All in all, she preferred the awkward lad to the commanding earl, she told herself fiercely.
Coming to the outbuildings, Claire angled toward the plain stone manor house, where she was halted by the sight of a tall, slender woman with gray-streaked brown hair walking toward her. Not surprisingly Ann Stewart’s shrewd gaze narrowed as it traveled over Claire’s mud-stained hem and flushed features.
“Claire.” A hint of disapproval marred the still-handsome features of the older woman. “Do not tell me that you have been to see Mr. Foster?”
Claire was immediately on the defensive. Although Ann Stewart was as close as any mother, there were times when they differed sharply.
Ann, the eldest daughter of the local vicar, had devoted her life to charitable works. She had provided an orphanage near the village that included a school, and become an advocate for the poor and elderly. She had also taken the motherless Claire under her wing and given the restless maiden a sense of meaning in her life.
But while Claire greatly admired her dear friend’s serene strength and unwavering patience, she found her own impetuous nature rebelling in protest.
Where Ann would coax, Claire would demand. Where Ann would graciously accept fate, Claire would battle to the bitter end. Where Ann would walk around, Claire would plunge through. And where Ann would pray for the souls of men like Mr. Foster, Claire would threaten them with the magistrate.
Now she gave a small shrug. “Yes, I have been to see him.” “I specifically requested that you allow me to approach Mr. Foster,” Ann remonstrated. “You have already spoken with him. I thought I might have better luck.”
Ann’s expression became wry. “You mean you thought you could bully him into repairing the cottages.”
“I thought he might be humiliated into repairing the cottages if he realized the entire neighborhood was aware of his shameful behavior,” she corrected her friend.
“Mr. Foster possesses no shame.”
Claire grimaced. “So I have discovered.”
The thin features hardened. “What he does possess is a nasty temper, which is precisely why I did not wish for you to approach him on your own.”
Claire shifted uneasily. She had no desire to discuss her encounter with Lord Challmond. Not when she was still attempting to recover her composure. But in such a small community there was little hope of keeping Lord Challmond and their fiery battle a secret. It would cause less speculation if she simply confessed the truth.
Or, at least, a portion of the truth.
“Actually I was not on my own.”
Ann blinked in mild surprise. “No?”
“Lord Challmond has returned to Westwood Park.”
“Has he?” Ann’s expression softened with pleasure. “I had no notion he was coming to Devonshire.”
Claire’s own expression was far less pleased. “Neither did I.”
“But this is wonderful.”
Claire’s deep blue eyes darkened unconsciously, a sure sign that her emotions were roused. “I fail to comprehend what is so wonderful.”
Ann regarded her young friend with growing curiosity. It was obvious she sensed that something had occurred.
“Lord Challmond is bound to replace Mr. Foster as soon as he realizes how shabbily he has managed the estate.”
“Lord Challmond has displayed precious little interest in his estate in the past,” Claire reminded the older woman. On how many occasions had the earl returned to Westwood, only to disappear after a fleeting visit with his elegant guests? The neighbors rarely even caught a glimpse of his elusive form before he was flitting back to London. Certainly he had never taken the time or the interest to ensure his tenants were being well treated. “What leads you to believe he shall take an interest now?”
“So he is not remaining?” Claire gave a toss of her head. “I have not the least notion.”
Ann’s curiosity merely sharpened at Claire’s fierce tone. “Has something occurred, Claire?”
Against her will Claire felt her cheeks bloom with color. She was not about to confess that Lord Challmond had stolen a kiss. Not to anyone. It was one of those things best forgotten.
“I do not know what you mean.”
“You seem . . . flustered.”
Claire forced a smile to her stiff lips. “Not at all.”
Ann paused as she closely examined Claire’s guarded expression, then, realizing she could not force a confidence from her young friend, she gave a small shrug.
“Well, at least while Lord Challmond is here we can ask for his donation to support the orphanage.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
A sudden glint entered Ann’s blue eyes. “In fact, I will rely upon you to make the request, my dear.”
“Me?” Claire gave a sharp shake of her head. “Oh, I think it would be best if you approached him, Ann.”
“Nonsense. What gentleman can resist appearing at his most generous when a young, beautiful lady is making the request?” Ann lifted her brows. “Besides, I thought the two of you were old friends?”
“Hardly old friends,” Claire instinctively denied. “He is, after all, considerably older than myself.”
The brows arched even higher. “But you are better acquainted with him than I am.”
“Truly, Ann, I would prefer—” Claire’s hasty refusal was abruptly cut short as her father entered the courtyard. A slender gentleman with silver hair and blue eyes he was astonishingly attired in a brilliant green coat and yellow waistcoat. Accustomed to the tatty brown coats he had worn for years, Claire felt her mouth drop in surprise. “Oh, my.”
Coming to a halt, Mr. Blakewell offered them a credible leg.
“Claire. Miss Stewart.”
“Mr. Blakewell.” Ann managed to smother her amusement at the transformation of her old friend.
“Father . . . are you going somewhere?”
“Yes, indeed.” Henry Blakewell anxiously patted his starched cravat. “How do you like my coat?”
“It is . . . most unusual. Where are you going?”
“I have promised Mrs. Mayer I would take her for a drive.”
Claire could not have been more shocked if her father had announced he was going to toss himself off a nearby cliff. The scholarly gentleman rarely left his library for any reason, and certainly not to take any lady for a drive.
And Mrs. Mayer?
Claire shuddered. The woman was a—menace. Less than a year older than Claire’s own two and twenty, Lizzy Hayden was the brash youngest daughter of a local merchant who had managed to ensnare a local squire. With her new position she had forced her way into the local drawing rooms. Then, swiftly nagging her husband to an early grave, the predatory widow began her hunt for a titled husband.
Any titled husband.
“Mrs. Mayer?” Claire demanded, certain that she must have misunderstood.
“A most charming lady.” Her father glanced toward the startled Ann. “Do you not agree, Miss Stewart?”
“She is certainly”—Ann struggled to find an appropriate response—“a most resourceful young lady.”
“A woman of character,” Henry pronounced.
Ann coughed. “Yes, indeed.”
Claire gave an impatient click of her tongue. “Why would you be taking Mrs. Mayer on a drive?” she demanded in her usual blunt manner.
“Why does any gentleman invite a lady for a drive?” Henry gave a shrug. “I wish to become better acquainted.”
Claire gave a shake of her head. Was her father becoming a bit noddy? She remembered a great-aunt who had taken to running about without a stitch of clothing on when she grew old. Certainly that was no more queer than her father courting Lizzy Hayden.
“But why?”
“Really, my dear, that is rather a personal matter,” her father retorted with a hint of censor in his tone. “I shall return later.”
Offering a bow, Henry turned back to the waiting carriage. Claire watched his retreat with wide-eyed disbelief.
&
nbsp; It was absurd.
“A drive with Mrs. Mayer?” she muttered.
Ann gave a low chuckle. “Well, well.”
“What on earth is he up to?”
“My dearest, I should think that obvious.”
“My father and Mrs. Mayer?” Claire gave a snort of disgust. “Absurd.”
“Why?” Ann regarded her with a steady haze. “Your father is not infirm, and he has certainly been alone for a number of years. Why should he not seek companionship?”
Claire determinedly bit back the angry words that hovered on the tip of her tongue. Ann was no doubt merely teasing her. After all, they both knew Henry Blakewell possessed no interest in anything beyond his collection of rare manuscripts.
Still, it had been a trying day all around, and she was in little humor to find the notion of her father and the revolting Mrs. Mayer in any way amusing.
Giving a toss of her head, she swept past her friend—toward the house.
“Absurd.”
* * *
By the next morning Claire had managed to recover her temper, and ordering the large baskets of food from the kitchen to be loaded into her carriage, she set about her morning routine.
As always, she was sensibly attired in a sturdy russet gown and gold pelisse with heavy braiding that matched the trim on her bonnet. She paid little heed to fashion. It was far more important that she felt warm and comfortable. Especially on her morning visits to the nearby cottages.
Climbing onto the carriage, she took the reins of the matched grays and urged them out of the courtyard. Just for a moment she recalled Lord Challmond’s stern warning at traveling about the countryside on her own. He had certainly proven how vulnerable she would be should she encounter a disreputable villain. Then she was sternly dismissing the ridiculous notion. She had driven and walked throughout the neighborhood for years without the least difficulty. The only danger she was in was from the annoying Lord Challmond.
With a determined expression she turned onto the narrow lane and wound through the fields. It was a fine morning, and soon Claire was pulling to a halt in front of a small cottage.
An air of neglect hung about the worn thatching and broken door, but Claire forced a smile as she collected a basket of food and entered the dark interior. As expected, she discovered a thin, fragile woman of indeterminate age lying upon a narrow bed. Claire’s tender heart clenched at the weary pain lining the thin face.
The devil take Mr. Foster, she silently breathed.
“Ah, Miss Blakewell, so kind of you to come,” Mrs. Foley breathed as she struggled to sit up.
“I have brought you some lovely soup and fresh bread,” she said in bright tones.
The older woman gave a rattling cough. “So kind.”
“Nonsense.” Claire carefully unloaded the soup and bread onto a low table next to the bed, then moved to efficiently set a fire in the hearth. Even with the pale spring sunshine a chilled dampness filled the room. “I am pleased to help.”
“You are a good lass. We are ever so grateful.”
“I only wish I could do more.”
“You have done more than anyone could ask.”
The older woman’s rattling cough made Claire wince.
“You are getting no better. It is this damnable cottage,” she gritted out.
“I am sure that I am quite happy with the cottage, Miss Blakewell,” · Mrs. Foley fearfully retorted.
“Absurd. It is an insult to house anyone in such a dreadful place.”
“Please, Miss Blakewell, do not say such things.”
“Why not? It is no more than the truth.”
“Yes, but . . . oh, my lord.”
Dusting her hands, Claire abruptly turned around at Mrs. Foley’s breathless greeting. Her own breath caught at the sight of Lord Challmond entering the cottage, his well-molded form consuming a disturbing amount of space.
Lifting a hand to her unruly heart, Claire refused to allow the handsome features and engaging green eyes to soften her disapproval. Westwood Park was not in need of a charming. rake. It needed an earl.
Easily reading the emotions flitting over her expressive countenance, Lord Challmond smiled wryly before turning back to his elderly tenant.
“No, do not get up, Mrs. Foley,” he commanded as the old woman painfully scooted toward the edge of the bed. “How are you?”
“Fine,” the widow blatantly lied. “Quite fine.”
“Have you injured yourself?”
“ ’Tis nothing.”
“She is suffering from a weakness in her lungs that is aggravated by the dampness in this cottage,” Claire promptly retorted.
“Oh, please, Miss Blakewell,” Mrs. Foley protested in alarm. “ ’Tis nothing.”
“Lord Challmond should be made aware of the condition of his estate.”
“Miss Blakewell is quite correct,” Lord Challmond surprised them both by admitting as he stepped forward. “I fear I have been most neglectful in my duties.” His gaze narrowed as it inspected the dark room. “I had no notion things had fallen into such disrepair.”
Mrs. Foley gave a philosophical shrug of her shoulders. “How could you know, when you be off fighting the French?”
“You are more forgiving than others, Mrs. Foley,” Lord Challmond retorted, deliberately glancing toward the frowning Claire.
“I t’ain’t so old that I have forgot the frolics of youth, my lord.” Mrs. Foley’s expression was knowing.
“Thank you, but youth is no excuse for allowing my loyal tenants to be so shamefully treated.” The dark countenance became suddenly somber. “I promise that things will soon improve.”
The thin face flushed. After years of being bullied into submission by Foster, she was nearly overwhelmed by the earl’s attention.
“Bless you.”
“But first we shall have the apothecary tend to that cough.”
“Oh, but there is no need.“
“There is every need.” That heart-jolting smile returned. “Indeed, you can consider it as my first command to you as your earl.”
The older woman gave a dip of her head. “Very well, my lord.”
“I shall leave you to ertioy your soup, but I will return later in the week.”
With a brief, unreadable glance toward Claire, Lord Challmond turned and walked out of the cottage. Barely aware she was moving, Claire was swiftly in his wake. Once outside, she moved to where he was standing beside a magnificent stallion. As he turned to face her, she squarely met the emerald gaze.
“Thank you, my lord.”
He gave a faint grimace. “There is no need to thank me, Miss Blakewell. As you so fiercely accused, it is my duty to care for Mrs. Foley as well as the rest of my tenants.”
“Yes, but—” Claire cut her words abruptly short.
His gaze narrowed. “But what?”
“Nothing.”
His full lips twisted with a sardonic amusement.
“Please do not spare my feelings now, Miss Blakewell.”
Claire lifted her chin. If he wished the truth, then so be it.
“I did not think you would take the time to visit the cottages,” she admitted.
The thin, aquiline nose flared as if she had managed to wound him.
“I suppose I deserve that,” Lord Challmond muttered, then gave a sharp shake of his head. “But I am not the indifferent scoundrel you seem to consider me, Miss Blakewell. I would never have left Foster in control if I thought he would behave in such a reprehensible fashion.” His brows lowered with a hint of impatience. “Why did no one contact me?”
“Who?” she demanded. “Your staff was terrified of Mr. Foster.”
His frown only deepened. “I should have been informed.”
Never one to mince her words regardless of whom she was addressing, Claire placed her hands on her hips.
“You should have taken the trouble to discover for yourself, my lord.”
The green eyes widened as if unaccustomed to being treate
d with such a blatant lack of toadeating. Then the sardonic smile returned.
“Touché,” he murmured. “I should have.“ An odd, disturbing tremor inched down her spine. Something about the devilish gleam in his eye warned her of trouble. “Still, I am willing to admit when I am in the wrong.”
“Good.”
He stepped closer, his large frame almost touching her stiff body. Claire deeply inhaled the scent of his warm, clean skin.
“I am also determined to learn from my mistakes. You, however, are clearly stubborn to the point of foolishness.”
Realizing that he was deliberately attempting to unnerve her, Claire forced herself to hold her ground.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I thought after yesterday you would have learned your lesson in tramping about unchaperoned.”
A flare of heat darkened her ivory skin. “How dare you remind me of that—”
“Kiss?” he taunted.
“It is little wonder you are renowned as a rake, my lord,” she accused him, wishing her voice did not sound so breathless. Still, she took some consolation in the knowledge that he would never know the endless hours she had brooded over that brief kiss.
“If I were indeed a rake, I should not be wasting our time alone with such a foolish argument.” Without warning his slender hand rose to cup her chin in a warm grasp. “Such beautiful lips are meant to be enjoyed.”
Claire gave a sharp gasp as his gaze dropped to her mouth. Her lips parted, almost as if inviting a kiss, and that tingling excitement fluttered in the pit of her stomach.
No.
On this occasion she would not succumb to the temptation of this charming scoundrel.
“Unhand me, my lord, or I shall bloody your nose,” she threatened between gritted teeth.
A sudden, delighted laugh interrupted their momentary privacy.
“Good God, Challmond, I do believe you have at last met your match.”
Three
Simon had left his estate early that morning with every intention of proving to himself that the lovely Miss Blakewell had been mistaken. Surely Foster could not be as bad as she had indicated? He would have known if something were amiss.
But it had taken only moments to realize that he was the one mistaken.
Here Comes the Bride Page 3
