“Looks like we have company,” Tom murmured.
She turned to find him smiling happily, and Claire thrust her own problems aside. This was Christmas morning. She was riding next to the man she loved and, what’s more, a man who claimed to care for her. She should be happy.
Consigning Clarence McTeague, Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee, and the poor deceased Gordon Partington to a corner of her mind, Claire felt a swell of contentment. She grinned when she realized the clever Widow Pringle had provided Sylvester with a horse as black as soot, and mentally applauded her. The horse flattered Sylvester’s darkly tortured poetic looks admirably.
Apparently Tom recognized the widow’s tactics, too, because he said softly, “Looks like Mrs. Pringle’s determined to woo the Author in a way he’ll understand.”
Claire giggled. “Now, now, Tom.”
Out of the corner of his mouth, Tom said, “I just hope she’ll be happy with the bargain when she’s got him snared. How’d you like to have him brooding over his coffee across the table from you every morning of your life?”
“That won’t happen. Sylvester never partakes of breakfast. He consorts with his muse until all hours and seldom rises before noon, you see.”
“Oh, my God.”
Tom’s expression was comically pained, and suddenly Claire felt bright and gay. She giggled again and called out a cheery, “Merry Christmas, Priscilla! Merry Christmas, Sylvester!”
Priscilla’s trilling laugh ornamented the brisk morning air. Sylvester scowled, and Claire was certain she heard him snarl a “Bah!”
Not even Sylvester Addison-Addison could dampen her mood now, though. She and Tom exchanged a speaking look. Tom gave her a wink, reached for her hand and briefly squeezed it. Claire didn’t think she could get much happier.
Sylvester and Priscilla reined in their horses and the two couples exchanged greetings and continued their ride as a foursome. Priscilla chattered away like a magpie, Claire smiled and added a murmured comment here and there, and Tom smiled graciously. Sylvester glowered at the scenery as if trying to ignore company he considered beneath him.
“Such a delightful party last night, Claire. Mr. Partington, I do believe your Christmas Eve entertainment was the grandest we’ve ever seen at Partington Place. I’m thrilled that you decided to continue the tradition.”
“It was all Claire’s idea, Mrs. Pringle.”
“Bah!” said Sylvester.
“But it could never have happened without you, Tom. You’re the one who was the inspiration for the evening.” Claire smiled at Tom, who smiled back.
“I’m sure you’re right, Claire dear. Why, I told my darling Sylvester just this morning that the late Mr. Partington would have been thrilled to see how lovely the Place is these days.” Priscilla smiled gloriously at Sylvester.
“Bah!” said Sylvester.
Priscilla laughed again, a gay, unrestrained laugh that amazed Claire, who would have been intimidated by so many of Sylvester’s bahs. Not the jolly widow, who seemed oblivious to her companion’s surliness.
“And will you maintain the tradition of Partington Place’s spring open house, as well, Mr. Partington?” Priscilla asked. “Claire has created the loveliest gardens anywhere around.”
“A spring open house sounds fine to me, Mrs. Pringle. Claire,” Tom announced with a telling look for her, “can do anything. She’s absolutely superb, you know.”
Claire blushed hotly.
Mrs. Pringle laughed with enjoyment.
Tom invited Priscilla and Sylvester to join him, Claire, and Jedediah for supper that evening. Dianthe joined them, too, effectively bringing Jedediah back into the realm of the living. Claire and Dianthe prepared the meal, using leftovers from their Christmas-Eve repast which had been stored in Partington Place’s specially fitted icebox.
The happy party sang Christmas carols far into the night. A light snow began to fall soon after supper, but nobody inside Partington Place cared. A fire blazed merrily in the huge fireplace, and Claire noticed with pleasure the significant looks passing between Dianthe and Jedediah.
Now that she knew Tom did not fancy Dianthe, she allowed herself to be happy for the couple. She also noticed Mrs. Pringle and Sylvester holding hands, although the widow looked more cheerful about it than the Author did.
As for herself, she was certain the way Tom kept smiling at her could have kept her warm if the weather had been ten times as cold.
Chapter 17
Tunes swirled in Claire’s head and she forgot her usual reserve so far as to dance around the tiled foyer of Partington Place after the last guest left. Jedediah was seeing Dianthe home, and Claire decided that tonight had been as close to perfect as a night could get. She felt free and happy and knew she was in love with a man who cared for her. If life wasn’t perfect, if Tom couldn’t ever really love her, if there were unresolved issues lurking in dark corners that might resurface to ruin her happiness later, at least she would have tonight.
Laughing, Tom swept her into his arms and danced with her. “Are you happy, sweetheart?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had such a wonderful Christmas!”
“Me, neither.”
“Thank you so much.”
“For what?”
“For what? Why, for everything!”
Tom stopped waltzing but didn’t remove his arms. He held Claire loosely around the waist and gazed down into her eyes. Looking back at him, Claire was glad she’d removed her spectacles. Without them to clarify her world, Tom’s face was a delicious blur. If she’s been able to see him clearly, she was sure she’d become nervous. As it was, her heart speeded up inexplicably.
“You needn’t thank me for anything, Claire. You’re the one who does the work that makes these occasions special. You’re the one who plans and prepares everything. All I add is money, and as glad as I am to have it, you’ve taught me in a very few weeks how little good money is without talent and goodwill behind it.”
“What a sweet thing to say. Thank you, Tom.”
“Thank you, Claire.”
His face was becoming clearer. Claire blinked when she realized the phenomenon was caused by his leaning closer to her. Her speeding heart executed an alarming athletic maneuver, and a crazy hope stirred within her.
Mercy, was he going to kiss her again? If he was, she swore she wouldn’t run away this time. No matter what came of it, she wouldn’t run away. Tonight, as they said, would be the night. He knew the worst—well, almost the worst—of her already; she had nothing to fear. And the thought of being loved by him, the way a man loved a ___ˆwoman, almost made her knees buckle with longing.
Tonight the embraces between a man and a woman did not seem lewd to Claire. Tom’s embraces were nothing like those she’d witnessed in her childhood because they were motivated by affection. What transpired between a man and a woman was only sordid if it was undertaken in a spirit of animal passion. The snide, cynical, lustful passions of a man like her father bore no resemblance to the sweet desire Tom stirred in Claire.
So she watched his face come closer with great anticipation. When he murmured, “I want you so much, Claire. I want you so damned much,” her heart soared. She met his lips with hers and sighed in rapture.
Tom vowed to himself he wouldn’t let her get away tonight. Tonight he was going to claim his woman, and make her his beyond the shadow of any doubt. She was his, and he planned to prove it to her in no uncertain terms. She met his embrace so eagerly that he wondered if she had the same idea. He sure as hell hoped so.
Very gently, taking infinite care, he softened his lips and kissed her sweetly, praying with every heartbeat that she wouldn’t resist. She didn’t seem to be resisting. In fact, his eyes popped open when, after her initial sigh of surrender, she flung her arms around him and pressed her body against his.
“Claire?”
“I do love you, Tom!”
Her words were music to his ears, and he renewed his kiss with more vigor. He planned to tak
e all the time she needed, though. He told himself to go as slowly as necessary so as not to spook her. He wasn’t sure he could endure another disappointment.
He felt her fingers slide into his hair and her foot rub his calf and almost lost control of himself. She certainly didn’t seem to be feeling shy any longer.
His hands began to roam her silky skin as far up her arms as he could reach. He wished civilized females didn’t feel compelled to wear so many damned clothes. This evening Claire had dressed in a simple woolen frock. The dress material was soft and supple, but there were so many barriers underneath it, some of which relied on whalebone to keep their shape, that Tom couldn’t feel the softness of her sleek, elegant body. Slowly, slowly, he explored in spite of the barriers
Until he felt her trembling fingers fumble with the buttons on his jacket. Then he tossed caution to the winds and let his hands travel to her delightfully round derriere.
“Tom!” she cried.
A little worried, Tom looked at her. She wasn’t scared. She looked delighted, in fact. Encouraged, he shut his eyes again and pressed her bottom. She caught on immediately, and Tom growled when he felt her get up on her tiptoes so she could feel his hardness against the juncture of her thighs.
“Please love me tonight, Tom.”
Tom was sure that in the heat of his own desire, he had misunderstood her. He gasped, “What?”
Smiling up at him, Claire discovered happily that all her inhibitions had disappeared. All she cared about tonight was learning what Tom’s hands felt like on her naked flesh. All she cared about was feeling him kiss her. She felt beautiful for the first time in her life; she felt alive and vibrant, and she didn’t care that tomorrow she’d be plain Claire Montague again. This man wanted her; he cared for her; tonight she even believed it.
“Love me, darling. Take me to your bed—take me anywhere—and love me, Tom. Please love me.”
She saw his beautiful eyes open wide. Then she saw them shut. He groaned. Then, in a move so swift it made Claire squeak, he swept her off her feet and walked her straight to the stairs. As she rested her head on his wonderfully broad shoulder, she allowed herself a moment of amazement that he should be so strong and good and noble. He was going to make her his; to teach her the art of love, to show her what all the fuss was about.
Her toes curled and she fought a giggle of anticipation. She wished she could use this new experience in one of her novels. Immediately, she realized she must cease thinking about her novels if she expected to enjoy herself. And she would enjoy herself. Defiantly, Claire clung to Tom, knowing that her life would change forever tonight, and glad of it. She would become his mistress, a delightfully wicked prospect.
No more would she be prim Claire Montague, housekeeper, who hid a sordid past behind a prudish facade and yearned for love and excitement. Tonight she would be loved for a certainty—and by the very man for whose love she’d longed these many years.
If he found he didn’t care for her after her secret was out, if this episode was as painful as she’d heard it could be the first time, if she never experienced Tom’s love again, at least she would cherish the memory of tonight.
She felt a thrill when Tom swept her past her own room and down the hall to his own. He was taking her to his own bed! For some reason, his decision made her heart glow; it seemed somehow a confirmation that, in some way, he truly did care for her and want her in his life forever.
Not, of course, that Tom Partington was capable of wheedling a female into his bed with false promises. No indeed. Such despicable tactics were the tools of men like her father. Tom Partington would never do such a base and deceitful thing.
The door to Tom’s room opened with a crash, since Tom was too preoccupied for subtlety. He growled, “Are you sure, Claire? Are you absolutely sure? I’ve wanted you for so long, I’ll never be able to stop unless you tell me now.”
“I’m sure, Tom,” Claire whispered.
It occurred to her what a nice thing Tom had just said to her. She understood that gentlemen in the throes of passion often made extravagant declarations. Still, Claire had never dared even dream that a gentleman would say an extravagant thing to her.
She whispered, “I love you, Tom,” because it was the truth and her heart was full.
“Oh, God, Claire.” Tom’s voice sounded ragged as he dropped her on the bed. She bounced on the soft mattress and stared up at him.
“May I see you, Claire?” he asked shakily. “May I see your beautiful body? I’ve dreamed of it, Claire. I know you probably think it shocking of me, but you’re so beautiful, you’re so elegant and regal and wonderful. I want to see you.”
He wanted to see her. Her! Skinny Claire. He thought she was elegant and regal. Her heart so full she could barely speak, Claire whispered, “Oh, yes, Tom. I want to see you, too.”
He obliged with such alacrity, Claire was left gasping in amazement. She hadn’t known one could shed one’s clothing so swiftly. In a second or two, Tom stood beside the bed, naked. She blinked rapidly several times, stunned, staring at the magnificent maleness of him.
“Mercy,” she murmured, glad yet again she was not wearing her spectacles. She wasn’t sure she could survive this much magnificence clearly delineated.
“I didn’t mean to shock you, Claire.” Tom sounded contrite.
“No. I’m not shocked,” she lied. “You’re just so—so beautiful.” That part wasn’t a lie. She’d never seen anything as awe-inspiring as Tom Partington in the buff, even if he did look fuzzy. Her myopic gaze raked his body. His shoulders were broad and muscled. She’d never seen such muscles. His arms were hard and corded with sinew. His chest rippled under a feathering of light brown hair that glimmered like gold in the candlelight.
She skipped over the part between his lean belly and his thighs, and began her survey again from his toes, which resided at the end of long, well-shaped feet. Until this minute, Claire never would have guessed feet could be exciting. His calves bulged with muscle—Claire hadn’t realized how phenomenally well-developed Tom was under the elegant city clothes he always wore—and his thighs did, too. She saw dreadful scars on his legs, and didn’t wonder that he sometimes limped.
At last, she dared peek at his maleness. “Good heavens!”
“Are you frightened, Claire?”
She noticed he had his fists clenched tightly at his thighs, as if restraining himself with an effort.
“N-no,” she said. “I’m not frightened. Exactly. It’s just all so new to me.”
She saw him swallow and decided she shouldn’t prolong his agony any longer. As he watched, she began to unbutton her soft woolen gown. His eyes grew round and she felt herself blush even as his passion emboldened her. She flung her bodice open, ripped the gown from her shoulders, and lifted her hips to wriggle it down her legs.
Tom groaned.
Getting into the spirit, Claire unfastened her corset hooks and flung the instrument of torture to the floor, staring at Tom all the while. When she lay before him clad only in her camisole and drawers, she smiled. Very slowly, she began to untie her camisole.
The provocative gesture seemed to jolt Tom out of his stupor. With a growl of pure lust, he flung himself onto the bed next to her and took over the chore Claire had begun. Claire’s eyes drifted shut when she felt his hands on parts of her body she’d never even felt herself, except in the bath.
Tom’s hands lit a fire within her, and his lips fanned it into an inferno. By the time he took one small, rigidly-peaked breast into his mouth and began stroking her inner thigh, Claire was certain she would explode.
“That’s right, Claire, darling. That’s right. I want it to be good for you.” His exploring fingers found the damp, hot seat of Claire’s passion, and she uttered a muffled shriek and arched her hips.
“Yes,” Tom whispered. “Oh, yes, Claire. You’re so beautiful. So beautiful.”
His hoarse, sweet words coaxed Claire to abandon herself completely in her quest to sate the
pressure building within her. When release came, it did so swiftly and powerfully. Claire gasped, “Tom!” and she was gone in a paroxysm of small convulsions.
Claire’s reason remained suspended for a terribly long time. When she finally became aware of her surroundings again, she discovered herself being held and caressed by Tom with the utmost tenderness. Her eyes fluttered open to behold his dear face smiling at her.
Her mouth was dry and her body felt limp. She managed to mouth, “Mercy sakes,” but it was an effort.
“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Claire,” Tom whispered. “I hope this won’t hurt you too much.”
Hurt? He hoped what wouldn’t hurt? From what seemed a great distance, Claire realized Tom was positioning himself over her. When she felt his maleness prod her intimately, she remembered. Ah, yes. This was the part that was supposed to hurt. She smiled. She was ready; she didn’t care. After what Tom had just done for her, Claire figured she could stand anything.
With one powerful stroke, he entered her. And she still figured she could stand anything as long as she kept her teeth clenched.
“I’m sorry, Claire,” Tom ground out. “I’m sorry, darling. I’ll never hurt you again.”
Daring to open her eyes, Claire realized it was taking a great deal of restraint on Tom’s part to keep from moving now that he’d broken through her barrier. She managed a smile and said, “Please, Tom. I love you. It doesn’t hurt,” and knew she’d said the right thing when his countenance lost some of its rigidity.
Oddly enough, after a moment or two, the pain began to subside. As Tom started to move within her and she realized how much pleasure he was taking from the act, she got caught up in it again herself. By the time he surged into her, roared his release, and collapsed on top of her, she was really quite enthralled; so enthralled, indeed, that she was almost disappointed that it had ended so soon.
There would be other times, though, she thought rapturously. There would be many, many other times.
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Secret Hearts Page 25
