Anyway, if Jedediah was right and Claire was already in love with him, half the battle was won. He’d take her outside where he could ravish her sweetly with intoxicating words, kisses and caresses. Maybe even ask her tonight to be his mistress. Why not? She already lived in his house; it would be a perfect arrangement. Perfect. By the time Jedediah meandered off, Tom was primed and ready to sweep Claire off her feet.
Unfortunately, Claire was not on her feet. She was solidly planted on the piano bench with at least a dozen melodious guests warbling Christmas carols as she played. Tom sighed, resigned. Patience, he cautioned himself. Patience was an art he’d learned well and thoroughly.
He did, however, plan to put a stop to that lecherous Alphonse Gilbert leering at Claire’s cleavage. He stalked to the piano and stepped in front of Gilbert.
Smiling sweetly, he said to the startled mayor, “Miss Montague and I have a pact, Mr. Gilbert. She plays and I turn the pages.”
The mayor was not the only one startled. Claire looked up in astonishment and could have sworn she detected a hint of jealousy in Tom’s eyes.
Quickly returning her attention to “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen,” Claire told herself not to be stupid.
She felt a heady mixture of exhilaration and sorrow when she and Tom waved all but the last two guests away a couple of hours later. She’d had such a good time. For a while she’d even allowed herself to pretend that she was the mistress of Partington Place and Tom her husband. Silly Claire. Still, it was Christmas. If she were ever to allow herself to dream, she guessed Christmas was the best time to do it.
The only guests remaining were Jedediah and Dianthe, and they were chatting cozily in front of the fire. Claire sighed as she gazed at them. She had removed her spectacles, deciding to let them dangle on their satin ribbon, and the two lovers looked like little fuzzy lumps. She wondered if their obvious affection for each other was breaking Tom’s heart. She hoped not.
“Would you like to stroll in the garden for a moment, Claire?” Tom asked softly at her elbow. “It’s cold, but the night’s beautiful.”
She turned to find him beside her, holding a beautifully fringed and flowered shawl. “How lovely,” she exclaimed, forgetting all about Tom’s question.
“It’s my Christmas present to you, Claire. I was going to have it wrapped up, but decided to give it to you this evening so you’d feel obliged to humor me by wearing it as we stroll in the garden.”
Claire could no more resist his beautiful, sparkling blue eyes than she could stop the world from turning. With a warm smile, she said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Partington. You’re absolutely right, of course. No woman could resist such a temptation.”
“The shawl or me?”
Tom settled the shawl over her shoulders, and she breathed in the masculine scent of him—a potent combination of bay rum and something uniquely his own. Her knees trembled and she wanted to tell the truth. Instead she laughed softly and didn’t answer at all.
They strolled along the neatly raked paths through the bare garden for a few moments, Claire’s hand resting comfortably on Tom’s arm, her new silk shawl feeling like heaven on her bare flesh. She’d never owned anything so grand.
Tom drew them to a stop at a little stone bench. He covered her hand with his and Claire felt a tiny jitter of alarm. She quelled it, reminding herself that she had not misbehaved once tonight; that there was nothing in her present behavior or dress that in any way reflected her past, and that Tom could not possibly misinterpret her actions. The night of the Artistic Evening, she’d obviously been sending out lures. Since then, she’d guarded her behavior meticulously. Nobody could possibly mistake her for a former medicine-show shill.
“Claire,” Tom said softly, looking down into her eyes in a way that made her spine turn to jelly, “that night when I kissed you, I realize I blundered badly.”
She couldn’t maintain his gaze. “Please, speak no more about it, Mr. Partington. We both blundered that evening. I assure you, I’ve completely put it out of my mind.” Liar, liar, her conscience taunted.
“Well, that’s more than I’ve been able to do.”
Claire looked up at him again, surprised.
“I haven’t been able to think about much else, in fact.”
Oh, dear. He hadn’t come to the conclusion she did that sort of thing all the time, had he? She’d been so circumspect recently, so extremely proper. She swallowed and didn’t know what to say.
“In fact, I’ve been wanting to do it again ever since then, but haven’t wanted to scare you.”
Thought fled. Claire could only gape at him, stunned. He cupped her chin in his hand and she gasped.
Then, in the absolute certainty that she couldn’t escape her past if she lived to be a thousand, Claire burst into tears.
Chapter 15
“Claire! Claire, for God’s sake, what did I say?”
Tom felt helpless as he watched big, fat tears course down Claire’s cheeks. Good God, he hadn’t meant to upset her. She groped in her pocket, looking for a handkerchief, Tom supposed, so he snatched his out and shoved it at her.
“Here, use this. Claire, please, speak to me. Tell me what’s wrong? Are you upset because I want to kiss you?”
To his consternation, she nodded.
“You are?” Oh, Lord. “But—but why, Claire? Didn’t you enjoy our kiss?”
She nodded. Then she shook her head. Then she wailed, “Oh, no!” and sobbed harder.
At last he gave up trying to reason with her and hugged her tight, hoping at least to give her some measure of comfort until she calmed down enough to tell him what was wrong. She struggled against his hold for an instant, then collapsed in his arms and wept onto his coat. He angled his head to see where her tears were falling and sighed when he saw they were, of course, landing directly on the polished silk of his lapel. What the hell. He was rich; he guessed he could afford another evening jacket.
After a while, he began to wonder if she’d ever stop crying. Gradually, however, he began to make out strangled words struggling for air amid the waterworks, and listened carefully.
“I tried so hard,” he thought she said. “I tried and tried and tried, but nothing I did could ever erase my miserable past. There’s no denying it and there’s no running away from it. It’s found me out at last.”
Tom squinted, thinking furiously. Her miserable past? What the hell was she talking about? And what did it have to do with his wanting to kiss her?
“I knew I couldn’t do it. You simply can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. I knew it! I knew it! Ohhhh!”
A silk purse out of a sow’s ear? Was she comparing herself to a sow’s ear? Was she comparing him to a sow’s ear? Cautiously, Tom murmured, “Claire? Claire, what is it? Please tell me.”
She shook her head violently and he clutched her more tightly, fearing she might make a break for it. He wasn’t about to let her go until she explained herself; he didn’t care if it took from now until New Year’s Day.
“It’s all my fault,” she moaned. “All my fault. If I hadn’t flaunted myself, none of this would have happened.”
Flaunted herself? Claire? Claire Montague? She of the prim brown gowns and rattlesnake tresses? Tom frowned. This was getting ridiculous. Ever so lightly, he shook her.
“Claire. Claire, stop crying and listen to me. You must tell me what the matter is. Now.” He used his brevet general voice, the one he’d used to keep fifteen- and sixteen-year-old recruits in line when they were quaking in their boots about to go into battle and possibly die.
That voice had worked during the war and it worked now. Gradually, Claire’s tears sniffled to a stop. She tried to step away from him, but he wouldn’t let her, so she had to mop her eyes on his coat sleeve. Tom sighed, but he didn’t mind.
“Now will you tell me why you’re so upset, Claire darling? I can’t stand seeing you so upset.”
She nodded, so he dared release her. While she blew her nose on his h
andkerchief, he guided her to the door that led to her office. He wanted to get out of the cold. Also, he didn’t relish having an audience when he and Claire spoke, and he had a feeling Dianthe and Jedediah were probably still in the parlor, oblivious to their surroundings or the fact that all the other guests had departed.
Very tenderly, he led her to an armchair and bade her sit. He pulled up the chair that usually resided in front of her desk. Sitting directly in front of her so she couldn’t escape, he took up her hands.
Her nose was pink and her eyes swollen and red-rimmed. Her face looked pale except for a couple of hectic red splotches blooming on her cheeks. She was really a mess, and he had to squash the urge to hold her tight and soothe her in his arms. Later, he told himself. After he’d discovered and dealt with the problem.
“Now, Claire,” he said gently, “please tell me why you’re so upset. Is it because I wanted to kiss you again?”
Apparently not trusting herself to speak yet, Claire nodded. Then she shook her head. Then she moaned softly and Tom stifled the urge to shake her until she came out with it. Why were females all so perverse? When a fellow had a problem, he’d either tell you what it was or shut up about it. Why did females always have to dance around things so hard and so long?
Suppressing the unkind thought, he said, “Yes and no? You’re going to have to make up your mind, Claire, because I can’t read it for you, you know. I think I deserve to know why you’re so upset. It hurts me to know that you don’t want me to kiss you when I want to kiss you very badly.”
Her head jerked up and she looked at him in honest horror. “I’m so sorry!” Her voice sounded raw.
Tom cursed himself as a blundering ass. “I didn’t mean it that way, Claire. I’d never do anything to frighten you, at least not on purpose. And I do want to kiss you, but not if it’s going to hurt you like this.”
Shaking her head miserably, Claire mumbled, “It’s all my fault. All my fault.”
His eyes narrowing in thought, Tom tried to make sense of the few clear snippets he’d heard Claire say in her distress. She’d said it was all her fault several times. She’d said something about silk purses and sow’s ears. Had she said something about a bad background? He searched Claire’s bowed head for clues.
“Look at me, Claire,” he commanded very softly, nudging her under the chin with a bent finger.
After a moment she complied, and he studied her face hard, trying to read her emotions. He recognized distress; that was easy. He was sure he read fear in her eyes, too. And was that shame? Was she ashamed of her behavior? But she hadn’t done anything. Surely she couldn’t blame herself for Tom kissing her. Could she? Leaning closer and examining her face very, very carefully, Tom guessed maybe she could.
“Claire, why do you think it’s your fault that I kissed you? For that matter, what’s wrong with kissing? If a man and a woman care about each other, kissing seems a logical thing for them to do. At least it does to me.”
“C-c-care about each other?” Her big brown eyes held a world of wonder.
He nodded. “I care about you, anyway. I don’t know what you think of me. Maybe you hate my guts. That’s what it looks like from here.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Partington. I could never hate you.”
In spite of himself, Tom smiled. Claire’s confession had sounded so pathetic. It thrilled him, though. Yes! he thought. Yes! He’d known she wasn’t indifferent to him.
“I’m relieved to hear it. Now, will you please tell me what you think is your fault and why you consider my kisses so repulsive?” A dreadful thought struck him and he felt his innards reel crazily. “Is there somebody else, Claire? Do you love another man?”
“Good grief, no!”
Tom’s relief was so great, he had to shut his eyes for a minute. “Good,” he whispered. “Good.”
“But—but I’m not that sort of female, Mr. Partington. Truly I’m not.”
His eyes snapped open. “You’re not what sort of female?”
She sucked in a big breath. “I’m not a hussy. Honestly, I’m not. I know I must have given that impression, but I’m truly not. I’ve tried so terribly hard to be a lady. I—I’ve tried so hard.”
Her last sentence wobbled badly at the end. Tom’s mouth fell open in astonishment.
“What?” he barked, too startled for finesse.
Claire’s fingers tightened around his handkerchief and she peered at them instead of at him. She had to stop and blow her nose again. Tom continued to stare at her.
“Mr. Partington, I greatly fear my background is—is not very good. I’m afraid there are things in my past that are too painful for me to speak of, but please know that I’ve left all that behind me. For the past ten years, I’ve striven to be a good person. I’ve tried so hard to become a woman of strong moral fiber and character, to be chaste and pure and good.
“And now I know I’ve failed! They say one can never overcome one’s past, and I guess they were right because you obviously think of me as a—as a strumpet!”
Tom couldn’t seem to shut his mouth. Nor could he speak.
Claire lifted her head and watched him, big-eyed. She apparently drew the wrong conclusion from his thunderstruck expression. “But I’m not a strumpet! I’m not! At least, I don’t want to be! Oh, I’m so unhappy!”
Wrenching her hands from underneath his, Claire turned in the chair, folded herself into a knot around a cushion and began crying again.
For several seconds, Tom couldn’t make himself do anything. He watched Claire weep as her amazing words spun through his brain. Claire? A strumpet? Claire? Good God. He shut his mouth with a snap and grabbed Claire by the shoulders. She tried to wrench away again, but he was too strong for her.
“Claire, look at me. Look at me, Claire.”
She tugged. He pulled. She tugged again. He pulled again. Eventually, she gave up and slumped in the chair facing him, her head drooping as if it was too heavy for her to lift. He nudged her chin up once more.
“Claire, listen to me. I never, ever, ever thought of you as a strumpet. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”
She didn’t believe him; he could tell.
“I have no idea why you think of yourself in such terms, but they’re not true.”
She still didn’t believe him. Tom sighed and shook his head. Then he decided only the unvarnished truth would suffice, even though it seemed cruel to him. Eyeing Claire, he thought maybe she wouldn’t think it cruel.
“When I first met you, I swear I thought you were a prim, stuffy old maid who’d never worn an improper gown or had an improper thought in her life. I took one look at you and thought you were boring, lifeless, and dull.”
Her back straightened and her chin went up all by itself.
“Whatever your background, you did such a good job of transforming yourself into a prudish housekeeper that it never even crossed my mind to think of you as anything else.”
Her sweet lips parted slightly and Tom eyed them with longing. He wouldn’t kiss her yet, though. Not until they’d cleared this whole thing up.
“Do you believe me, Claire? I’m telling you the truth.”
“I guess so.”
“Good.”
“But—but you kissed me.”
“I sure did. And I want to do it again, too.”
Her brow wrinkled as she thought. “But—but why would you want to kiss me if I was dull? If you thought me plain and proper and practical.”
“Because you see, Claire, you couldn’t stop yourself from being you.” He felt her stiffen in alarm and hurried on. “I don’t mean that you, Claire Montague, are a trollop. I mean that you, Claire Montague, are a delightful, accomplished, amusing young woman with a charming personality and undeniable talents.”
“I am?” She sounded utterly flabbergasted.
“You are.”
After a pause long enough to make Tom wonder if he should try kissing her yet, Claire said, “You—you didn’t think I was easy?”
“Easy?” With great effort, Tom stopped himself from guffawing. He definitely did not want to hurt her feelings. “Claire, nobody in the entire world would ever believe you were easy.”
She stared at him hard for almost a full minute before she shook her head and said, “But you kissed me.”
“Well, of course I kissed you! I kissed you before and I want to kiss you again!”
She looked at him reproachfully, as if he’d just confirmed everything she’d already told him and he’d just tried to deny. Tom scrambled to think of a way to explain what she obviously considered a paradox.
“Do you think every woman who is ever kissed by a man is loose? Do you think your friend Dianthe is loose?”
She shook her head. “Certainly not.”
“Of course you don’t, but Jed wants to kiss her. He may be doing it right now, in fact. Do you think Mrs. Humphrey Albright is a strumpet?”
She shook her head again.
“Well, I distinctly saw Mr. Humphrey Albright kiss his wife under the mistletoe this evening.”
“Oh, well,” Claire said with a gesture, “that’s different. It’s Christmas.”
Tom snorted. “You can be blamed good and sure he doesn’t wait a year between kisses, Claire. Don’t you realize how foolish you’re being? Men don’t only kiss harlots or fallen women. They kiss women they care for. I care a lot about you, Claire Montague, and the desire to kiss a woman one cares about can be mighty blasted strong! Can’t you understand that?”
Her mouth fell open and her eyes went as round as billiard balls.
Tom jumped to his feet, so frustrated he wanted to punch something. He settled for running his hands through his hair and pacing. “Damn it, I’m not doing this right.”
Claire stared at him. “You—you care for me? Me? You? Care for me?”
He whirled around and glared at her. “Why do you find that so damned hard to understand, Claire?”
Secret Hearts Page 22
