Oh, God.
Colin was not sure what the duke meant by “flair,” but he was quite sure he did not have it in his form.
A trickle of sweat ran down his neck, despite that he had not yet begun to exert himself.
When it was his turn, he did his best to mimic the steps Nick had performed. He believed he was more or less successful in this endeavor, although not up to the duke’s exacting standards. Quite frankly, it was doubtful whether anyone met the duke’s standards except himself.
After an hour’s work, the duke declared that Colin had earned a sandwich.
“You must replenish your strength. You still have four parts to learn.” Wessex said. He touched one fingertip to his brow and frowned in displeasure. “Good heavens, am I perspiring?”
Colin let forth a string of curses.
He had to learn four more parts? And that was for just one dance. A ball might have six or seven or— God, he didn’t know. It could be endless.
“Thank God Lady Claire is the forgiving sort,” he muttered as he selected a chicken sandwich. “She won’t mind so much if I turn the wrong way or trample her toes.”
“But what of the other ladies?” Abingdon asked. “They have toes and feelings, too.”
“What other ladies?” Colin asked blankly.
“The other ladies you must dance with.” When Colin still looked mystified, he said, “You cannot dance more than two sets with Lady Claire, you understand. Neither can you sit out all dances but those with her. If there is a lady who wishes to dance, you must ask her, or you will be considered unbearably rude.”
And that was when Colin well and truly panicked.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
One of Claire’s favorite things about the library at their London home was her father’s collections of maps. As a girl, she had stared at the maps in fascination, imagining the journeys that had occurred in order to draw it. She had known, even at that tender age, she would not journey anywhere herself. Her mother had never been farther north than Sussex. Nor had her grandmother before her. Her father, with the exception of his grand tour after Oxford, was likewise content to remain rooted in one spot.
Claire had never been unhappy with her lot in life. She had been content to plod along exactly as she’d always done, comfortable in body and occasionally amused in spirit. She had been bored, most certainly, but never unhappy.
Now she was so happy it startled her. She was not frightened—one time Adelaide had told her she was frightened of happiness, but that was what came of having one’s heart broken, Claire supposed. But her heart had always been solidly in one piece, if somewhat sleepy. Until now, it had thumped along at a predictable, placid rhythm, with the exception of those rare moments when she could force it to quicken the pace. When fleeing from a bull, for example, or jumping from a roof.
It had not escaped her notice that her heart had become much more active since meeting Colin. Gone was the sedate lub dub, lub dub that reliably ensured her existence. Now her heart galloped, leapt, and bounded as though it belonged to a wild creature, not the dignified daughter of a marquess.
Her heart was beating quite rapidly now as she unrolled a map onto her father’s desk. She traced her finger along the route they would take. Once they’d crossed the Channel, they would sail across the Bay of Biscay. Would they then stop at Portugal or Spain to take on supplies before entering the Mediterranean Sea?
Her finger paused, and she leaned down to more closely examine Africa. It was a hulking mass of land, the exploration of which—according to John Cary’s map—had been confined to the perimeter, leaving the interior untouched. Perhaps they would make port here, in Algiers—which Cary had marked in red—or Tunisia, which was colored green. Mountains divided the north of the land from the south. To the west were the Mountains of Kong. To the east were the Mountains of the Moon. The Great Desert of Zaara lay to the north. Below the mountains was simply called Unknown Parts, with the exception of kingdoms along the southernmost coast.
Unknown Parts. She shivered happily.
But they would not be going to the land of Unknown Parts. They would sail through the Mediterranean, just as Lord Byron himself, until they reached Alexandria.
Someday, though, she thought. Perhaps someday.
“What are you doing?” a voice asked behind her. A wonderful, dear voice.
She turned and found Colin entering the library, with Mr. Mukherjee following. She smiled in greeting of them both. “Just the gentlemen I most wanted to see. I know the common route from London to Alexandria, but could you tell me all the places we will make port?”
Colin hesitated almost imperceptibly. “Why?”
She was taken aback. “So that I might imagine all the new and wondrous things I will see, until I can hardly sleep for excitement of our adventure. Do you not do that?”
He looked at her with such acute longing that her breath caught. It was just as hard to be patient for him as it was for her, it would seem. One month. Only one month more, and then not only would this man be her husband, but they would be together aboard a ship. Adventure was theirs for the taking, and she meant to grab it with both hands.
“Spain is a possibility,” Mr. Mukherjee said. “Very often, ships also make port in Malta. Here.” He jabbed a finger at a small island off the coast of Sicily.
“The Maltese must be so happy now. Everything is exactly as they wanted,” she said, referring to its recent change of sovereignty from French to British.
“Oh, no doubt,” Mr. Mukherjee said sardonically.
She looked at him uncertainly. “Are they not happy? Clearly, they did not prefer the French.”
“Nor the Knights. Such a pity no one asked them.”
Despite his laughter, there was something in his tone that sounded harsh and almost bitter. But why did he care so much for Malta? And why should he assume the Maltese were unhappy?
“The Maltese requested our help, and we gave it willingly. Imagine being ruled by Napoleon!” Or an ancient order of crusading Hospitallers, for that matter.
His head tilted as he contemplated her. “It is very difficult, is it not, to imagine being ruled by something so unpleasant and foreign? I quite agree with you, Lady Claire. I would not wish such misfortune on any country.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Deb,” Colin said. “She is not a fool. She knows you are really speaking of India.”
Claire flushed. She hadn’t realized, actually. “But England is not France,” she protested.
“Ah, the lesser of two evils,” Mr. Mukherjee said. “But why must I choose an evil, at all?”
She stared at him. He had called England evil, and she did not believe it was an accident. “You do not like us.”
“I think you are splendid. But as a people, I find the English are like dalchini. Quite lovely in small doses, but swallowing a heaping spoonful of the stuff might prove hazardous to one’s health.”
He turned abruptly to look at the map. “You would like Malta, Lady Claire. The waters that touch England are gray and rocky. But in the Mediterranean, the sea is a shade of blue the likes of which you have never seen before. In some places, the water is so clear you can see straight to the bottom and all the fishes that swim through it.”
The sudden change in topic made her pause. She was torn between demanding he explain and clamping her hands over her ears so that she might not learn anything too uncomfortable. But they would have many opportunities for further discussion—who else could she talk to aboard a ship but Mr. Mukherjee and Colin?
She hesitated only a moment longer before she smiled. “Are there mermaids?”
“A friend of my cousin saw one once,” he said.
She laughed. “Isn’t that how it always is? Mermaids appear to our cousins’ friends, but never to us. Unless you have been more fortunate, Colin?” She gave him a teasing sidelong glance.
But he was watching them with an unhappy look upon his face. “I have not.”
“Just as we
ll, I suppose,” she said. “Their singing lures men to their deaths, after all. Although, to be sure, we have only men’s word on that. Perchance the mermaids were not beckoning them closer, but were really saying, look out for those rocks, you fool.”
Mr. Mukherjee laughed. Colin did not.
A shiver of unease went through her. He was acting rather oddly, wasn’t he? She tried to push her worry aside. Colin was always rather brusque. Likely, it meant nothing. He was anxious about the voyage. Or maybe he feared she could not get on with his friend. Well, she could set his mind at ease on that, at any rate.
“Mr. Mukherjee,” she said with a bright smile, “I am so glad you will be with us on my first journey out of England. I have utmost faith in my future husband, of course, but I fear if I am his only companion, he will become quite tyrannical about my safety. I, on the other hand, am sometimes careless with my health. You will be our voice of reason.”
“Oh, my dear lady, that I can promise you.” He gave a crisp bow. When he rose, his dark eyes were fixed on Colin, as though he meant his promise to be to him, as well.
But Colin, she realized, did not look at all like a man whose fears had just been laid to rest.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“You didn’t tell her,” Deb said accusingly as they left the library.
Colin sighed. He didn’t want to leave the library. He wanted to stay and kiss Claire until she said sweet things to him. He needed to believe that she would still be happy with him, even without adventure and blue seas and Egyptian tombs.
“It is a delicate matter that requires privacy to discuss, but we haven’t had a moment to ourselves since we returned from Cheddar. Someone is always about.” He gave his friend a meaningful look. “I’ll tell her when the time is right.”
Deb arched his brows. “And when will that be? On your wedding night?”
And risk Claire bolting her bedroom door against him? Never. “Don’t be absurd. Of course I mean to tell her before we wed.”
“Tell her today. I don’t like lying.”
Colin frowned. Whereas he recognized that occasionally a lie was needed to serve the greater good, Deb was scrupulously honest. Lying, according to Deb, wasn’t just a matter of false words. Even silence was a lie when it omitted the truth.
But today was rather soon, wasn’t it? It gave her far too much time to evade him, somehow. He needed to tell her in a way that she would accept, or even embrace. Even better would be if she came to the conclusion herself that it would be better to stay in London.
Yes, that would be ideal. If it were her idea, she could hardly fault him for going along with it, could she?
And so he set about making her homesick.
His first opportunity came the very next day in the form of Lady Chatwell.
…
“She is determined to drive me mad,” Claire said upon returning from a morning of shopping with her mother. She removed her bonnet and gave her honey-brown curls a brisk shake. “My trousseau is complete. We leave for Egypt in less than a month. Why must she insist on another ball gown? Wherever will I wear such a thing? Does she imagine I will be invited to a ball by the pasha? Do they even have balls in Egypt?”
Inwardly, Colin’s chest constricted.
“Not as such, no.” He did not linger on this point, as she might consider the advantage Egypt’s. “Perhaps she believes you will have plenty of opportunities to wear the gown wherever you find yourself.”
“Perhaps she believes I will change my mind and stay in England,” Claire said with a grimace. “Which is why she also insists that I will need a new wool coat and thick dresses—exactly what I would need for winter in England. But an Egyptian winter is no colder than an English spring.”
Her cheeks were pink with annoyance, her curls bobbing with every word.
He saw his chance.
“It matters not. None of your pretty English dresses are suitable for Egypt. They show far too much of you. We would buy what you need upon our arrival.”
She looked down at herself. Her sleeves left her lower arms bare—the day was warm—but her bosom was completely covered by a lacy fichu. “Too much of me? What will I wear in Egypt, then?”
“A sack-like garment called a burkha, of a dark color, that covers you from your neck to your feet. It will protect you from the sun, and also from a stranger’s gaze.”
She tilted her head and frowned. “A…sack.”
“Their traditional dress, but there is no shape to it. So, yes, a sack. And a veil, naturally. The veil will cover your hair and your face, except your eyes.”
That was, indeed, how she would have to dress in public. In private, she would wear whatever the hell she wished, rich silks brighter than the sun, or even trousers. But he did not tell her that part.
He waited for her to express dismay at giving up her pretty dresses, but she merely gave a philosophical shrug and said, “That might be nice, for a change. The whole purpose of the London season is to be noticed by a man. It’s good fun, but quite a lot of work, you know. Just think, I won’t have to curl my hair if it is to be covered, anyway.” She actually looked pleased.
Well. Clearly a little thing like clothing was not enough to make her regret her choice.
But what would? If he told her about the food, he would likely be met with the same result. She already knew about the crocodiles and was quite eager to encounter one. Yes, England and Egypt were very different, and those differences would cause discomfort. But that was the point—at least for Claire. She wanted different.
“I don’t suppose it will matter to Mother if I explain Egyptian dress,” Claire grumbled. “She would foist the ball gown on me just the same.”
“What else is a mother to do?” Colin said distractedly. “My own was the same way when I left Bristol. She sewed more socks than I could possibly carry with me. Just her way of missing me, I suppose.”
“Oh. Oh, of course.” Claire bit her lip, looking quite chastened. “We won’t see each other for many, many months.”
Ah.
He turned to study her.
So there was a chink in his beloved’s armor, after all. He only had to stab it with something sharp. Like her mother.
“Years,” he corrected ruthlessly. “Or perhaps ever.”
Claire’s eyes went wide with shocked dismay.
He continued on. “Sailing between two continents is not something to be done on a whim. When I left my mother, I was a foolish young boy, filled with certainty that, of course, I would return home in a year or two rich as Croesus. That didn’t happen. It took ten years—and I almost wasn’t able to come back at all, and I didn’t come back rich.”
“Well.” Claire straightened her spine. “You’re rich now. We won’t have to wait ten years, if we wish to return sooner.”
He smiled. “Yes, we are very fortunate. For now.”
Her eyes narrowed. But he wasn’t willing to admit defeat quite yet.
“Do you know,” he said, “I think you should let your mother buy you that gown, and any other gown she desires you to have. It’s foolish, yes, and likely she knows that, just as my mother knew her bushel of socks was foolish. But I wished I had saved every single sock she had ever darned when I received word that she was on the mend.”
The misery that filled his voice wasn’t false. He remembered the feeling of helplessness as though it branded him.
“On the mend. I hadn’t even known she was ill. That letter never made it to me. If she had not recovered—and she very nearly didn’t—I wouldn’t have heard of her death until I reached England. I certainly wouldn’t have been able to say goodbye.”
“Colin.” Claire touched his cheek gently. Her eyes were suspiciously shiny.
He clasped her hands in his and kissed her knuckles. “Let her buy you the dress. It will make her happy. And one day, you might need to remember you gave her that much.”
“All right,” Claire said softly.
She was unhappy. He could f
eel it, and he didn’t feel even the slightest bit of remorse for being its cause. Every word he had said was true.
It was also true that if given the chance, he would do it all again.
But he didn’t tell her that.
Chapter Forty
Claire had on two previous occasions curtseyed before the Prince Regent. The first was when she was introduced at court before her coming out. It had been unremarkable. The second was at a ball at St. James’s. His Royal Highness’s nose had been rosy from drink, and, despite her very best intentions, she had found herself numerating all the other red things she had seen that day. His Royal Highness had not been amused.
Now, as she made her third curtsey to the Prince Regent, she successfully stayed mute by silently counting all the ways in which she loved Colin Smith. Prinny, thankfully, seemed not to remember her.
Colin looked exceedingly handsome and not at all himself as he knelt before the Prince Regent and accepted his knighthood. His black tail coat magnified the breadth of his shoulders and flat stomach. His muscular thighs required no padding, and the shape of his calf was really quite delightful. All in all, he was a magnificent man.
And yet…
If pressed, she could not say what the change in him was, nor why it made her so uneasy. Perhaps it was only that he was so much tidier, which was to be expected at court. Or perhaps…
She frowned. The fierce spark was gone from his eyes, and the vitality of his movements was muted. He seemed…tame, somehow.
They returned home directly to prepare for the evening’s ball.
“It was well done today.” Chatwell offered his arm to her mother to lead her into the house. “I daresay, we’ll make a great success of you yet.”
Claire frowned. Colin was already a success and would be even more so after a few months in Egypt. He hardly needed a knighthood to prove that, but she supposed it might prove useful someday.
She began to follow her parents, but Colin placed a gloved hand on her arm to waylay her. “Shall we go for a drive? It is a lovely day, perhaps the last good day of summer.”
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