by Georgie Lee
‘Except that because of precedence, you’ll be sitting next to him at every dinner,’ Anne reminded, dropping her voice so as not to be heard by the gentlemen and ladies passing them as they went from the dining room to the billiards room.
Clara let out a frustrated sigh. If the footman hadn’t already dragged her travelling trunk up the stairs to her room, and if Mary, her lady’s maid, wasn’t already busy arranging dresses in the wardrobe, Clara would order her clothes packed up and the trunk put back on the carriage so she could return home. Except there was nothing for her at home except more nights alone, more days spent in reading and solitude or watching James and Lillie play and regretting that she had no child to play with them. She could leave and allow the melancholy to claim her or stay and remain on this path to being out in the world and open to the possibility of love and a better life. That, and proving that she’d changed, was why she was here and she wouldn’t allow Hugh to steal this from her the way he’d tried to steal her faith in herself six years ago. She intended to enjoy the season and she would. What Hugh did was immaterial to any of that.
* * *
Hugh examined the pages of the illuminated manuscript, trying to concentrate on the beautifully drawn and painted figures, but all he could see was Clara. The moment she’d entered the room, the only thing he’d been able to think about was the Christmas Eve ball when he’d held her in his arms. Her petite body had been languid against his when she’d curved into him with sighs as tender as her fingertips against his neck. Beneath the silk of her gown he’d been able to feel the press of her hips against his and when he’d caressed the line of her back, the sweep of his fingertips over the bare skin above the line of her bodice had made her shiver.
He’d sat across the table from her at Adam’s family home over the years, paying her no more heed than he would the younger sibling of any of his friends. It wasn’t until she’d entered Lady Tillman’s sitting room at the beginning of that fateful Christmas house party, her dark blonde hair done up in ringlets and secured with red ribbons, the plain cut of her dress unable to hide her curving hips or the fullness of her breasts, that he’d viewed her as a woman. Even when dressed in the simplest of fashions, she’d taken his breath way and he’d struggled not to stare at the womanly changes that had come over her while she’d spoken about the falling wheat prices and how they plagued the major landowners. Her girlish interests had changed as much as her figure. In those few moments she’d transformed from the gangling young sister of his closest friend into a lady he couldn’t take his eyes off, one worthy to become mistress of Everburgh Manor.
There hadn’t been any trace of that smitten woman in the one who’d turned to face him today, her full lips opening with surprise before she’d pressed them tight together in disgust. Marriage and loss had changed her as much as it had changed him. The simple young woman he’d fallen for had matured, her plain country styles exchanged for the elegance of London fashion, her once-adoring looks now cutting, but he deserved her anger. It was the grief he’d seen when she’d pored over the vellum that she didn’t deserve.
He turned the manuscript pages until he reached the one of the women crying at the foot of the cross. The mournful looks on their faces reminded him of how Clara had appeared when he’d watched her from across the room, hesitant to interrupt the private moment or to intrude on a sadness he was all too familiar with. While he’d watched her, the anguish and torment he’d suffered after he’d received the Christmas Eve letter six years ago informing him that Lord Matthews had finally agreed to Hugh’s requests for his daughter’s dowry, and that Hugh and Lady Hermione Matthews’s engagement could proceed, had rushed back to him. Along with it had come the regret that had tortured him in the carriage that Christmas morning when he’d ridden away from Stonedown and Clara. The memory of her distraught face when she’d faced him in this very room had torn at him along with the same accusation she’d thrown at him moments ago.
‘Fortune hunter. Bollocks.’ He slapped the book stand, making it rock before it righted itself. He hadn’t married Hermione simply for money, but out of duty to his family. The cold winters at Everburgh when his parents used to struggle to heat even a few rooms while his grandfather had squandered the family fortune on his actress second wife still haunted him, as did the strained and worried faces of his parents. After his grandfather’s hard living had finally killed him, the massive debts had fallen to his father to pay and their quality of life, which had never been high, had declined even further. Although his parents had done everything they could to shield Hugh from the reality of their situation, there was nothing their stories of knights and dragons could do to stave off the cold or place more food on the table. Then, when they’d been on the verge of leaving those days behind them for good, Hugh’s father’s heart had given out, worn down by years of struggles. At his funeral, Hugh had vowed that he would do everything he could to make sure that his mother would one day experience the comfort and ease that a marchioness deserved. His marriage to Hermione had given him the chance to do that and he’d never regretted his decision. He still didn’t. It was his youthful indiscretion at not being more cautious with Clara’s feelings that he lamented, especially today, but there was nothing he could do to change the past, not his one with her or the last three years. He could only move forward and he would.
Hugh left the library in search of Adam and society, needing both more than solitude and regret. Solitude and the constant torment of remorse had already led him to make too many mistakes in London after Hermione’s death, ones he’d have to work twice as hard to overcome if Clara’s reaction to him offered any indication of how people currently regarded him. She and they had heard the stories about his behaviour in London. Most of the tales weren’t even true, or they were exaggerated far beyond recognition, but it didn’t matter. Until recently, he hadn’t worked to check them and enough of them were true to give credence to the rest. At one time he’d been admired as much for himself as his old title and had been known to everyone as an honourable and respectable marquess who hadn’t inherited his grandfather’s taste for ruin. It’d taken a lifetime to build that reputation and three years to throw it all away and make everyone believe he was no better than his grandfather, but he was and he would prove it again.
Striding down the hall, he found Adam in the billiards room with a number of other gentlemen. They bent over the table to examine the shots, change the score on the marker or watch the game, each of them carrying glasses of brandy and sipping them between bits of conversation and breaks in the play. A gaggle of children ran through the room, swarming around the table before running out the opposite door, their noisy chatter barely breaking the conversation of the lords who were willing to tolerate their antics in this season of forgiveness. Hugh hoped everyone was willing to forgive more adult mishaps, especially his.
‘Delamare, good to see you.’ Adam clapped him on the back, then moved to hand him a glass of brandy from a nearby footman’s tray before remembering and setting it back on the salver for someone else to enjoy. ‘Sorry, I forgot you’d given it up.’
‘There are times when I think that might have been a mistake.’ He glanced at the brandy, tempted to throw back a good portion of it and savour the burning in his throat. It was a pain he deserved, but he wasn’t a man to go back on his promises, at least not any more.
Adam tilted his head to one side in scrutiny. ‘I assume you’ve seen Clara, then?’
‘I have. She wasn’t pleased to see me.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ He didn’t look at Hugh, but swirled his brandy in his snifter before taking a generous drink. ‘She didn’t know you would be here.’
‘You didn’t tell her?’ He wanted to take the snifter and break it over his friend’s head. ‘The entire reason I wrote to you was so you could warn her in the hopes it might ease any tension between us.’ The tension that had dominated every word that had passed between them in
the library.
‘If I’d told her you’d be here, she wouldn’t have come. You know how it is, no one likes to be reminded of past mistakes and such.’
No, they didn’t. Not Hugh, not Clara, no one.
‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter now,’ Adam continued. ‘You’re both here and now you’ve got your awkward first meeting out of the way, I’m sure the two of you will get on splendidly.’
‘I wish I shared your optimism.’
‘Well, the season of miracles and all that.’ He rapped Hugh on the arm and took up his cue stick and bent over the table to take his shot, the conversation about Clara and Hugh being here together over. Hugh allowed it to drop. Adam was one of the few friends from his past who saw the better in Hugh even when he couldn’t see it in himself. Hugh owed it to him to be respectful, especially of Clara. Adam, having inherited young, knew well the responsibilities of a titled man, but for all of his patience and understanding of Hugh’s mistakes, and the family duty that had forced him to marry another, Adam would draw the line at intentional injury to those he loved.
‘Marvellous shot, Exton,’ Lord Tillman muttered through his bushy moustache, one hand on his round belly, the other clutching his brandy. He was tall with spindly legs and long thin arms, his full head of hair a striking contrast to his less-than-robust form. An earl from a long line, he didn’t lord his title over anyone, taking it all in stride. He and his wife were two of the most congenial hosts that Hugh had ever known and the most forgiving. Neither of them had baulked at inviting him after he’d placed a gentle request with Lady Tillman when they’d met at the theatre at the end of last Season. He was thankful for their support and this chance to take his first steps towards redeeming himself with good society. If Clara’s reaction to him was any gauge, he had a great deal of work to do.
Hugh tried not to sigh in weariness while he watched the game. He intended to some day hold a house party like this at Everburgh, but with no Lady Delamare to help him welcome his guests and no children to run with the guests’ children, he would have to live once again off someone else’s generosity. It was yet another dream that was on the verge of never coming true, especially if the court ruled against him in the last case concerning Everburgh.
He glanced at the brandy, wanting to knock the drinks to the floor, but he maintained his self-control. He’d done all that duty had required of him when he’d become the Fifth Marquess, paying off the last of the debts with Hermione’s money, using Lord Matthew’s connections to woo influential lords and hire expensive barristers to settle remaining court cases in his favour or on better terms, but still it hadn’t been enough. The estate was in danger once again from a Scottish lord who claimed that Hugh’s grandfather had signed over Everburgh to him in exchange for a life annuity and the payment of some debts. The Scotsman had a few letters indicating some sort of deal between him and Hugh’s grandfather, and receipts of payment to his grandfather, but he had yet to produce the signed contract. If he did produce it, it would become a matter for a judge to decide. If the court ruled against Hugh, then everything that Hugh, his parents and Hermione had done to save the estate would mean nothing.
Hugh stood up straight and greeted Sir Nathaniel with a hearty welcome, determined to remain polite and solicitous. He would face this unexpected challenge with the fortitude his parents had always shown during their trials, the one he’d demonstrated, too, until Hermione’s death had sent him into a dark spiral, but those days were over. He’d made a number of mistakes since Hermione’s death, but they and the damage they’d done would soon be behind him. He would enjoy the respect and esteem of these men again, and, if given the opportunity, Clara’s, as well. He was the Marquess of Delamare and he would bring dignity to the title and himself once again.
Chapter Two
‘My dear, are you sure that’s the dress you wish to wear tonight?’ Anne asked, entering Clara’s room to collect her for dinner. In a short while, everyone would line up according to precedence on the main staircase before going into the dining room. Clara prayed someone had arrived to outrank her, a dowager duchess or a dowager marchioness with an older title than hers who would bump her back a place or two in the line away from Hugh. As much as part of her wanted to be at the head of the line where everyone might see her, she didn’t wish to be there beside Hugh.
Given that this wasn’t likely to happen, she’d dressed as she would for any other dinner at Lord and Lady Tillman’s, careful to pay no special heed to her attire. She didn’t wish Hugh to think she’d changed her manner of dress simply because they happened to be beneath the same roof. If Anne’s half-frown were any indication, Clara had succeeded a little too well in her desire to under-dress. ‘What’s wrong with my dress?’
‘Nothing, except it’s a tad dark.’
‘It’s winter.’ Clara opened her arms and looked down at the black velvet dress devoid of any decoration, trying to sound sensible and failing.
‘But the season is so cheerful and you don’t want to come across as dour. Perhaps your green dress would be better. You want people to speak with you, not offer consolations.’
Clara dropped her arms in defeat, her desire to be seen as a refined and chic lady fading in the face of her current wardrobe. This dress might be fine and of excellent material but it bore the hallmarks of her grief, as did most of the dresses she’d brought with her. The bright gowns she’d worn before Alfred’s death were still packed away in trunks at Winsome Manor. She wished she hadn’t left them behind.
‘You’re right. I appear as if I’m going to a memorial, not preparing for a festive week. I’ll wear the green dress.’ She waved for Mary to undo the buttons on the back so Clara could change. ‘I don’t want to scare whomever I’m paired with for the week’s events or give them the impression that they’ll be stuck with a stick in the mud.’
‘No, you don’t.’ Anne laid a finger on her cheek, her frown drawing up to one side in a smile that made Clara suspicious. ‘Especially since you’re sure to be seated beside Lord Delamare.’
‘You needn’t remind me.’ He was the reason she’d already devoted too much time to preparing for dinner. Her inability to find an appropriate dress reminded her of the many times she’d stood before this mirror six years ago, feeling heavy and uncomfortable in all her country finery and inherited jewels, the reflection staring back at her one of a young lady who used to turn down dances for fear that she would step on toes and embarrass herself. Every evening before dinner, she would try on all her dresses, lamenting to Mary about her inability to look like a refined London lady. She’d once thought this was the key to securing Hugh’s heart. Instead, the way into his affection had been through more pounds and political influence than her family had possessed.
‘I think you should consider yourself very lucky,’ Anne said, drawing Clara back to the conversation.
‘Lucky? I am far from lucky.’ If she were lucky, then Hugh wouldn’t be here and she wouldn’t feel the need to prove herself to the likes of him or Lady Fulton. She had changed a great deal since the last time she’d been here—now the trick was proving it to everyone else, including herself at times.
‘Of course you are. If you forgive him, then there are no barriers to anything happening between the two of you this Christmas.’
Clara gaped at her sister-in-law, unable to believe the words that had just come out of her mouth while Clara was standing in her shift and chemise of all things. Clara stepped into her green dress, yanked it up and stuck her arms in the sleeves. ‘Life in the country has become quite dull if you’re suggesting something between me and Lord Delamare, a man who is nothing more than a fortune hunter who’d go through my money faster than he does actresses in London.’
‘He isn’t as bad as you and so many others think,’ Anne responded with surprising seriousness, having seen and heard a great deal more of Hugh than Clara had when she’d followed Adam to London every
Season. But while she’d been discreet with her tales of him, others had not and a very different picture of him had emerged for Clara.
When Hugh had been a student at the Reverend’s school with Adam he hadn’t been so bad, but it wasn’t the case any more as she sadly knew from experience. During Hugh’s many visits to Winsome when she was a girl, he’d seemed so friendly, straightforward and predictable, enjoying riding and hunting like any young gentleman, but the candlelight had never caught in his eyes or his smile been as wide or charming as it had during that Christmas week. Some time between their meeting in the sitting room on the first day and the snowball fight in the garden, Hugh had stopped being simply her elder brother’s friend and had become very much more.
It wasn’t until the morning that he’d told her he would marry another that he’d suddenly become someone Clara didn’t recognise. After that disastrous Christmas, Adam and others had tried to convince her that Hugh wasn’t the rake Clara believed him to be. Hugh’s behaviour in London had proven them all wrong, making her brother’s continued faith in his old friend perplexing. Adam had always had their father’s gift of seeing the best in even the worst people. It was a trait she didn’t often share and Clara wondered what Hugh hid from Adam and Anne to keep them so enamoured of him. ‘What about the duel he fought? Only a true wastrel resorts to that kind of theatrics to resolve a dispute.’
‘You know how men are when it comes to their honour. Even the best of them can lose their heads at times.’
