A Groom of Her Own (Scandalous Affairs Book 1)

by Christi Caldwell

  The other man caught Caleb’s eye, and then Wade winked.

  The bastard. He’d always been unfazed by Caleb. He would remain so in this, too, refusing to be driven off.

  Wade took a drink of his claret, finishing off the crimson brew. And then he stood. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this night, more so than I have enjoyed many more nights before,” the other man began, launching that flirtatious drivel that brought Caleb’s teeth together so sharply pain traveled from his jaw all the way to his temple, “I have to finalize our plans for tomorrow.”

  Confusion creased Claire’s high brow. “Our plans? I’m not aware of…” Her voice trailed off into silence as she moved her gaze away from Wade, training a stare that was both shocked and hurt on Caleb.

  Oh, shit.

  “Uh… yeah. As I was saying, a pleasure.” Wade wrestled with his collar, and then touching his fingers to an imaginary hat brim, he beat a hasty retreat. One that Caleb envied him mightily for.

  When Caleb had arrived to find Claire dining alone with Wade, there’d been nothing more that he’d wanted than to be rid of the other man so Caleb might be alone with her. Because he’d selfishly wanted to hang on to all of their last moments together, without intrusion—even if that intrusion came from his friend.

  But that imagining had included her laughing and bright-eyed, as she’d been moments ago.

  Not as she was now, wearing her hurt like a garment, so visible and real that all Caleb wanted to do was drive it away and restore her to the happy way she’d just been.

  But then, as quick as the hurt had appeared in her eyes, it was… replaced. With a simmering anger.

  Oh, hell.

  This was bad.

  Coward that he was, he cast a thankful look in the direction of the silent maid seated at the table…who chose that moment to stand, and also beat a retreat. One that, as he was left alone with Claire, he very much envied the other woman for.

  Yea, this was going to be trouble.

  Chapter 21

  Claire had been hurt many times in her life.

  From nasty words hurled viciously at her by fellow ladies of the ton about her family’s involvement in the disappearance of the lost lord, to the sudden retreat of cowardly suitors who’d been courting her.

  Until she’d managed to erect an armor about herself and found a way to shut out the ugly insults and not only accept, but embrace the solitary life her family’s sins had afforded her.

  Why, even when Caleb had handed down a blunt, harsh, and borderline cruel assessment of her mediocre work, he had offended more than hurt her.

  But this? Learning from Mr. Harrison’s mention of the plans for her departure, plans that included him and excluded Caleb? This hurt. It was the manner of pain that wrapped like a fist about one’s heart, grinding and squeezing the organ.

  She’d known Caleb wished to be rid of her. She’d even understood the reasons he’d rejected her offer of marriage. But she’d not thought he would pawn her off on another.

  This, however, proved a more acute, more keen betrayal.

  “I was going to tell you,” he said quietly.

  Did she imagine the guilt coating that statement? Because it was an empty, useless sentiment that erased none of this betrayal. She made herself turn her head sideways so she could look squarely at him.

  “Tell me what, Caleb?” She didn’t allow him to answer. “That you wouldn’t be escorting me to London yourself? That you were too pressed for time and couldn’t be bothered?”

  Caleb winced. “He’s not just anyone. Wade’s my only friend. I trust him with my life.”

  Claire could fix only on the words sandwiched between all the statements he’d just made. “Your only friend?” Another lance found its mark directly in her slow-beating heart.

  “Yeah, no. You’re right.” He grimaced. “There’s Poppy, and you.”

  Claire sank her teeth sharply into her bottom lip. And you. Two words tacked on there as an afterthought. When he’d come to mean so much to her. When she’d fallen in love with him so desperately. So deeply.

  “But he’s my closest friend,” he said through the tumult ravaging her heart and mind equally. “Which is why I know you’ll be in good hands with him.”

  Claire threw her napkin on top of her barely touched meal. “I didn’t ask you to find me a damned chaperone,” she hissed.

  “I know,” he interjected. “But I wanted—”

  “What?” she cried, jumping up so quickly her chair tumbled onto its back, landing with a noisy thwack upon the hardwood floor. “Foist me off onto another?” As soon as that pathetic charge left her mouth, she wanted to call it back. Only, there was no erasing the words. Their thunderous echo in the eerie stillness created by the snow twisted the blade of humiliation.

  Caleb took to his feet. “Is that what you think?” he demanded, pinning a narrow-eyed gaze upon her.

  “Isn’t it?” she rejoined. After all, there was no going back from the hurt she’d inadvertently revealed. She might as well own it and all her indignation. “I don’t know why I should suspect anything different,” she said, tiredly wiping a palm over her flushed cheek. “It’s been clear from the beginning, since I asserted myself too much, that you disliked me. You tell me that artists aren’t supposed to have pride. All artists but you, Caleb Gray, have it in spades. You might not like me, but your mouth and your body crave mine.”

  “No. I don’t dislike you, Claire.” He spoke with a quiet solemnity that pulled a bitter laugh from her.

  In an attempt to protect herself from the raw realness of this exchange, Claire hugged her arms about herself. “Thank y-you,” she said with all the mockery she could muster beyond this crushing pain. She headed for the exit, needing to be free of him and this exchange.

  As if you can ever be free of him. He will always hold a place there in your heart and your thoughts and…

  Caleb would not let her make the hasty escape she sought. He stepped into her path, and Claire instantly retreated several steps. The last thing she could afford was to have him near. It had always been dangerous. With her awareness of him, and the intimate bond they’d forged, it had only become all the more so.

  Caleb stopped, allowing her the distance she’d established, and it was a willingness to surrender control when men hated ceding that sentiment. And it was yet again just one more way in which she found her heart shifting.

  “Please, just…” He held his palms up. “Don’t go. Not like this.” And she knew he spoke of tomorrow’s departure.

  How did he want for her to leave? Smiling and laughing and happily waving?

  Only, she would be—and was—hurting deeply. Nay, not just hurting. She’d been splayed open, her heart shattered into two shards that rendered the organ useless. And it was because of him. But that did not mean he was to blame. Not really. Caleb didn’t care for her in the way she did him. His life was his art. He’d never attempted to pretend any other way. He’d been upfront and honest, and he’d already delayed his travels to Paris for her once already. It was wrong to expect a man who didn’t want a future with her to now put off his journey once more. The fight went out of her.

  Claire sighed. “I’m not your responsibility, Caleb.”

  “I never said you were,” he said quietly.

  “No. Not with words. But with your actions,” she said. “My mother would have me wed. My brother would keep me close under his wing to shelter me. You”—she gestured to him—“insist on escorting me here or there.” The entire world thought a woman incapable of leading her own life. “I’m not some child to be passed off to your friend. I can find my own way.”

  With that, she made to take her leave once again.

  “You’re right. I should have made mention of Wade being the one to accompany you. But I don’t want to fight, Claire. This isn’t why I came here,” he said entreatingly, dragging a hand through his hair.

  She sharpened her gaze upon the ravaged planes of his face, more emotion conta
ined within those exquisitely harsh angles than she’d ever before seen. “Then why did you come?”

  “Because I wanted to paint with you,” he said unexpectedly, knocking her back briefly on her heels.

  “Paint with me?” she repeated dumbly. Of anything he might have said, that hadn’t been what she’d expected.

  “I wanted to… offer that.” He grimaced. A schoolboy’s blush filled his cheeks with color, so endearingly sweet and warm. “I’ve never much understood why you or anyone would want lessons from me. I just know you wanted them, and I rebuffed you in the past in the rudest way.”

  Once again, the warmth fled. That was what this was truly about, then. “Because you pity me.”

  “No,” he said solemnly. “Because I like being with you. Because despite what you might believe, I do care about you.”

  As much as he was able. He didn’t need to speak those words. They were implicit within. But God help her for being greedy, she wanted more of him.

  “I have to go, though, Claire.” He palmed her cheek briefly, in the shortest of caresses, before drawing his hand back. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I want to paint with you once before I leave. So will you please come with me?”

  Claire stood there, at war with herself.

  Everything within her screamed no to what Caleb suggested. To spend any more time with him was folly. Nay, beyond folly. And sharing in this, as he suggested, would put her further along that path of danger she’d already ventured down. For spending a single moment more with Caleb threatened to imperil her heart, all the more.

  She needed to protect what was left of it, as best as she was able. She needed to have some emotional distance so that when the physical distance grew between them, she’d be able to breathe and live without wanting to crumple into a heap of a thousand regrets at what she’d never have.

  His brows lowered. “Will you join me, Claire?” With that, he held out his fingers.

  She glanced down at those outstretched digits, long and powerful, the paint upon them a beautiful mural of blues and greens and yellows left by whatever artwork he’d last seen to.

  Claire wavered, that part of her fighting desperately for self-preservation weakening.

  Doing this now—joining him—would bring their relationship full circle in a way that would bring… closure. Perhaps that’s what he sought? Perhaps it was what they both needed. And yet, as she placed her fingers in his and followed him to the ballroom, she knew the truth. She wanted whatever crumbs of affection and closeness she might steal.

  Loving him as hopelessly and desperately as she did, there would be no recovering from the loss of Caleb Gray.

  “You ever paint on the walls?”

  His question came so unexpectedly, a matter-of-fact query that juxtaposed the powerful thoughts swirling in Claire’s head, that it took a moment to register.

  “What?” she blurted.

  “Walls,” he repeated, and lifting his opposite hand, he mimicked brushstrokes.

  And if this wasn’t the crux of all her woes where Caleb Gray was concerned, she thought drolly. She was here, pining over him and mourning their parting tomorrow, and he was already on to their art lesson.

  “Caleb, you know my mother. Do you think she’d have allowed me to paint on her walls?”

  “I know you, and I know that wouldn’t stop you.”

  “No,” she allowed. He spoke of knowing her, and he did. “You are right.” Somehow, the kindred connection she’d forged with this man had grown and magnified over this short time. Only, it hadn’t really been a short time in which they’d known each other. They’d known each other for several years now, and each knew the other’s obstinate, strong spirit.

  Caleb brought them to a stop, and she peered into the expansive room with wood parquetry flooring. Of course, the ballroom. It was where he’d taught Poppy.

  “But they are not my mother’s walls,” she said softly. “They are Poppy’s.”

  “She’d let you—”

  “It’s not that she wouldn’t let me. It’s that they are hers. They are hers to create upon.” And Claire? Claire was even further away from a life of her own now than when she’d started out on this journey.

  “Then come on, sweetheart.” Caleb gently tugged her forward. “You can have mine.”

  You can have mine.

  As in, on this night, she could avail herself to this room, and it was the greatest of gifts, but she proved shamefully selfish for wanting there to be a greater permanency to that offer.

  They stopped beside a worktable. At some point, before he’d joined her and Wade for the evening meal, he’d created a vast array of oil paints.

  “Now,” he began, shrugging out of his jacket. “You asked for lessons.” Caleb tossed the wool garment aside, and it sailed to the floor in a soft little heap.

  From the moment she’d discovered Caleb’s connections to Poppy, this was precisely what Claire had been longing for, instruction from one of the most renowned artists, and now here she stood before him, about to receive just that, and all she could focus on was the way the muscles in his arms bulged and strained. And the hint of dark curls that peeked from the top of his shirt. Claire’s mouth went dry.

  “There’s one lesson”—he lifted an index finger—“just one that matters above all others. Do you know what that is?”

  It took a moment to pinpoint that he’d put a question her way. Claire jerked her focus up to his face. “No,” she blurted. “I’ve… no idea.” What had he been saying? Or asking? Perhaps he’d been putting a query to her? Something about lessons. Or she thought it had been. Everything was all mixed up.

  With a brush clenched between his teeth and a small bowl of blue paint in his right hand, Caleb glided toward her, so close when he stopped that she felt the heat that poured from his frame, a warmth so intense it fanned her. Claire dampened her lips.

  “Follow me,” he said around that brush.

  Anywhere. She would have followed him anywhere in this moment, in any moment. Breathless, she allowed Caleb to lead her by the hand deeper into a ballroom that had already been largely transformed into an artist’s paradise.

  The moment they reached the center back wall, he released her fingertips.

  A quick rush of… emptiness came with the loss of his touch.

  “Close your eyes, Claire,” he whispered.

  Without hesitation, she let her lashes drift down. Her breath quickened, along with her heart.

  Kiss me. Kiss me once more and make my body sing as you’ve done this past week…

  Something cool and thin filled her palm. “Here,” he said with a matter-of-fact directness that brought her eyes flying open.

  Thoroughly befuddled, and even more disappointed, she took in the brush he’d transferred to her hand.

  “Tsk, tsk. I didn’t tell you to open your eyes, sweetheart.” With his spare hand, Caleb touched the tip of a finger against her nose, and again, Claire complied with that gentle order.

  With her eyes closed, her body and every sense were even more keenly aware of Caleb Gray. The woodsy whisp of linseed oil that clung to him. The sough of his breath upon the sensitive nape of her neck that sent delicious tingles along the length of her spine.

  “You asked for lessons,” he said softly against her ear. “And yet there is only one I can impart that actually means something.”

  Her lashes fluttered, and she hung on, breathless, to his every whispered word.

  “It isn’t about perfecting lines and formal training. It isn’t about being technical. It is about… feeling, Claire. It is about letting yourself be free to make a mistake, and from that, real art is born.” He paused. “Now, dip your brush in the paint, love, and just paint.”

  She opened her eyes, and even with her back to him, he saw. “No, Claire, close them.”

  Claire angled her neck a fraction and tipped her head back. His head, bent low as it was, nearly brought their mouths into contact, and butterflies danced in
her belly as she hungered for that joining. “But I don’t know what to paint.”

  Caleb tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Don’t think about it. Just dip the brush into your paint and give color, life.”

  Give color, life.

  With that, Claire closed her eyes, tentative at first as she painted strokes upon the wall. With every glide of her brush upon that invisible-to-her canvas, she surrendered herself to those strokes. The absence of a subject, together with the freeing sensation of just blindly painting, brought an awakening of joy. There were no constraints placed by either the outside world or Claire herself. There was no frustration in trying to flawlessly capture some tangible object or breathing person.

  “That’s it, move,” he said softly as she worked. “You don’t overthink it. You don’t analyze it, Claire. You just feel.”

  Just feel.

  Claire gave herself entirely over to the unseen image she created, letting her brush fly, attuned to the drying that indicated more paint was needed. And she sensed Caleb’s presence, too. She worked until her shoulders ached, and the muscles of her arms grew strained, and her breath came in fast, little spurts.

  And then she stopped.

  Claire’s eyes fluttered open, and she slowed her movements. Her eyes immediately locked upon the streaks of blue, of all varying widths and depths, in fading shades like the morn sky just as the sun made its appearance to cobalt darkness that bordered on black.

  “It is… magnificent,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Caleb said at her side.

  They froze, trapped in the moment, studying her abstract creation, and then Claire and Caleb turned, their bodies in tandem. She would remember forever the searing power within his eyes at this very moment when she left tomorrow, escorted off. Her chest hitched.

  And then Caleb crushed his mouth to hers. The brush slipped from her fingers, joining the clay dish of paint that he lost his hold on, splattering them both.

  Claire couldn’t bring herself to care about the mess they made, or even worry about those remnants staining the creation she’d just completed.