“I apologize,” he said stiffly. “I… I have not kissed a woman in quite some time and I allowed my emotions to get the better of me.”
In Clara’s opinion he would do better to let his emotions get the better of him more often, but for once she held her tongue. “No need to apologize.” Her numbed, swollen lips lifted in a bashful smile. “I admit I quite enjoyed myself.”
To think she’d gone from cleaning chamber pots to being kissed senseless by a dark, brooding, handsome stranger! It was like something out of a fairy tale. One she was not ready to put down.
“What should we do now?” she asked as her mind whirled with possibilities and her young, impulsive heart gave a joyous pitter-pat inside her chest. She imagined him sweeping her onto the back of his horse and galloping through the countryside. They would ride all afternoon until they reached a grand castle set on top of a hill. He would kiss her lips as he gently lifted her down from his horse and carried–
“Now you get the hell off my land,” he said flatly. “If I see you here again I will have you arrested.” With that ominous threat hanging in the air between them he stalked out of the stream, retrieved his horse, and rode away down the path without another word.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Lion’s Den, a small, run-down inn on the edge of town, was known for two things: women and ale. Ignoring the first, Thorncroft settled in to drown himself with the second. By the time Adam elbowed his way to the back of the dark, dingy tavern he was well into his third tankard and was showing no signs of slowing down.
“There you are.” Assessing the situation with a knowing glance, Adam’s teeth flashed in a grin as he pulled off his hat and shrugged out of his coat. With so many bodies stuffed into such a small place The Lion’s Den was stiflingly hot. The air buzzed with raised voices, the clink of glasses, and the husky laughter of barmaids. It certainly wasn’t the first place one would think to look when they were searching for a duke, which was precisely why Adam had made it his first stop.
“Go away,” Thorncroft said without looking up.
“And leave you here to get foxed by yourself?” Grabbing a chair from a nearby table Adam sat down and held up his hand to flag down a nearby barmaid. “What would be the fun in that? I’ll have what he’s having love,” he said when a large-busted brunette sidled over, her gaze sharp and assessing. When she saw the gold buttons glinting on Thorncroft’s jacket her smile came automatically, as did the velvety purr in her voice.
“Will that be all you’ll be wanting?” she asked, her eyebrows arching suggestively as she sidled closer to Adam and ‘accidentally’ rubbed her right breast against his arm.
Adam’s eyes gleamed. “Why don’t we start with the ale and–”
“Leave us,” Thorncroft growled.
“But I only just got here,” the barmaid pouted.
“Better do as he says love,” Adam said after a quick glance at his brother’s formidable expression. “And be a doll and double that order of ale, won’t you?” Dismissing the barmaid with a quick slap on her derriere that made her squeal, he turned his full attention to Thorncroft as she sauntered away.
“You look like shit,” he said bluntly.
For the first time since his brother had sat down Thorncroft lifted his head. He had come straight to the inn after his encounter with the titian-haired beauty at the stream. An encounter he still wasn’t certain had actually happened… or was something his subconscious had dreamt up to torture and taunt him.
He never should have stopped and gotten down from his bloody horse, let alone walked into the stream like a man half-crazed and kissed her. But one glance at Clara had been all it took to make him lose all common sense. With the sun dappling her magnificent hair and the sparkling indignation in her brilliant blue eyes she’d called to him like a siren of old, luring him into the water and straight into her arms.
Aside from one blurry night two years ago when he’d vented his pent up frustrations on a well-paid whore, Thorncroft had not kissed a single woman since Katherine and it wasn’t until he rode away from Clara that he realized why. By not losing himself in another, he’d been unconsciously preserving his wife’s memory. The touch of her silky skin. The taste of her delicate lips. The sound of her shy laughter when he teased her with his mouth.
Now when he tried to think of her his mind conjured flashing blue eyes and a spattering of freckles and a stubborn chin. When he tried to remember what her lips had tasted like he thought of strawberries instead, the one fruit Katherine had despised. And when he tried to recall the sound of her laughter he heard a fairy queen’s voice asking him what they should do now…
“I met a woman.” His gaze returned to his tankard of ale while Adam’s sharpened with interest.
“A woman? What was her name? Where did you meet her? When did you meet her?”
“Clara. Clara Witherspoon. I saw her this afternoon in the woods by the stream. She was standing in the water with her skirts tucked above her calves. She was there to clean chamber pots.” His mouth twisted with vague amusement at the memory. “And I kissed her.”
Adam sat back in his chair. “You found a woman in the woods by the stream cleaning chamber pots… and you kissed her,” he said slowly. “Was this before or after your second tankard?”
“I didn’t bloody well dream it up if that is what you are implying.” Or maybe he had. It had certainly felt like he’d been dreaming when Clara’s slender body had been pressed against his and he had his fingers tangled in her hair and his mouth at her throat.
It hadn’t just been her lips that tasted like strawberries. Her skin had been tart and sugary sweet and completely irresistible. If he hadn’t stopped when he had… If he hadn’t stopped when he had he had no doubt he’d be sprawled beside her naked body on the bank of the stream instead of sitting across from his brother in a sweltering tavern that smelled of cheap perfume and horse piss.
Adam snorted. “Is that why you’re in such a foul mood then? Because you kissed a woman?” That’s a cause for celebration, mate. Unless she was hideously ugly or deformed.” He leaned across the table and lowered his voice to a sympathetic whisper. “Was she hideously ugly or deformed? Go on. You can tell me.”
“Bugger off.”
Clara had been, unequivocally and without a single doubt, the most breathtaking female Thorncroft had ever seen. Her beauty was what poets wrote about and kings dreamed of when they conquered distant lands. Her hair was like a fine tapestry woven with shades of red and gold. Her eyes, slanted ever-so-slightly at the corners and framed with thick lashes, reminded him of the sky in the heart of summer. Her nose was small and straight. Her lips soft and smooth and pink. Her hands small and dainty. If there were any imperfections to be had he supposed they might be found in the obstinate tilt of her chin and the light scattering of freckles across her high cheekbones. But when Thorncroft had seen her freckles his only thought had been where he might find more on her delectable little body.
The tiny fairy queen had completely enthralled him… which was why he could never see her again.
“I’ve two mugs of ale here.” A different barmaid than the last set down an overflowing tankard in front of Adam and another in front of Thorncroft. Then she waited, hand held out in silent expectation until Adam crossed her palm with two shillings before flouncing away.
“Now that’s a fine piece,” he said, following the barmaid with his eyes as she made her way through the crowd. This time it was Thorncroft’s turn to snort.
His brother was, if nothing else, tediously predictable. While Adam had a fine time with the women who threw themselves at him – of which there were too many to count – his real enjoyment came from chasing down the ones who played hard to get.
“It’s time to go,” Thorncroft said, nearly toppling over his full tankard of ale in his haste to stand up. The last thing he needed to do was track down another one of his brother’s bastard children in nine months. Better to nip the problem in the arse, as it w
ere, and get Adam home before he did something he could come to soundly regret.
Clara woke to the sound of wheels churning on gravel. She sat up with a jolt and hurried to the window, her mouth forming a tight grimace when she peered through the glass and saw the carriage rolling up the drive.
Lady Irene had returned.
She supposed it had been too much to hope that her stepmother would decide to remain in London for the duration of the summer. That would have taken a miracle, and if there was one thing Clara knew for certain it was that miracles did not exist.
Her life was proof enough of that.
Hearing the bang and clash of dishes as the kitchen staff rushed to prepare breakfast, Clara dressed quickly in a plain cotton shift and a faded blue dress. Winding her long hair into a bun, she pinned it at the nape of her neck and plopped a lace cap on top of her head before dashing out the door. It wasn’t until she was halfway down the narrow staircase that she realized she’d left the attic without any shoes or even a pair of stockings.
A rueful smile tugged at one corner of her mouth as she turned around and slowly made her way back to her bedroom. A rush of sunlight greeted her as she pushed open the door. Going first to the windows she opened both of them as wide as they would go, welcoming in a sweet breeze that smelled like freshly cut grass and daffodils. Next she began the search for her shoes, never an easy task despite the relatively small size of her living quarters. Living quarters that were, according to Lady Irene’s own promise, only supposed to be hers for the duration of a week, maybe two. Certainly not for seven long years.
It was one of the few promises Clara was glad her stepmother had broken.
Every treasure she held dear was kept in the attic. It was her own private sanctuary in a house she no longer recognized as her own. Paintings – most of them done by her own inexpert hand – hung side by side next to colorful rugs that had once covered the floors in the drawing room and the parlor. Tables and bookshelves were cluttered with every imaginable knick-knack from cracked vases filled with flowers to a miniature fleet of wooden ships complete with tiny masts and fabric sails.
The ships had belonged to her father. They’d been one of his few possessions Clara had managed to salvage before her stepmother had all of his things taken away. Of her mother she had little, save a perfume bottle, a tattered blue ribbon, and the large portrait that had hung in the library.
She kept the portrait covered beneath a burlap sack for Lady Irene did not know she had it. When she was feeling particularly melancholy or simply in need of seeing a familiar, loving face she uncovered the painting and sat before it, staring up at her mother’s bright smile with a secret longing that time had done little to diminish. Clara may not have remembered very much about her mother, but she missed her all the same.
She missed the stories her mother would have told her. She missed the kisses that would have been placed upon her brow. She missed the hugs that would have been freely given whenever she needed them. She missed the gentle words that would have lifted her spirits and brightened her day.
Finding one shoe beneath the bed and the other turned on its side in the closet, Clara forwent stockings in her haste to get downstairs and help the other maids with their last minute preparations. There were curtains to be opened, chairs to be arranged, and food to be carried out in great silver trays to the buffet table.
She was just topping off a crystal pitcher with freshly squeezed lemonade when the front door opened and Lady Irene’s voice rang out, high and clear as a bell.
“There is dirt all over the walkway. Did no one think to sweep it while I was away?” She clucked her tongue and although Clara did not have a clear view of the foyer, she imagined her stepmother shaking her head. “You there, take a broom and see to at once. One never knows when unexpected company will arrive, does one? We must always be prepared. Now where is my stepdaughter?”
“In the drawing room!” Covertly tucking away the decanter she’d used to fill up the pitcher of lemonade inside an empty cabinet, Clara was waiting with her hands tucked demurely behind her back and a smile on her face when her stepmother walked into the room followed – as she always was – by Henrietta and Gabriella. “How was your journey from town? Uneventful and quick, I hope.”
Experience had taught her the best way to handle Lady Irene was to agree with everything she said, and then do what she wanted once her stepmother’s back was turned. Arguing was pointless. Disagreeing was utterly futile. If Lady Irene said the sky was green then the sky was green. There was no use in trying to correct her. Clara had learned that lesson the hard way.
Untying her hat and pulling off her leather traveling gloves, Lady Irene carelessly discarded them in a chair for a maid to pick up. “The roads were particularly abominable this time. It makes one wonder what is being down with our tax dollars. Is that all the food that has been set out?” she asked, her gaze falling on the buffet table where half a dozen dishes were being kept warm beneath oversized silver lids.
“You informed us in your letter you would not be returning until the afternoon,” Clara reminded her. “But Cook was able to prepare sausages and buttered scones and–”
“I suppose it will have to do,” Lady Irene cut in before she took her customary seat at the head of the table. Falling in like obedient little ducklings her daughters sat down on either side of their mother. Neither one of them had yet to acknowledge Clara’s presence, which wasn’t unusual nor particularly troublesome. What was unusual was Lady Irene looking up and asking, “Won’t you join us, dear? There is something I wish to discuss with you.”
‘Dear’ and ‘discuss’ were two words that always set off alarm bells inside of Clara’s head. Nothing good had ever come of them.
“Are you certain? I would not want to interrupt and I have an entire list of chores to do.”
“You are a member of this family, Clara. Would it hurt you to act like it once in a while? Gabriella, move down one please.”
Gabriella’s face pinched in a scowl. “Why do I have to–”
“I said move down. There,” Lady Irene said, a pleasant smile settling in the corners of her mouth once Gabriella had reluctantly moved and Clara had cautiously taken her seat. “Isn’t this lovely? We really should dine together more often.”
It was on the tip of Clara’s tongue to remind her stepmother the reason they did not take their meals together was because she ate in the kitchen with the rest of the staff, but she remained silent as Poppy and another maid began to serve breakfast. Staring with Lady Irene, they worked their way counter-clockwise around to Clara.
“Thank you,” Clara murmured when Poppy dropped a poached egg onto her plate. It made her feel uncomfortable to be served by her friend, but there was nothing she could do about it. Not when her stepmother was watching her like a hawk.
The redhead winked before she carried the rest of the poached eggs back to the buffet table and stood beside it, spine straight and chin demurely lowered. The other maid joined her. They would remain in the drawing room throughout the entirety of breakfast, waiting to be called upon if someone wanted seconds or thirds. Until then it was their job to be neither seen nor heard.
“Well,” said Lady Irene as she cut into her poached egg. Yolk ran over the edge of her toast, staining it a deep yellow. “Now that we are all here I suppose I should share my happy news.”
Clara looked up from her plate in time to catch Gabriella and Henrietta exchange a smirking glance. The muscles in her stomach tightened, just like they had when she was a child and Lady Irene had sat her down in the parlor.
“What happy news is that, Lady Stepmother?”
Lady Irene took her time in answering, no doubt drawing pleasure from making Clara wait. Like a cat, she enjoyed playing with her food before she ate it. The more the food struggled the longer she played.
Too tense to eat Clara sat with her hands clenched tightly in her lap, using all the inner-strength she possessed to make herself appear outward
ly calm even as her mind whirled with one dark possibility after another.
Was she finally going to be sent away?
Was Agnes going to be let go?
Was Poppy?
Other than her two dearest friends, Clara couldn’t think of anything else her stepmother could take from her that she hadn’t already. Buttercup had been sold off years ago. Her bedroom now belonged to Henrietta. Her parent’s belongings had been dispersed far and wide. What else was left?
“Oh just go on and tell her,” Gabriella urged, her eyes burning with a vindictive gleam Clara recognized all too well. Of her two stepsisters Gabriella was by far the most malicious. Every year her hate of Clara seemed to larger and more twisted no matter what Clara did – or did not – do. She didn’t know the source of her stepsister’s wrath, only that Gabriella was determined to make Clara’s life as miserable as she possibly could.
“Very well.” Deliberately setting her fork aside, Lady Irene sat straighter in her chair and smiled a serpent’s cold, tight-lipped smile. “Clara, I have found you a husband.”
CHAPTER NINE
Clara, I have found you a husband.
I have found you a husband.
A husband…
A husband…
A husband…
Seconds that felt more like hours passed in the blink of an eye as Clara sat frozen in her chair, Lady Irene’s voice playing through her head on an endless loop. Had she really been so naïve as to think there was nothing else her stepmother could take from her?
Her gaze flew to Poppy who looked just as stunned as she felt. The maid shook her head from side to side as two bright splotches of anger settled high on her cheeks. ‘Breathe’ she mouthed.
Clara’s lungs burned as she filled them with air.
“I – I do not understand,” she managed to choke out.
Lady Irene lifted one brow. “Did I stutter or otherwise make myself unclear?”
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