a single gentleman truly needed. Claire suspected he had both prospects and advantages, even if he was the fourth son of a duke. And if not, he was even more to be commended, for he successfully made his own way.

Though she told herself she only wanted to see Camille happy, Claire was coming into a keener sense of her own place in a family. Hers had always been aloof and anxious to be rid of her. Glastonbury’s family always eyed her with some suspicion, rarely having anything to do with her after his death. Perhaps they were worried she would reveal how brutal the man had been during their marriage.

But the weeks in Yorkshire had bestowed upon her several gifts: the love of a good man, the joys of a quiet life filled with passion, and the pleasure of family. Inasmuch as she spent nearly every hour of the day thinking about the good man and the passion, she thought it fair enough now to think about family.

Perhaps she was a selfish woman, but she preferred James Cosgrove as a brother-in-law to every man with whom Camille dallied. And of course, he could never be her brother if she did not also marry the man she preferred to any other in the whole wide world.

But she would marry Maxwell Brooks. Unless he fell off a wharf and killed himself first.

“Lady Glastonbury? Lord Wentworth and Lady Camille have arrived. Shall I show them to the parlour?” Leeds, her manservant, looked decidedly amused. “They are at the front door,” he added.

“I cannot imagine how else they would arrive at my home,” Claire said firmly. “Have their carriage brought around to the back, for they plan to spend the day here.”

As Claire descended the stairs, she heard Max and Camille arguing in the parlour, and nearly lost her footing. When had they ever argued before? Camille had always been sweet and compliant, and Max was nothing less than doting. This, too, was her work, she realized. She had changed them, and not necessarily in a good way.

“Good morning,” Claire said. “Or is it already afternoon?”

“It might as well be midnight, for all my brother wishes is to have me hide away where no one could see me,” Camille pouted, and held out her hand to Claire.

Claire walked towards her but exchanged a glance with Max. He looked more bemused than angry, and Claire attempted to look contrite. She had a feeling this concerned her somehow.

She caught Camille’s hand, and guided her to a chaise near the window. Though Camille rarely said anything about it, Claire was certain her friend could see shadows or shapes when the sun was bright. “Whatever is the problem? Do sit down, Lord Wentworth, and stop glaring at us.”

He was not glaring, of course, but if Camille was upset with him, Claire did not want her to know that her brother thought her concerns frivolous. Nevertheless, he sat down at a safe distance, and picked up a book on a nearby table.

“I have asked Maxwell if I might join him when he travels to the Continent again,” Camille said. “Before this splendid sojourn in London, I had scarcely been out of Yorkshire, and now I have a great desire to experience more of the world. You must admit, I have successfully acquitted myself in society and am convinced I could manage very well in foreign places.”

“I daresay you could and you shall, Camille,” said Claire, watching Max. He rubbed his injured leg, but she did not require his subtle reminder that his business was not an experience to be shared with any lady, blind or sighted. “But your brother will not be a suitable guide for the places you most desire to visit.”

Camille shrugged. “I do not see why not. Brothers and sisters travel together all the time.”

“Oh, yes, but where is the fun in it? I hope you achieve your dream of making a grand tour, but that you will journey with a husband instead. Your brother spends his time in wine caverns and dealing with ship captains and the like. I prefer to imagine you in the sun, examining the tiles of a Roman mosaic with your fingers, or plucking olives from the tree, to be served with your dinner.” Claire stopped before she went too far in what, in fact, were her dreams as well.

Camille looked surprised. “You speak so knowingly, Lady Claire. Yet in all these weeks, you have never spoken of your travels.”

“I have traveled only through books and in my mind, as you have. Indeed, Lady Fayreweather often asks me to visit her at her villa in Marbella, but I have not yet made the journey. But perhaps, with a husband, I might be more adventurous.”

Max stopped massaging his leg, and smiled, his expression full of anticipation and promise. He was that husband, Claire knew. He was the man with whom every day would be an adventure, no matter where they were.

“And yet you did not travel with Lord Glastonbury,” Camille pointed out.

“My husband saw any sort of travel as an inconvenience. But the man for you will be one who is not inconvenienced by anything that will give you pleasure, nor deny you what you most desire.” Claire’s voice caught on a sob, and she was embarrassed by emotions she did not fully understand.

Camille’s face turned from Claire to Max and back to Claire. Her experiences of the past months had transformed her from a girl into a woman, and she certainly guessed what unspoken understandings passed between her friend and her brother.

Claire was grateful to be such a friend, but Max undoubtedly was uncomfortable with a sister who knew something about his private affairs.

“How have you been keeping yourself busy, Lady Claire, now that you have returned to London?” Max said artlessly.

Claire turned to him, amused. “Do you mean, when I am not reading to my girls, shopping with Camille, planning a ball with your aunt, or dancing with you at various balls and parties, my lord?”

“Yes,” Max said.

“As a matter of fact, I have been doing a bit of housecleaning,” Claire said.

Camille laughed. “Surely not! I cannot imagine you polishing the silver or doing something of that sort.”

“No, indeed. I am doing a task that I cannot entrust to anyone else, and I am happy to relegate the polishing to my maids.” Claire looked down at her dress, and noticed a small stain on the fabric. She doubted any amount of effort would remove it. “I am sorting through my garments, deciding what I shall keep and what I shall give away to others.”

“Do you have many garments, Lady Claire?” Max asked. She looked up at him, trying to gauge if this was yet another idle bit of conversation, or if he was being practical by assessing his future expenses.

“I do. Your sister and I have enjoyed our shopping excursions so much, I need to find room to shelve my purchases.” But there was more, and Max might as well hear it. “But I also have a rather extensive collection of black gowns and veils, and no longer wish to have them in my house. I am done with the trappings of mourning. But others are not, and cannot purchase such gloomy finery for themselves. I intend to donate part of my wardrobe to the Widows’ and Children’s Society.”

“That is very generous of you,” Max said, and nodded as if in agreement with what he already assumed to be true. “You are a very generous person.”

Claire, who was accustomed to compliments of all sorts, thought this was the most splendid praise of all.

“Perhaps you can replace them all with emerald green gowns instead,” Camille said, moving the conversation in quite a different direction. “By all reports, you are most magnificent in that color.”

Claire glanced at Max, who she hoped was the author of that report.

“Nevertheless, I will save one black dress. One never knows when it will be useful.”

“I hope your brother is in good health?” Max asked.

“I have no idea,” Claire answered truthfully. “But I have an errand in the near future, and I prefer to remain most discrete. When I was a new widow, and so attired, I slipped in and out of places without anyone noticing me at all, so I thought such a costume would be most useful for what I intend.”

“And what do you intend, Lady Claire?” asked Max, leaning forward.

“I intend to perform an errand.”

They said nothing for some time, during which Claire heard the floor clock chime in the next room, and a door open and close somewhere in the house. In such moments, she wondered what Camille heard, and would not have been surprised to learn it was an entire conversation between two people half a street away.

“So you will do as Max does, I suppose,” Camille said, and sighed. “He always goes off somewhere as my brother, and returns as someone nearly unrecognizable, attempting to fool me.”

“Yes, he has already demonstrated his talents in that regard. I am certain it is also amusing to those engaged in the importation of wine,” Claire said, enjoying Max’s discomfort.

“Did you say you wished to read this afternoon?” he asked pleasantly. “Why do we not sit next to each other, Lady Claire, and read as if we were actors in a play? Such skills might serve as a rehearsal for you so that you might perform in your widow’s weeds.”

Camille rose. “Sit in my place and I will in yours, Maxwell. You and Lady Claire can easily share a book in this position.”

Claire watched Max guide his sister to the rather stiff chair he had at first selected for himself, and then return to her. Even if he intended to observe the proprieties, it was nearly impossible on the chaise, for he was much larger than Camille, and took more than his share of the seat.

“Ah, this is quite comfortable,” he said, and turned his head to kiss Claire’s ear. She swatted him away. “What do we have to read today? Sir Walter Scott? I wonder that you ladies do not tire of romance in the Highlands. Or is it the swordplay and intrigue you enjoy?”

“We enjoy both, Lord Wentworth,” Claire said formally, and pressed her knee against his leg.

“Perhaps we could travel to Edinburgh, Maxwell. That would not qualify as a grand tour,” Camille mused. “I shall wear the Buchanan plaid, as they are our only Scottish relations. And do you not think you would enjoy a kilt?”

“No,” Max said emphatically, and Claire laughed out loud.