Little Love Affair (Southern Romance Series, #1)

by Lexy Timms

  He must not think of her marrying another, or he would go mad.

  Leaves rustled under his feet as he strode down the hill to the farmhouse. Cicadas hummed in the fields, and a few fireflies winked in the darkness. He could see why Clara loved this place, why she had never thought of leaving. This was the first place he had felt at home in two long years. He raised his hand, hesitated, and knocked on the heavy door. He tried not to show his disappointment when Clara’s mother answered it.

  “Good evening.” The woman looked him up and down with a measuring gaze, neither unfriendly nor warm. As every time Jasper saw her, he felt the faint thrum of fear. This woman, no matter how frail with grief, was watchful of her daughters. And it would take little to discover Jasper’s secret.

  “Ma’am.” Jasper ducked his head respectfully, hat clutched in his hands. “May I speak to Clara?”

  “She’s not here,” Millicent said. “I think you’d best come in anyway.”

  She might have stepped to one side politely as she opened the door, but there was no mistaking that this was a command. Jasper hesitated only a moment before stepping into the dim room. He looked around himself warily. A single candle guttered on a table, and the fire was burning low.

  “Have a seat,” Millicent suggested, in the same no-nonsense tone. She looked at him steadily until he sank into a seat, and then hung a battered kettle over the fire before joining him at the table.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Jasper said.

  “Oh, I think it’s my daughter’s hospitality.” Millicent was watching him steadily. “Clara has a good head on her shoulders, but she was always soft hearted. When she was little, she brought a bobcat home. It was laid open from chest to hips, but she thought she could nurse it back to health. What then, my husband asked her? He told her that when she had healed it, she would be its dinner. She didn’t want to hear that.”

  “And did she nurse it back anyway?” Jasper managed a smile.

  The kettle whistled, piercing.

  “Young man, that is hardly the point.” Millicent’s blue eyes fixed on him for a moment before she went to the fire. “Clara may be too kind to turn you away, but even she knows you’re as much trouble as that bobcat.”

  “Ma’am, I came only to apologize to Clara for harsh words I spoke earlier.” Jasper heard the desperation in his voice. “I would never wish to trouble her.”

  “But you’ll do it anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” Jasper did not spare a glance for the battered tray and chipped teapot she set down on the table; his eyes were fixed on her face, where he thought he almost saw pity.

  “If you were a young man from the town, I would say you were courting my daughter,” Millicent said briskly. She held the strainer deftly and poured tea into an earthenware mug. It went down in front of Jasper with a clink and her eyes met his once more. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. If you were a young man from the town, I would say you were a fine match for her.”

  “But I’m not from the town,” Jasper said. Never had he been more careful of his accent.

  “No, you’re not,” the woman agreed. She poured her own tea and sat back. “In fact, I wager if I looked around that old cabin, I’d find a grey coat.”

  Jasper went cold, then felt heat spread across his face.

  “Why would you think that?”

  She did not deign to answer that, only rapped sharply on the table with her knuckles. “You know my daughter could never marry you.”

  “I know.” His mouth tasted like ashes.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes!” The word burst out of him, and he sank his face into his hands, heedless of his manners. He had to take several breaths before he could bring himself to look up again.

  “You would not dishonor her.” It was not a sly, pointed comment. She meant it, and somehow that made it worse.

  “No, Ma’am. I would never do that.”

  “Then what do you think can happen here? I believe that you would never cast her aside for selfish reasons, but cast her aside, you must. For you will never be safe here, Mister Perry, and she’ll never be safe if she is associated with you.”

  The words were so bleak that the table swam in his vision; it was all Jasper could do not to push himself away and stumble into the dark. He had prepared to leave Clara behind with no more than a kiss on the hand, and walk away with a last image of her, hair blazing in the dawn light.

  To hear the truth: that courting her would mean he cast her aside. It was not honorable to tell a woman that he loved her, and then leave. It was not honorable to pay her compliments and spend time with her as a suitor would, and then leave the next day.

  Hearing the truth should have made things easier, for it was a truth he knew in his heart, and yet it was more than he could bear. Jasper pushed himself out of his chair and knelt on the floor, hands up, fingers laced together.

  “Ma’am, I cannot leave her without telling her what is in my heart. Your daughter is a most admirable woman. She saved my life when my own could not care for me. She has saved a man she never met—my friend, a man who once saved my own life. It is beyond bearing not to thank her, and I cannot thank her without her knowing what I feel.”

  “But you would tell her because you hope for her love in return.” The woman pressed her lips together, eyes sad.

  “I do! I hope for it, I don’t deny that. But I will leave. If she doesn’t love me, I’ll take myself away in misery, and if she does, I’ll take myself away gladly, but I swear I will leave. Her love will be enough.”

  “Will it?” Those eyes had seen too much of his soul. “Or will you wish, then, to remain here in Knox? You’ll tell her you are going the next day, and when dawn comes you’ll tell her you can stay just one more day after that. And then the day will come when it is not you leaving across the fields, but hanging in the town square, and what will happen to my Clara then, Mister Perry?”

  “No.” He squeezed his eyes shut, but he could not escape her voice.

  “Yes.” There was sadness there, and her hand came across the table to rest on his. “Sit up, Mister Perry. Drink your tea. Think on it, and you will see that I am right.”

  “I know you’re right, but I...”

  “You two should never have met.” Her voice was soft. “In another world, you would not have.”

  “In another world, it wouldn’t have mattered!” His throat was raw. “Five years ago...”

  “So what would you do? Fight both armies for my daughter?” Her voice was like a whiplash. “You know it’s not possible.”

  “Where is Clara?” He must see her, or he would go mad.

  At this, she sighed, and her eyes drifted closed for a moment. “In the company of her betrothed.”

  The words hit him like a blow. “She has no betrothed. Cyrus—”

  “Cyrus Dupont is a good man, and I’ll hear nothing bad about him, least of all from you. More than that, he was her brother’s friend. He’ll care for the farm. He has loved Clara since they were children.”

  “But she does not love him,” Jasper said passionately.

  “Love may come. Far better to marry a good man and lack passion, than risk her life for desire. Even Clara will see it in time...when you are gone.”

  “Then why has she not married him before now?” Jasper whispered.

  “She is young and headstrong, as her father was. As I was. I was lucky—I was never tested so. My parents would have had me marry Henry Sinclair, but they accepted Horace because I loved him. Clara, wants something that is beyond my power to give.”

  “She cannot marry him.” Jasper saw the man’s unfriendly gaze in his mind’s eye, the possessive way Cyrus looked at Clara, and he thought he would go mad. “He’ll never love her like I can.”

  “She can.” Millicent’s face was implacable. “And she will. Now you must go.”

  Jasper hardly remembered the walk across the fields. He had fled without a goodbye, his manners gone in the face o
f his misery. She was right. He must leave before he saw Clara marry Cyrus. He would go mad if he saw that. His feet moved without his volition, and when he staggered in the door of the cabin, he saw Horace’s face go grave.

  “What is it? What has happened?”

  “I’m leaving,” Jasper snarled. “Come or not, I don’t care.”

  “I...”

  “Before I go,” Jasper said, cutting his friend off. “You tell me why I sent away the woman I love. You will tell me, Horace, or I swear I’ll—”

  “You still haven’t seen it, have you?” Horace had gone grey, and he gave a despairing laugh. “But who would know?” he asked quietly. “Who would guess?”

  “Guess what?” He was going to throttle the man.

  Horace leaned against the door, too weak to stand, his face screwed up with pain. When at last he looked up, Jasper took a step back. The man looked haunted.

  “I’m Solomon Dalton,” Horace said quietly. “Solomon Horace Dalton.”

  Chapter 14

  “You look lovely.” Cyrus leaned close as Clara ducked under his raised arm. “You’re the most beautiful woman here.”

  For a moment, Clara could believe it. The music was quick and light, and she was dizzy from whirling about the room. With her breath coming short from the dance and her blood burning with sips of wine, Clara wanted nothing more than to lean against Cyrus’s arm and take another turn about the room. She knew now the look of desire in a man’s eyes, and it was intoxicating. If Cyrus desired her as Jasper did...well, perhaps one day she might desire him as well.

  The music ended with a flourish, and the revelers along the walls cheered for the dancers. They left the floor flushed and laughing, punch ladled into cups and mugs with a hearty wink from Mr. Miller, who had poured a liberal dollop of bourbon in for good measure.

  “For you,” Cyrus said, holding out the first cup.

  Clara took a sip and savored the faint burn of the liquor. It was sweet and heady, enough to make her feel reckless. This night did not seem real. A fairytale, enchanted and bound to fade away with the dawn.

  Solomon would be glad to see her here, she thought, and her throat constricted. It was true, she knew it without a doubt. He would tell her not to sit at home grieving him, just as he had told her when their father died.

  “If you love someone, you could never want them to spend their life in misery, could you?” His arm around her and dawn light creeping over the horizon. The overlook had been a riot of birdsong.

  “No.”

  “Papa loved us.” He smiled down at her.

  “But, Solomon...don’t you miss him?”

  “Every day.” The depth of pain in his voice reverberated in her chest, an echo of her own. “But I live with honor and I know he would want me still to laugh and give thanks for this world. He would want the same for you. You know that.”

  “I do.”

  It had seemed so simple, then.

  “Clara? Are you well?”

  Clara looked up at Cyrus’s concerned face and realized the punch glass was shaking in her hands. All of a sudden, it was all too much: the music and the sweetness of the punch still in her mouth and the lights, the press of people dizzying her. “I want to go.”

  “At once.” He made a path for her through the crowd, and at the hint of pity she saw in others’ eyes, Clara ducked her head and followed him. She could not face pity. It would break what little reserve remained in her.

  When they emerged into the moonlight, Cyrus had the sense not to speak. He let Clara walk ahead of them toward the carriage, and he helped her into the seat without a word. They were away in a scant few moments, the familiar sound of the horse’s hooves against a dirt road and the jostle and creak of the buggy.

  Clara looked out to where the wheat waved gently in the wind; distantly, she observed that the Millers had not completed their harvest either. Perhaps times were hard for all of the farmers. Perhaps that was why Mr. Jeffries had given her a good price.

  It was a tiny portion of peace in the storm of her heart, and yet it made her want to cry with relief. She had no wish for her hardships to be open to the world, and at that thought she looked over to gaze at Cyrus where he watched her quietly.

  “Yes?” he asked finally, and the hope in his voice vibrated in the air between them.

  “You miss him, too,” Clara said softly. He would, wouldn’t he? But she felt herself frown when Cyrus looked away. His stillness, his calmness, seemed unnatural. “What is it?”

  “I would have no secrets from you,” he said finally. He cast one look at the road ahead, and satisfied that there were no obstacles to navigate, looked back to her.

  “What is it?” she asked again, fear pricking at her. She braced herself on the seat, as though the news might tumble her over like a wave.

  “He was afraid he would not come back,” Cyrus said gently. His voice blended with the hum of the cicadas. “He spoke like he was sure of it. I told him that he was only afraid, as any man would be. I’d have been as well, Clara. But he insisted. He said he had a premonition, and when the other families got word, and yours did not, I thought he had been right.”

  “You didn’t hope? You didn’t even wonder if he might still be alive?”

  “I didn’t.” The look in his eyes said that he knew what she would think of this, but he did not lie. “I meant what I said to Cecelia today, Clara. He was so proud to be your brother. He loved you both so much. It was what he told me to say, if...if he didn’t come back. But I waited to say it. I would never have said it while there was a chance I could be wrong.”

  He was right. Clara thought back over the months since they had realized there was no word. She had spoken of Solomon returning, and never once had Cyrus flickered in his agreement. He had not counseled her against hoping.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and she looked away, wanting to pull her knees up to her chest and rest her chin on them. But she was a lady now, and so she sat with her back straight and her chin up, as if she was dignified and proper.

  In a flash, she remembered Jasper’s lips on her throat, and his hands running over her body. Her face flushed, her lips parted; she looked away hastily before Cyrus might see. She must not think of that again. Down that road led only pain.

  Perhaps that was why the preachers were so insistent about the perils of adultery. Clara stole a glance at Cyrus’s profile, and twisted her hands together in her lap. She was comfortable in his company, and in Jasper’s...she felt as if her heart would burst out of her chest. Cyrus knew her family, and Jasper did not. Cyrus was known to her, dependable and kind. Jasper was a risk.

  At the sight of the farmhouse, her reserve broke. She looked over at him as they pulled up before the door. “Cyrus.”

  “What is it?” He came around to lift her down.

  “Yes.” She did not draw away when her feet hit the ground. Her hesitation was momentary, and she pushed it away from her with abandon.

  “Yes?” He frowned.

  “Yes,” Clara said again. “Yes...” She took a deep breath. “I will marry you.”

  His fingers tightened on her hips.

  “You will?” His voice was a breath.

  “I will,” Clara told him. She searched his face, the hesitation. He was shaking with the effort of holding himself away from her, and she tightened her fingers where they rested on his arms. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  He did not need a second invitation. His lips came down on hers and he crushed her to him with a groan. His mouth pressed against her insistently and his hands crept up her stomacher.

  It was then that sadness threatened to overwhelm her, for no matter the desire she could feel in his touch and the urgency of his lips, she could feel nothing at all. She was numb, cold, opening her mouth for his tongue and knowing that her eyes should be closed as his were, and her heart racing as his was.

  “Clara, I have been waiting for this for years.” One of his hands went to her hair, to the pins that held it
in place, and Clara pulled herself away suddenly.

  “We shouldn’t. I should go.”

  “Stay with me here.”

  “Someone will see,” Clara said, grasping at anything she could think of. The thought of his hands on her body as Jasper’s had been, of him pressing against her, was more than she could bear.

  To her relief, he stepped back with a nod.

  “I apologize. Forgive me, Clara.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.” And there was not. He loved her. She could not fault him that, not when she knew what it was to have her heart set on another.

  “I’ll wait,” he promised her, and he snatched up her hand to press a kiss against the fingers. “You’ll marry me?” he asked again, hardly believing it. He had seen her hesitation before. He had suspected she would say no.

  No, Clara wanted to cry. I can’t do this.

  However there was no looking back. What lay down that path? Nothing but loneliness and regret, and wondering what might have been. Panic was rising in her blood, but she could not think what to say.

  “I will.”

  She would come to terms with it, she assured herself. Her mother would be pleased. She would say it was a good choice, and she would be correct. They would be well-to-do once more, safe no matter if there was a bad season, secure in their home. Millicent would not grow old in poverty, and Cecelia would make a good marriage.

  As she watched him drive away, Clara felt her breath coming shorter and shorter. She wanted to scream. I cannot do this. Every protestation that this was right, a good choice, was wiped away in her panic.

  I cannot do this.

  She could not go in to tell her mother what she had done, not when the woman would be so pleased. Clara could not say what she had done without confessing that she wished she had not done it, and her mother would say everything she had always said. Or something about cold feet. And honor. And staying true to one’s word.

  She hardly realized where she was going until she was halfway across the field, her dancing slippers far too thin for the uneven ground. She looked over her shoulder to the dark windows. Was anyone watching? Did they see?