Secret Hearts

by Duncan, Alice

  The day after Christmas dawned crisp and clean and with a sprinkle of white snow covering the landscape. When Claire awakened, she discovered herself in an intimate embrace with the man she loved, and staring at a magnificent view outside his window, the curtains to which were drawn back. The sun sparkled on snowy fields like diamonds, and the fields seemed to stretch into infinity. The sky was as blue as Tom Partington’s eyes, and Claire was sure she’d never be this happy again. It was a dead-sure certainty that she’d never been this happy before.

  “Good morning,” a gravelly voice whispered in her ear. She felt Tom’s breath fan her cheek and a thrill shot through her.

  “Good morning.”

  “Are you feeling all right, Claire? Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I feel fine, Tom,” she murmured truthfully. “I feel simply marvelous.”

  “Good.”

  Tom was surprised at how good he felt this morning. Generally when he’d had carnal dealings with a female, it had been in celebration of the conclusion of an assignment. Except, of course, when he’d been visiting his parents and had called on the fetching widow Columbine, with whom he’d had an understanding since his adolescence. This morning, however, he felt not merely clear-headed, but energized.

  Why, he felt as though he could climb mountains or conquer worlds this morning. He didn’t understand it, although he was pretty sure his monumental sense of well-being had more to do with Claire than with himself. It felt right to have her in his bed. She belonged here.

  Peering into her face, striped by the morning sun streaking through the window, he murmured, “You’re so beautiful, Claire.”

  She was embarrassed by his words and tried to hide her face in his shoulder. He put his arm around her and chuckled softly. “You are, you know.”

  “Am not,” came, muffled, from the pillow.

  But she was. Her features weren’t spectacular like those of Dianthe or Tom’s mother, but her facial structure was pure and classical. Claire’s face was one that would last forever. He’d bet any amount of money that Claire would still be lovely and elegant when she was seventy-five. He hoped he’d be alive to see himself proved right.

  He nuzzled her neck. “Thank you, Claire. You’ve made me the happiest of men.”

  She said something, but he couldn’t make it out because she was still speaking into the pillow. Feeling the need to see her and to clarify his future, he very gently pressed her shoulder until she lay on her back. Her cheeks were faintly flushed and her beautiful brown eyes looked soft as a faun’s. He had to kiss her, but he didn’t lose track of his purpose.

  “You’ll stay with me, won’t you, Claire? We make a wonderful team in every way. Surely you can see that. Why, a man’s mistress is more important to him than any wife could ever be. You can see that, can’t you?”

  Claire sighed deeply, rapturously, and kept her eyes closed. Tom almost forgot his objective, but not quite. It disturbed him that she didn’t rush to answer him in the affirmative.

  He shook her shoulder lightly. “Well? You’ll stay with me, won’t you, Claire?”

  At last she opened her eyes and looked at him. He frowned when he saw wariness in her expression. Well, hell. She wasn’t going to equivocate at this point, was she?

  She reached up to stroke his stubbly chin. Her fingers were long and slender and elegant, just like the rest of her, and Tom reveled in the feel of them against his flesh.

  “I—I’m very fond of you, Tom,” she said. “Indeed, I—well, I love you. You already know that.”

  Tom’s heat swelled even as Claire began to look embarrassed. She’d told him so before, but every time she said it, he felt more secure. He was, in fact, outrageously pleased with himself. He must have done all right last night, in spite of having completely lost control. Turning his head, he nuzzled her palm and watched her gasp with pleasure.

  “You’re the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known, Claire,” he told her, both because it was the truth and because it was infinitely easier to say aloud than the “L” word.

  “Thank you.”

  “So it’s settled, then.” He began to nuzzle her neck again.

  “Y-yes. I guess.”

  He stopped nuzzling and looked at her sharply. “What do you mean, you guess?”

  “I—I mean— Oh, heavens!” Sidling out from underneath him, Claire sat up straight against the headboard and pulled the sheet up to her chin.

  “What is it, Claire?” Damn it all to hell and back again! Why in God’s name was the woman wavering now? He tried to tamp down his frustration.

  She cleared her throat. “I—Oh, dear.”

  He glowered. She bowed her head and looked miserable.

  “I’m so sorry, Tom. Can you give me just a tiny bit more time? There—there are some things you don’t know about me yet, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, for God’s sake, tell me!” Tom sat up, too, and ran his fingers through is hair. He was no damned good at this. When Claire flinched from his anger, he only got angrier. Hoping to calm down, he took a deep, soothing breath.

  Attempting sweetness of tone, he tried again. “Please, Claire. We’ve told each other so much already. Surely you can’t believe you can’t tell me something.” Unless—good God! “You’re not married or anything, are you?” As soon as the words left his lips, he knew them to be absurd; she’d been a virgin, for God’s sake.

  Her head jerked up so fast that Tom felt guilty. He patted her shoulder. “No. No, of course, you’re not. Sorry, Claire. But can’t you tell me what the problem is? Don’t you trust me at all?”

  Claire’s expression was one of exquisite soulfulness when she said miserably, “Of course, I trust you. It’s I who can’t be trusted.”

  Oh, good Lord. Not this again! Through gritted teeth, Tom said, “I trust you, Claire.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her voice was so quavery that Tom decided he’d best not push the issue, no matter how irritated he felt.

  A clattering sound came from the hallway outside Tom’s bedroom and he saw Claire stiffen and dart a glance at the door.

  “Good Lord, that must be Sally opening the upstairs curtains. What time is it?” The quaver was gone. In its place was alarm.

  “It’s just a little past six, Claire. You’re not late yet.”

  “But I can’t be seen here!”

  She scrambled out of bed, taking the sheet with her. Tom grinned. “Sally won’t come in here, Claire, believe me.”

  Tucking the sheet around her, Claire sounded panicky when she said, “But she might peek into my room, and whatever will she think?”

  Tom shook his head and guessed they’d have to deal with Claire’s latest problem at another time. Maybe he could soften her up with another night of lovemaking. The thought appealed greatly, particularly as he looked at her now, wrapped up in that sheet, her cheeks blooming pink, her bare toes peeking out.

  Good grief. He was absolutely besotted with the woman. “Don’t worry about being seen, sweetheart. I’m the boss, and I won’t let anybody fire you.”

  “Maybe I can tell her I went for an early-morning walk,” she muttered, sounding distracted.

  She looked like a Greek goddess with that sheet draped around her. He wanted to grab her, take her back to bed, and ravish her for weeks, but he figured she’d object. A slave to duty, his Claire. Which, he reminded himself, was one of the reasons he wanted to keep her around.

  With a gesture at her sheet, he said, “Maybe she’ll believe you and your friend Dianthe have taken to worshiping the sun in togas.”

  In spite of Claire’s obvious morning-after embarrassment, she giggled. “Well, make sure Sally’s through in the hall before I make a dash to my room, if you please.”

  With another sigh, knowing he still hadn’t gotten to the root of Claire’s strange, lingering uneasiness, Tom did as she bade. He watched her scurry to her room, dragging the sheet, and couldn’t help smiling. He stretched sinuously in the
beams of winter sunlight, thinking of Claire’s beautiful, slender body and laughed at himself when he realized he was fully aroused again. Lord, what that woman did to him. And she had no idea of her charms, either. Maybe that was her greatest charm of all.

  Well, it would be Tom’s delight to teach her how desirable she was. He looked forward to it.

  # # #

  Claire blessed her housekeeping skills as she washed up. If she hadn’t made it a practice to think ahead, she might have had to go downstairs and fetch water from the kitchen pump on this, the most momentous morning of her life. This morning, as every morning, fresh water awaited her in the pretty rose-covered porcelain pitcher on her dresser.

  With a sigh, she rinsed off the evidence of her deflowering. It hadn’t felt like a deflowering. It had felt like a blossoming; her introduction to womanhood; something she’d never expected to experience. Claire had become so used to thinking of herself as an undesirable old maid—indeed, had gone to great pains to make herself into one—that she still had trouble believing Tom Partington had desired her enough to carry his kisses through to their splendid consummation.

  She drew back the curtains and stared out at the pristine day. A carpet of snow covered the meadow and crowned the trees. What perfect winter weather; how magnanimous of Nature to have blessed them with the purity of all that white.

  The snow stretched for as far as Claire could see, unsullied by signs of life. Later in the day, footprints of men and beasts would chronicle the effects of civilization on that blanket of white, but right now Claire could pretend she and Tom were alone here in their world. She threw the window open and breathed deeply, almost freezing her lungs in her exuberance. She didn’t mind a whit.

  She felt wonderful. It didn’t seem quite right to feel so good when she’d just risen from the bed of a man who wasn’t her husband. The suspicion that her feeling of happiness was the product of her depraved upbringing nagged at her, only to be thrust aside.

  “Nonsense,” she said roundly to the magnificent day. “My father was beastly. Neither Tom nor I bear the remotest resemblance to my father. Why, Tom even wants me to stay at Partington Place forever.”

  She hugged herself and twirled around her bedroom before succumbing to gooseflesh and shutting her window. She had to don her woolen shawl before she could get her frozen fingers to curl around her hairbrush.

  As she tweaked her new curls into a pretty cap above her brow, brushed her longer back hair until it gleamed and twisted it into a pretty Russian knot, her joy began to fade in spite of herself. Tom wanted her. She wanted him. One thing and one thing only stood in the way of her being the happiest woman on the face of the earth: Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee.

  “I have to tell him,” she whispered to her reflection, and cringed in reaction to the truth being spoken aloud.

  Nevertheless, she knew the only honorable thing to do would be to confess. Immediately.

  But when Claire descended the grand staircase at Partington Place to find Tom awaiting her at the foot of the stairs, the sweetest, most welcoming smile on his face, she hesitated. When he treated her with the most delightful deference at breakfast, selecting the prettiest hot-house pear for her, insisting she have the last remaining cinnamon roll, and begging her to eat some ham so she wouldn’t waste away, her firm resolve began to waver.

  Jedediah, of course, was too besotted to notice Tom’s extraordinary behavior. Scruggs suffered from no such affliction. Claire saw him lift his brows in disapproval. When she visited the kitchen after breakfast to make sure Mrs. Philpott was apprised of the rest of the day’s dining requirements, she discovered Scruggs had not dallied in spreading his suspicions, either.

  “Is it true, Miss Montague?” Mrs. Philpott said, her eyes wide, her apple cheeks shining, her smile wide, and her hands clasped to her enormous bosom. “Oh, ma’am, is it true?”

  Even though she knew the answer as she asked the question, Claire murmured, “Is what true, Mrs. Philpott?”

  “Why, what Mr. Scruggs said, ma’am, about you and the master. I swear, I couldn’t believe it when Sally came running down here while I was fixing breakfast and said as to how she’d heard your voice from the master’s bedroom.”

  Claire stopped in the act of writing a note to herself, her pen suspended, her shopping list forgotten. “Good heavens.”

  “I boxed Sally’s ears, I did, ma’am, but I reckon I’d better apologize now. After what Scruggs said about the master buttering your roll for you and peeling your pear and all, I guess we’ll be hearing wedding bells at the Place yet.”

  “I don’t believe the Place has a bell to ring, Mrs. Philpott,” Claire said dryly. “I think you shouldn’t pay attention to idle gossip.”

  The chubby cook winked at Claire and turned back to kneading her bread dough. “You can tease me all you like, Miss Montague, but I have eyes in my head, too, and I’ve seen the two of you together.” Her sigh was as huge as the rest of her. “It’s love, all right.”

  Claire escaped the kitchen soon afterwards, shooting Scruggs a terrible scowl when she passed him in the hallway. As usual, he ignored her.

  Later on that afternoon, however, her duties done and her beloved Tom gone to town to see if a wire had arrived from his horse breeder, Claire chewed the end of her pen and wondered if she’d lose her audience if Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee were to marry Miss Abigail Faithgood.

  She slept in Tom’s bed again that night. As he worked his magic on her body, she forgot all about her audience. She forgot about Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee and Abigail Faithgood. She forgot about everything but how Tom’s skillful hands and lips made her body sing as he stirred her to ecstasy.

  When Tom whispered that she was sleek and exquisite and lovely, that her skin was like satin and her lips like wine, all else was easy to forget. If such a thing was possible, she loved Tom even more for making her feel beautiful. In her twenty-seven years of life, Claire had felt insignificant, immoral, unpleasantly seductive, frightened, homely, and dull. Until Tom Partington entered her life, she had never once felt beautiful.

  Chapter 18

  The first of Tom’s Appaloosas, three mares and a stallion, arrived shortly after the beginning of the new year. Claire had never seen a man so excited about anything, and she thought his reaction was sweet. He didn’t pretend sophistication or indifference; he was ecstatic.

  They were beautiful animals. Even Dianthe, invited to view them by Jedediah Silver, who had elected to remain at Partington Place for another several weeks, admitted they were excellent horses. Claire was so pleased she nearly burst her bodice buttons when she and Tom stood on the balcony that evening and watched the sun set over four of the loveliest horses either of them had ever seen.

  Tom squeezed her tightly. She could feel his heart beating a rapid tattoo in his chest, and she knew he was as happy as he could be. She was embarrassed when her tears overflowed to trickle down her cheeks, but she was so happy for Tom, she couldn’t help it.

  By this time, of course, he’d told her about all his childhood, and Claire understood why he valued her practical nature. His parents had kept up an illusion of Old Southern wealth long after they’d lost everything—even before the war. Tom had learned to despise prevarications and pretense almost as much as he despised fecklessness. He told her over and over again that her honesty and her pragmatic character were what he admired most about her.

  Which, she kept telling herself, was the reason she hadn’t yet found the courage to tell him she was Clarence McTeague. She knew she’d have to tell him. Sooner or later he was going to find out anyway. Once again he’d mentioned writing her publisher to discover where his uncle had directed his proceeds from the novels.

  Claire had even spent an entire evening mulling over various ways in which to persuade her publisher to lie to Tom. Mr. Oliphant admired her; perhaps he could be made to set up a false account or something.

  She was ashamed of herself the following morning and visited Dianthe to confess and to beg advic
e. Her agitation was so great, she didn’t pay attention when she rounded the hedge leading into the Pyrite Arms’ yard, and she nearly collided with Sergei.

  “Arrrrgh!” Sergei followed up his bellow with a leap backwards, ending in a crouch, his paintbrush lifted, brush end pointed like a knife at Claire’s chest.

  “Good heavens!” Claire leapt backwards herself, and pressed a hand to her thundering heart. “Oh, Sergei, I’m so sorry. I should have announced my presence.”

  The Russian was so relieved, his legs gave out and he collapsed onto the snow. His head dropped to his chest and his paintbrush fell to the ground.

  “What are you doing outside painting in this weather?” Claire glanced at the canvas set up on an easel. Long ago, she’d learned to sneak up on Sergei’s work and squint at it carefully. His paintings could be startling when approached directly. She saw at once that this painting wasn’t too ghastly. Yet. “Whose soul are you painting today, Sergei?”

  Heaving himself up and brushing snow off his rear end, Sergei said, “Mr. Partington.”

  Pleased, Claire exclaimed, “Sergei, how wonderful! I see you’ve discovered his soul to be—ah—not as tainted as those of most of the other people in town.”

  His brow furrowing, Sergei muttered, “It is a blue soul. The first blue soul in my experience. I know not if it bodes good or ill.”

  Claire patted his arm. “I’m sure it bodes good, Sergei. Mr. Partington is a fine man. A fine man.”

  She heard Sergei mutter darkly in Russian as she walked away, but didn’t bother to try to convince him. Not only was the weather entirely too chilly for outdoor chats, but Claire had never yet known Sergei to be influenced by anything anybody told him. He was convinced that he alone could see into the souls of his subjects. Claire could only be grateful he hadn’t yet perceived anything demonic about Tom’s soul.

  “How could he, indeed?” she asked herself with joy in her heart.

  Her joy faltered when she took her problems to Dianthe.

  “You mean to tell me you haven’t told him yet?”

  There was something about the way Dianthe asked her question that made Claire feel especially evil. Dianthe’s was not a voice appropriate for censure; yet censure vibrated from every syllable. If Dianthe believed her to be at fault, Claire knew she was at fault.