She hesitated. It would take her hours to prepare for the ball.
“Please,” he cajoled. “We haven’t had much time together. Anyway, there’s something I want to show you.”
How could she resist such a plea? It was true that of late her betrothed had spent more time with her father than with his bride-to-be—planning their venture in Egypt took a good deal of work, she supposed.
“All right.”
She summoned her maid. As the day was fine, they took the barouche rather than the carriage. They set off for the park at a leisurely pace.
“It’s quite lovely here,” he said as they passed a late-blooming rose bush. The fragrance of the white blossoms wafted toward them. “India and Egypt have charms of their own, but I shall miss London.” He sounded rather surprised by his own feelings. “I wouldn’t have thought so even a fortnight ago. But the climate is quite pleasant. Egypt is beastly hot.”
“You would be cursing England’s climate and wishing for Egypt’s hot sun come December,” Claire said with a smile. “Or perhaps you have forgotten how dark and gloomy winter is.”
He shrugged. “As I said, each place has its own charms.”
They left the park and turned back toward Mayfair. But instead of turning on Grosvenor Street, they continued on until they reached the Eastwoods’ home.
She regarded him with a puzzled frown. “Why are we here? Do you intend to pay Mr. Eastwood a visit?”
“I wanted to see the neighboring house. It’s recently become available.” He shielded his eyes from the sun. “Do you like it?”
She looked. “Of course I do. It’s a good size, and I have often admired it. But what need have we of a house? We will not be in England for much longer.”
“It would be nice to have something to come home to, wouldn’t it?” He fidgeted with his gloves as he spoke, first removing them, and then tugging them back on. “Perhaps we could convince my mother to stay here and see to things while we are abroad. Her health is much worse than it was when I first left England. If she lived here, Nick could keep an eye on her.”
“Your mother is determined to stay in Bristol,” Claire reminded him gently. “How will you convince her to leave her home and her friends?”
“I don’t suppose an appeal to her good sense and rational mind would do the trick?” he asked. Claire shook her head with a small smile, and he sighed. “No, of course not. It never does,” he said ruefully.
She gave his arm a comforting pat. “Bristol is not so very far from London. Perhaps we could impose on Adelaide to visit her twice or three times a year.”
“I doubt Mrs. Eastwood will be attempting even small journeys in the near future.” Again the restless movements with his gloves. “Nick thinks she is already possibly with child.”
Claire opened her mouth to deny this but then hesitated, remembering how twice Adelaide had raised her dish of tea to her lips and then grimaced rather than take a sip. “Wouldn’t she tell him?”
“Perhaps she isn’t sure herself and doesn’t want to raise his hopes.”
That sounded like her friend. Adelaide was hesitant when it came to good news, as though she didn’t entirely trust it.
Claire felt a small, sharp pang. Of course, she didn’t expect her friends to halt their lives while she was off gallivanting across oceans and deserts. She was bound to miss weddings and births and, rather depressingly, deaths.
Was it wrong of her to leave England now, at the very moment she ought to be thinking of children herself? She was spreading her wings just when she ought to be growing roots. Perhaps it was unnatural of her to want a life that didn’t include the ordinary womanly roles her friends were joyfully seeking…
But it didn’t feel unnatural. It felt right…if a bit painful.
Claire was not seeking anything that a thousand men had not sought before her. Including Colin. He understood why someone would go, even though it meant leaving loved ones behind.
“Claire, love,” he said softly.
She looked at him.
“If you wanted to wait a year—to see your dearest friend safely through the dangers of childbirth—of course I would understand. It is asking rather a lot of you to journey so far away just now, when you are needed here. Egypt has been there for many a millennium. It can wait a year.”
Perhaps he understood too well.
But she did not want to wait a year. Adelaide would have this baby, and then she would have another. Claire’s mother might fall ill. Her father might be injured doing…well, she didn’t know, exactly. Her uncle had once broken his ankle simply descending a staircase, so really, anything might happen. Right now might not be the perfect moment, but it was as close as they would ever get.
There would always be a reason to delay.
She wanted to begin.
Now.
“You needn’t worry I’ll be angry,” he continued. “Truly, I will take your decision with good grace. My mother will be thrilled if I stay. I might even enjoy turning the ton on its ear with my lack of social graces.” He gave Claire a charming, crooked smile.
As she listened, her heart slowly sank to her slippers. He was all kind solicitousness, but it was not for her. Not really.
It was not she who wanted to stay.
It was him.
How could she have been so blind? This was why he had been acting so strange of late. Of course he wanted to stay. He had been gone for ten long years and returned to find his mother half blind and nearly impoverished. Naturally, the last thing he wanted was to head back to Egypt.
But why hadn’t he said anything? Why had he allowed her to plan and dream when his heart wasn’t in it?
It had been for her sake. It must be. He knew how much she wanted to travel to unknown lands—well, unknown to her, at any rate—and he couldn’t bear to make her unhappy. If she said the word now, he would go against his own desires.
But she would not do that to him. What difference did a year make, after all? She would not have Egypt, but she would have Colin. That would be enough. It had to be.
“Perhaps it would not be so terrible to wait a year?” She spoke hesitantly, studying him carefully for any sign that she was mistaken. But all she found was relief.
He smiled. “We could take a wedding tour. Neither of us has seen Scotland.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I’m so happy.”
And that was the first time she had ever lied to him.
Chapter Forty-One
The very first time Claire saw Colin, he had been describing a crocodile with vigorous hand gestures and vivid language. The scent of the ocean had still clung to him, and he had fairly glowed with vitality. Naturally, she had tumbled head over ears in love with him.
That evening at the ball, she stood patiently while he spoke facts and figures with her father and Lord Fairfax, a hopeful investor. Ponderous and precise was how she would describe him now, rather than vigorous and vital. He no longer smelled like the ocean. In fact, she wondered if he had borrowed her brother’s cologne. Of course she did not fall out of love with him, but she did hide a yawn behind her fan.
“I beg your pardon,” Colin said, turning to her at last. “I ought to be more attentive. Would you like a cup of punch?”
She shook her head, eyeing him suspiciously. It was such an un-Colin-like thing to say. He sounded… Well. He sounded exactly like any other gentleman might.
Dear Lord, she hoped England would not turn him tedious.
“In that case, may I request your first set? Unless you are afraid.” There was a glimmer of laughter and a challenge in his voice. Here was the Colin she knew and loved.
She grinned. “I am not afraid. Now that you are famous, your way of dancing might become the next fashion. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”
He groaned. “Alas, if you are hoping to repeat our performance in Bath, you will be disappointed. Wessex taught me the proper steps. It took hours. Years, even. I stand before you an old man who still has only the mo
st rudimentary grasp of how to move his feet to music.”
She laughed, then sighed as she handed him her card. Of course, she did not want to be made into a spectacle. But it had been rather wonderful, hadn’t it, to be twirled again and again in his arms?
“I was told I cannot dance exclusively with you.” He looked rather morose about it. “Have you any suggestions?”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “If you are truly a terrible dancer, it might be best to stick to ladies of your acquaintance, who will more easily forgive any mangled toes. Mrs. Eastwood and Lady Abingdon, of course. Lady Freesia is very sweet. Miss Benton is a lovely dancer, and she is quite used to men stepping on her toes because they are always too busy looking at her face.”
He glanced across the ballroom to where Miss Benton stood with her back to the Duke of Wessex. “I see the danger. She is lovely. But I would rather dance only with you.”
Claire smiled at that. “I feel quite the same. But as that would be unspeakably rude, we must suffer through. I’ll likely enjoy Wessex’s conversation every bit as much as you enjoy Miss Benton’s face.”
He growled slightly. “I’ll just claim your supper dance, as well,” he muttered.
“I’d be delighted.” She beamed at him.
“Minx.” His lips tilted in a wry smile. “Don’t think I won’t claim your waltz, as well, if I see you flirting.”
“I don’t flirt,” she said honestly. “I list. It is not at all appealing, I assure you.”
His gaze turned hot. “You think not?” His voice lowered to an intimate timbre. “I stay awake at night thinking about your lists. The beautiful way your brain organizes chaos. The way your voice goes up and down like the swell of the sea. Unappealing is the last thing I’d call it.”
She blushed happily. It was so lovely to be adored simply for being oneself.
“Dammit,” he muttered. “Now I’m…uncomfortable. How long do these things last, anyway?”
She understood “these things” to be the ball and not his discomfort. “I daresay, some might leave around three in the morning, but it won’t truly be over until dawn.”
“Dawn!” He looked aghast. “And, ah, how many balls are we expected to attend?”
“As many as we are invited to. I expect it will be a busy winter, for you are quite famous now. There will be many more to attend come spring, when the Season begins. Until then, we might only have two or three engagements a week.”
She had meant that to be reassuring, but he blanched.
Her head tilted to the side as she studied him. Wasn’t this what he wanted? To stay in London and partake of all he had missed?
And then a thought occurred to her.
“He is not here.” She glanced around quickly and then lowered her voice. “Your father, I mean. He was not invited tonight, nor shall he ever be.”
Colin’s face went blank. “That had not occurred to me.”
“You are bound to meet at some time. London is shockingly small when one wishes to avoid a particular person. What will you do?”
“Nothing.” He looked surprised that she would even ask. “I will not seek him out. If our paths cross, and he addresses me—which is unlikely—then I shall address him. But I am my own man, and he has naught to do with that.”
That seemed so…sane, actually. “Truly?”
“Truly. I think of him but very rarely. I do not wish him well. But neither do I wish him harm. Well,” Colin conceded after a brief pause, “his treatment of my mother was atrocious, and I would not be sad to hear he had broken his ankle or lost his entire fortune, or something like that. But I do not give much thought to it, all in all.”
She shouldn’t be surprised by Colin’s feelings, or lack thereof. Other than telling her the circumstances surrounding his birth and how he left England, he had never spoken of his father, nor given any indication that he ever thought of him. Her assumption that he wanted to prove himself successful to spite the man was clearly wrong.
But…why did he want to stay in London, then? Was it just for his mother’s sake?
And why did he not seem satisfied with his choice?
She pondered that while they took the first dance. She pondered it some more while she danced the next set with Lord Bittingdon. The third set was with Duke Wessex. He was charming enough to occupy her mind with something other than Colin’s odd behavior.
When it was time for the supper dance, she went in search of him. She ought to have waited by her mother for him to collect her at the appointed time, but really, couldn’t they do away with such rules now that they were engaged? Colin didn’t know half of them, anyway.
She found him on the terrace with Mr. Mukherjee. Neither noticed her presence, as they stood with their backs to her, looking out into the dark night.
“So, it’s decided, then?” Mr. Mukherjee asked. “I hadn’t thought you could convince her, truth be told.”
“She decided herself,” Colin replied in clipped tones. “And she is happy with her decision.”
“So you say,” Mr. Mukherjee said doubtfully.
“Enough.” Colin flipped up one hand to halt any further unwanted words. “I hardly had to make the suggestion, and she leaped on it.”
Oh, what was he saying? Was he not happy that she had?
“She will be happy and, more important, she will be safe here in England,” he continued. “Lady Claire…she’s not seaworthy, Deb. And she seems to have a particular knack for injury.”
She would have screamed a denial, had her heart not been in her throat, blocking all words. Instead she made an incoherent, choked sound of rage.
He turned.
Chapter Forty-Two
It occurred to Colin, as he watched Claire’s brown eyes narrow to dark slits, that he had never seen her truly, righteously angry before.
She had been exasperated, at times. Annoyed, most certainly. Once she had even shouted at him—but he’d had sense enough to know that she had been hurt, not angry.
Unlike now.
Now she was livid. Her cheeks burned bright pink, her hands clenched into fists, and her entire body quivered. Even her meticulous curls shook with rage.
“Love,” he said beseechingly, desperately, as though that one word could solve everything.
“Do not call me that. You don’t even know the meaning of that word.”
And then she whirled. The wind of the movement caught the hem of her dress. Her skirt billowed and swirled in a hurricane of pink silk. Before he realized what was happening, she was in motion, stalking off the terrace toward the street. Each rapid step of her delicate foot took her farther into the dark night.
Away from him.
“Claire!” he bellowed. And waited. She would come back. She had disagreed with him on many occasions—most notably about whether the treasure was, in fact, discoverable, and she had been right, but that was neither here nor there. Even when she disagreed with him, she had never disregarded his opinion or his urging. He had always won out in the end.
Until now.
Now she kept running.
It took him a moment to overcome his shock, and then he took off after her. The cobblestones bit painfully into the thin leather of his ludicrous dancing slippers as he raced down the streets of Mayfair. He slipped and caught himself half a dozen times, and each time she gained more distance. He cursed as he slid again, this time falling to one knee. Damn these slippers! They were meant for gliding across a ballroom floor, not chasing wayward lovers down cobblestone streets.
His knee throbbed like the devil, but he could not dwell on that. Already, she was far enough ahead that any sudden turn would mean he would lose her in the darkness. He moved faster.
Good God, how was she staying on her feet? Her slippers were much more delicate than his, and surely her skirts ought to hinder her progress. Yet she stumbled only half as often and always managed to right herself.
And then, oh God, she turned.
He increased his pace, ig
noring the pain in his knee, pumping his arms to encourage his legs to move faster. He skidded around the corner just in time to see a flash of pink silk disappear into the park.
Dear God. Dear God.
The park was so much worse than the confined, genteel streets of Mayfair. The park was full of dark corners and trees. And vagrants, thieves, and murderers, probably.
He halted at the edge of the park and looked around. His lungs still worked like bellows as he fought to regain his breath.
She was nowhere to be seen.
“Claire?” he called softly. He held his breath, listening for her response. None came.
He followed the foot path, assuming she would have done the same, pausing now and then to see if she was hiding behind a tree. Just the thought of her hiding from him made him furious.
By God, she was a maddening woman.
“Now, now, lassie,” a male voice slurred. “Not so high and mighty, if you please. There’s only one reason for a bird to be here at the dead of night, and my coin is just as good as any nob. I— Ow! You bit me!”
Colin whipped his head around just in time to see the man’s filthy hand land on Claire’s soft cheek with a resounding slap. She cried out and stumbled backward. Rage, white-hot and dangerous, burned through his veins at the sight. With a roar, he hurled himself at the man.
It was not an even match. The man was large—taller than Colin and broader—but he was the worse for drink. Colin was smaller but faster and fueled by anger. He landed blow after blow, pummeling his fury into the man’s face and stomach.
It would have been over in mere moments if the man had not pulled a knife. Colin leapt back a second too late. The blade sliced through his jacket and shirt to the skin beneath. Only a scratch, but it stung, and Colin was annoyed. He had no compunction toward a fair fight himself and would have had a blade of his own if he weren’t dressed in this ridiculous costume.
Panting heavily, they circled each other. The other man grinned, his teeth as black as the night, and swung the blade. Colin easily dodged, but now he was on the defensive. He couldn’t get in close enough to do some damage without risking his own entrails.
Wicked With the Scoundrel Page 17
