She had no merit. She was a vile schemer. A hussy, a strumpet, a carnival attraction who would think nothing of throwing herself at an honorable man in a mad moment of frailty.
Well, she acknowledged with scathing contempt, perhaps that was not entirely true. She was thinking of it now; no mistake.
What had she done? How could she ever face Tom Partington in the morning? How could she have deserted her post this evening, leaving him to fend for himself among that throng of people downstairs? But she couldn’t possibly return to the ballroom. She simply couldn’t. What would they think of her?
A little bitterly, she decided they undoubtedly wouldn’t think of her at all. Unless she was throwing herself into some man’s arms, nobody ever seemed to notice her.
Would Tom fire her? Had she sunk so far beneath his reproach that he would turn her out of his home? The thought didn’t bear thinking about, yet she couldn’t stop thinking about it. How could she stand to leave Partington Place and Pyrite Springs?
This was the first place in the world she’d ever felt at home or had friends. She’d never stayed in one place long enough to form friendships when she was a little girl. It hadn’t taken her long to realize no decent parent would allow his or her child to befriend her, anyway.
Who could blame them? Who would want to play with her? Her! Claire Montague, daughter of a devious, double-dealing medicine-show quack! Claire Montague, whom her father used to dress in seductive costumes to tempt the customers!
Turning away from the mirror in despair, Claire went to her window and flung it open. Sadly, she dug her handkerchief out of her pocket, wiped her eyes, blew her nose and stared into the same sky she’d observed moments before with Tom Partington. Only now the heavens no longer looked beautiful. They looked merely beyond Claire’s reach. As was Tom Partington. And happiness.
# # #
Tom knew a gentleman wouldn’t stand in the middle of his lawn and stare up at Claire’s window. Nor would he debate the propriety of rushing up there and falling on his knees at her feet. Or trying to shake some sense into her. But then, he’d never pretended to be a gentleman.
Watching her stand there clutching her handkerchief and occasionally blotting her eyes almost broke his heart. What had he done? How could he have been so infernally clumsy?
It had been easy, he thought glumly as he flung his cheroot down and ground it into the cold earth beneath his feet. Years earlier he’d lost the knack of performing according to society’s dictates. His mother would be appalled at him for this evening’s work, and for once he wouldn’t blame her.
He watched Claire until she slowly shut the window, her every movement an affirmation of her despondency. Then he knew he had to return to his stupid party and his stupid guests in his stupid ballroom, so he did.
Not too long later, giving every appearance of affability, he shook hands and bade his guests a friendly farewell, promising more than once to hold another party soon. He didn’t voice the worry in his heart, that he had driven Claire to leave him, thereby not merely precluding another Artistic Evening, but withering his happiness forever.
Dianthe St. Sauvre, carefully overseen by Jedediah Silver, Tom noted wryly, shook his hand and asked, “Wherever did Claire go, Mr. Partington? I wanted to thank her again for suggesting you continue with these delightful entertainments.”
Tom thought that was an interesting way of putting it, considering she had been the main entertainment of the evening. If you could call an insipid poem and a ludicrous dance to some decidedly odd music entertaining. Before he could think up an answer that didn’t reveal the truth, Sylvester Addison-Addison spoke.
“You know Claire, Dianthe. She probably thought she had to rush to the kitchen and see to the___ washing-up or something.”
Sylvester’s tone was supercilious, but Tom decided not to punch him as he’d replied to a question Tom didn’t know how to answer. He said, glaring at Sylvester, “Yes, Miss Montague is exceptionally efficient and competent. She is truly a treasure.”
Dianthe smiled winningly and purred, “Oh, yes. She is a treasure, Mr. Partington.”
Tom thought he detected sincere appreciation in Dianthe’s voice and demeanor and guessed she wasn’t entirely witless. Anybody who admired Claire must have some redeeming virtues.
He deliberately squeezed Sylvester Addison-Addison’s hand too hard because Sylvester was a weakling and had been rude to Claire twice tonight. Although he knew his display of strength to be childish, he was mildly gratified when Sylvester winced. He was flapping his hand in the air when he exited the house with Priscilla Pringle hanging on his arm. Tom watched with satisfaction and hoped the widow would smother him.
When the last of his guests left, he walked slowly upstairs, trying to think of something appropriate to say to Claire. Stopping at her door, he paused and drew in a deep breath before he knocked, very softly.
Claire, huddled in her bed with her quilt pulled up to her chin, had heard his soft footsteps. She knew who it was in the hall; nobody but she and Tom slept upstairs. When she heard his knock, her heart almost stopped and she held her breath even though she knew he couldn’t hear her breathing from behind the locked door.
Everything was silent for what seemed like forever, and Claire had just begun to relax when she heard his soft, “Claire?”
She stiffened up again and sat as still as she could, considering her heart was thundering so hard she was afraid she’d swoon. She comforted herself with the knowledge that even if she fainted into a dead heap, her soft bedclothes would muffle the plop.
Surely he would wait until tomorrow to fire her, wouldn’t he? She hadn’t known him very long, but she knew him full well enough to be sure he possessed a kind heart. He wouldn’t even throw a miserable specimen like her out into a cold December night, would he? He would give her notice, wouldn’t he?
Claire had thought her tears were all spent, but as she sat in her bed, frightened and miserable, they came again. They coursed down her cheeks when she heard another whispered, “Claire?” She wanted to fling herself out of bed, race to her door and throw herself into his arms. She wanted to beg him to kiss her again, to teach her the joys of his touch, to have his way with her.
Truly, Claire Montague was a fallen woman.
# # #
Tom knew what he had to do when he awoke the next morning. Overnight inspiration had, quite literally, stricken him almost dumb. In fact, when the first fingers of daylight dared creep into his room and flicker across his eyelids, he sat up, stunned.
He, Tom Partington, heir to Partington Place, frontier scout, boy general of the lost Southern Cause, had fallen head over heels in lust with his housekeeper. Not only that, but he honestly l-l-liked her a whole lot, too. Why, Claire Montague was the most splendid female he’d ever encountered.
He wanted to keep her around. For a long time. Maybe even—well—forever.
At the very least, he was going to do his best to make her agree to be his mistress.
Good heavens. Tom had never had a real, honest-to-God mistress before. The thought frightened him.
Rubbing his eyes and leaning back against his headboard, he decided he was being absurd and determined to think about it before he did anything irrevocable. This apparent overnight insight was only the result of the erotic dream he’d just had and which had been interrupted at an extremely inopportune moment. If he’d stayed asleep another minute or two longer, he might have been able to experience what he’d primed himself for last night in Claire’s arms.
Tom gave himself a mental punch in the jaw and told himself to behave. He had some serious thinking to do.
After devoting a good forty-five minutes to the task, he sighed and mumbled, “I don’t want her to leave me.” In fact, the thought of her leaving Partington Place and him filled his very soul with dread.
The revelation was not particularly welcome. He’d never considered needing another human being the way he needed Claire. It seemed like such an unmanly
thing to do.
On the other hand, he’d come to highly value Claire’s practicality, companionship, and sweetness. The notion of wanting to keep her by his side wasn’t entirely idiotic.
The thought of marriage paid his brain a brief visit but was so appalling to Tom, whose memories of his parents’ marriage had left an indelible blot on his soul, that he buried it immediately. Hell, Claire already lived with him; he couldn’t see any reason to commit so rash a folly as marriage.
No. There was no need for him to marry her. If he played his cards right, he was sure he could get her to fall in love with him. Then she’d want to stay and he wouldn’t have to do anything stupid.
Frowning, he swung his feet over the side of his bed and realized with annoyance that his night shirt had gotten tangled up around his waist again. Damned irritating inconveniences, night shirts. He wondered if Claire would mind if he slept naked after they became lovers.
Then he realized how silly he was being. He’d jumped from hoping she’d fall in love with him to worrying about sleep wear after they were lovers. First, of course, he’d have to convince her that it would be in her interest to have him, and Tom didn’t have a clue as to how to go about that. Especially not after he’d lost his head last night and scared her to death.
“I guess I’d better apologize first.”
He didn’t know what he’d do if she felt she had to leave his service, but he knew for sure he wasn’t about to let her get away.
Damn, but civilization was difficult to deal with. There were so many cursed rules. Out on the prairie if a man needed something, he just tracked it down and shot it. He didn’t have the leisure—or the need—to bother with finesse. Here in the damned civilized world, he had to woo it first. To tame it. Taming virgins was a new experience for Tom; he wasn’t altogether sure he was up to it.
Nevertheless, he knew he’d bungled badly the night before. Poor Claire was a delicately nurtured female, and he’d all but mauled her, right on his own ballroom balcony.
As he buttoned his vest and straightened his tie, Tom muttered, “So be it.” If he had to court Claire Montague, then by God, he’d do it.
All the way down to the breakfast room, he cudgeled his brain, trying to remember the arts his mother had drilled in him when he was a boy. He wished he’d paid more attention.
He paused at the door, trying to think of a suitable apology to offer her this morning. Deciding his best course would be honesty, he pushed the door open, intending to beg Claire’s forgiveness and try to persuade her to let him make it up to her properly.
His intention was thwarted immediately. She wasn’t there.
“Where the hell’s Claire—er, Miss Montague?” She couldn’t have left him already, could she?
Jedediah looked up from the eggs he’d been shoving around on his plate. He was the only person in the room besides Tom.
“Oh, hello, Tom.” Jedediah sighed dreamily. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
Frowning, Tom muttered, “I guess so. Where’s Miss Montague?”
“Your first Artistic Evening went splendidly, Tom. Wasn’t Miss St. Sauvre brilliant?”
“I guess so. Where’s Miss Montague?”
“Her ‘Ode to the Spotted Horse’ was truly an homage to Appaloosas, wasn’t it?”
“Is that what it was? Where’s Miss Montague?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a lovelier woman in my life. She’s the epitome of everything I’ve ever even imagined in a female. Don’t you think she’s wonderful?”
Perceiving at last that his companion was paying him no mind, Tom peered at Jedediah closely. The man looked moonstruck. He’d been in the presence of love-sickness before and knew one had to proceed carefully around its victims. He sat down next to Jedediah and put a hand on his shoulder. You had to capture their attention first or they were of no use at all.
“Jed,” he said, shaking his shoulder. “Jed, look at me for a minute.”
When he was absolutely certain Jedediah was looking at him, he said, enunciating carefully, “Do you know where Miss Montague is?”
“Miss Montague? She was here a minute ago. Didn’t eat a thing. Then she went away again.”
“She didn’t eat?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
Jedediah sighed soulfully and Tom knew he would soon be lost to him again. He said quickly, “Did she go to her office?”
“Hmmmm? Who? Oh, Miss Montague? I don’t know.”
Good grief. Deciding he’d have to hunt Claire down on his own, which shouldn’t be too difficult for a professional scout, Tom rose and prepared a plate of fluffy biscuits, bacon, butter, and jam. When he found her, he was going to be damned sure she ate something. He wasn’t about to let her waste away on him.
Claire had tried her level best to braid her hair into her usual two braids. She wanted to get her old, prudish self back if at all possible so that the wanton creature who had invaded her body would go away and never rear its evil head again.
She’d had no luck. The permanent wave Miss Thelma had used on her bangs was, well, permanent. And the back tresses had been cut and were now too short to braid properly. The only way she could possibly fix her wretched hair without help was to knot it in the back and leave the front curly. Even when she tried wetting those devilish curls, they persisted in bouncing back and taunting her with their verve. Their élan. Their wretched gaiety.
Claire didn’t feel gay. She felt awful. At least she could dress properly, so she did. Selecting the dullest, brownest, plainest frock from a closet full of dull, brown, plain frocks, she buttoned it up to her neck and tiptoed down to breakfast.
She must have stood at the breakfast-room door for a good five minutes trying to bolster her courage before she dared enter the room. She almost fainted with gratitude when she encountered only Jedediah Silver. When she’d finally managed to get his attention, he’d told her Tom hadn’t been down yet.
Thank heavens.
Now she sat at her desk, wringing her hands and wishing she hadn’t been too cowardly to meet Tom in the breakfast room. He might go more gently on her with Jedediah in the room. But no. She’d run away like a coward and now she was alone. When he came, there would be only the two of them. There would be no third party to mitigate what must surely be his total denunciation of her morals and manners.
So involved was she with self-censure that when his soft knock did come at her door, she jumped and uttered a soft cry. Then, too frightened to speak, she pressed her hand to her bosom and stared at the door as if it were about to devour her.
When it slowly opened, she began to tremble.
“Miss Montague?” came Tom’s voice from behind the partially opened door. He sounded quite friendly, and Claire could scarcely believe her ears.
“Y-yes?” she managed weakly.
“May I come in for a minute?”
Might he come in? Why was he asking her that? This was his home. She cleared her throat and said, “Of course, Mr. Partington.”
The door opened, and Claire beheld Tom Partington, a penitent smile on his glorious face, a plate of biscuits and jam in his hand, his incredible eyes twinkling like sapphires. She nearly fainted.
“Will you ever forgive me, Miss Montague?”
“F-f-forgive you?”
“For frightening you so badly last night. My behavior was unforgivable.”
His behavior was unforgivable? Claire opened her mouth, then shut it again when she realized she didn’t know what to say.
“I know how I must have frightened you, Claire. Miss Montague. May I call you Claire?”
“I—you—well—of course.”
“Will you call me Tom?”
Thunderstruck, she gawked at him for several seconds before she murmured, “Good heavens, no. I simply couldn’t.”
He looked disheartened and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I had hoped we could mend our fences this morning. May I at least join you for a little morning chat?”
Gaping at him like the fool she knew herself to be, Claire murmured, “Of course.”
“Thank you.” Tom looked down at his plate. “I brought you some breakfast. May I please ring for coffee? You should eat something.”
Suddenly, Claire knew what she must do. She stood in a flurry of brown calico and resolution, determined to get this over with.
“Mr. Partington, my behavior last night was insupportable. I behaved in a manner not merely unseemly, but—but depraved. Why, you must conclude me to be beyond forgiveness. Indeed, I can scarcely believe it of myself. I’m sure you have no reason to believe this, but truly I’m not given to—to vile behavior of that sort.”
To her absolute horror, tears began to sting her eyes. She swallowed the ache in her throat, determined not to cry and humiliate herself further.
“You what?”
Tom looked astounded and Claire almost stamped her foot in frustration. Surely he wasn’t going to pretend that nothing had happened between them, was he?
She sucked in a deep breath. “Do you want me to leave your service, Mr. Partington? I would not blame you if you desired me to do so, although I—I had hoped we could come to an understanding.” She would not cry. She told herself so as she dug in her pocket for her handkerchief.
“Me? Want you to leave?” Tom stood as still as a plaster statue of a waiter, his plate held stiffly before him. “Do you want to leave?”
She couldn’t hold his gaze a second longer. Her gaze dropped as she whispered, “No.”
Expelling a gigantic breath, Tom said, “Well, then, let’s not even talk about it. Of course, you don’t want to leave. Last night—well, it was a momentary breach of propriety, Claire, and it won’t happen again.”
She was afraid to look at him for fear she’d find he didn’t mean it. “Thank you.” She almost jumped a foot when he clunked the plate down on her desk.
Secret Hearts Page 16
