Lady Hartley's Inheritance

by Wendy Soliman

  He looked so handsome, blast him, as he leaned there with an indulgent smile playing about his lips, black hair flopping in silky disarray across his brow. She felt an overwhelming urge to brush it back, to run her fingers through its thickness. Just for a fleeting moment she dared to wonder how it would feel to be kissed by him.

  She caught herself, and common sense came belatedly to her aid. She was a guest in his house, and he was being gallant for that reason alone. She’d seen for herself that, wherever they went, women fell over themselves to gain his attention. He could, and clearly did, take his pick. There was nothing about an unsophisticated widow such as she that could possibly engage his attention, even had she wished it could be otherwise — which she most assuredly did not.

  He stepped forward and smiled at the children. “I must take Lady Hartley away from you, now,” he said, raising his voice to make himself heard above the din.

  “Will you come back soon, Lady Hartley?” asked several of them together.

  “Yes, indeed, if you wish it.”

  “We want to know what happened to Blazon next.”

  “Very well, I’ll tell you on my next visit.”

  “Perhaps, children,” their teacher said, “you could draw pictures of Blazon for Lady Hartley, and she can take a look at them, if she would be so kind, upon her next visit? Perhaps we ought to practise now whilst her description is still clear.”

  Twenty-nine children fell upon their slates, but Rosie continued to cling to Clarissa. Lord Deverill pulled her arms gently away and ruffled her hair.

  “You’re very good with them,” he said, as they drove away.

  “How could anyone not be, the poor mites!”

  “You’ve made a friend for life of Rosie now that she has Annie.”

  “Good. I had a doll just like it when I was little, and it went everywhere with me too.”

  “I shall call upon ‘The Weasel’ this afternoon, to find out how his calligrapher fared,” he said. “I suggest you keep your luncheon engagement with my mother, and I’ll let you know how I fared later.”

  “If you think it best.”

  Clarissa’s voice was flat and lifeless. The earl shot her a quizzical look, before taking one of his hands from the reins and placing it on top of hers. “Don’t worry so. There are many bridges to be crossed before we allow Salik to put so much as one foot on your land.”

  Clarissa paused, choosing her next words with deliberation. A question had been burning inside her since the start of her misfortunes, and she needed an honest answer to it. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes, why? You’re going to a vast amount of trouble for a comparative stranger.” She frowned. “It makes no sense.”

  “I’m helping you because I believe my mother’s your only relation in the world. Because I can sense a wrong that needs to be righted, and my sense of honour balks at a woman being deliberately exploited. And,” he added, after a significant pause, “because I want to.”

  “I see.” But she didn’t…not really. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He glanced at her profile. “What say you to another ride in the park tomorrow? Six o’clock again?”

  “Gladly!” Clarissa brightened at the prospect. “But I think I should give you fair warning, my lord; this time, I intend to beat you.”

  He smiled at her in the manner she found so disquieting. “You’re certainly welcome to try.”

  Luc sat in his library later that day, having just informed Clarissa that Twining’s calligrapher considered the signature on the will to be genuine. She heard him out in silence, showing no emotion, almost as though she’d schooled herself to expect the worst. That concerned him. He’d expected anger, tears, perhaps, or at the very least a litany of wild suggestions to regain the upper hand. But she merely nodded and stared at her hands, making it impossible for Luc to read her expression.

  He told her not to be downhearted; it was their turn now. Tomorrow the most respected calligrapher in the capital would examine the will, and Luc was hopeful that his findings would be very different. She nodded for a second time, but still didn’t speak.

  As she rose to leave his library, Luc reminded her that they were to attend Lady Beckendale’s ridotto that evening.

  “I hope you still intend to join the party, Clarissa. It will help to take your mind off things.”

  She offered him an economically efficient smile. “I’m looking forward to it,” she said.

  After she left him, Luc continued to ponder the enigma that was Clarissa Hartley. It was something he’d been doing a great deal of since her arrival in his household. Every evening he’d remained faithfully by her side at whatever function they attended. He knew his behaviour was giving rise to speculation. Clarissa had, unsurprisingly, generated much interest amongst the male population of the ton. She had a steadily growing band of admirers, headed by his old friend Felix Western, but she showed no particular interest in any of them. That helped to restore his wounded pride, because he was uncomfortably aware that she was showing no special interest in him either.

  Felix had broached the subject of Clarissa only the evening before, pointing out that Luc’s behaviour had been quite out of character since her arrival. He’d even absented himself from the most recent of Felix’s “Gentlemen’s Parties,” a hitherto unthinkable state of affairs. Then there was the matter of his continued dismissal of Emily Stokes. The woman had been desperate to shed her widow’s weeds and re-enter society, making it obvious that she wanted only Luc, but he wasn’t interested.

  Luc could understand Felix’s concern. He didn’t crave a long-term future with Emily, he wasn’t even sure if he liked her very much, but that was hardly the point. Could Felix be right? Was it Clarissa who’d made him look more closely at the manner in which he lived his life, only to find it wanting? Or was he, as he’d told himself only last week, finally tiring of tonnish ways?

  What intrigued Luc most about Clarissa was her skittish behaviour. She’d been married to Michael Hartley for over two years, and must be well-accustomed to the way of things between the sexes. But he’d noticed that she had a naïve attitude toward such matters. If he so much as touched her arm, she blushed scarlet; if he kissed her hand, she started like a frightened rabbit. If the mildest of risqué comments was made in her hearing, he was certain she didn’t understand it. Something was amiss in that area of her life, which piqued Luc’s curiosity.

  Simms entered with his usual discreet knock and put an end to Luc’s reverie.

  “What is it, Simms?”

  “I regret to inform you, my lord, that I’ve had no success at Durrant’s Hotel. No person by the name of Salik is registered there.”

  “It’s all right, Simms, I suspected as much.”

  “My lord?”

  “I’d have been disappointed if you had found him there. It would have made it that much harder to prove the fraud that I’m convinced is being perpetrated. But before we take that any further, what have you been able to discover about Arabic forgers for me?”

  “There’s only one person, I’m given to understand, who could hope to carry out such a forgery successfully. I naturally went in search of him, but it seems he left London about a week ago for a trip back to Egypt, with his entire family, and no one is able to advise me when he’s likely to return.”

  “I wonder where he got the blunt for such a sudden journey? I assume it was sudden?”

  “Indeed, my lord, I gather he took everyone he knows by complete surprise.”

  “Interesting.” Luc fell silent, deep in thought. “All right, Simms. Did you manage to find a person to carry out the translation that I require?”

  “A person by the name of Al Sharmon is holding himself at our disposal, my lord.”

  “Excellent. Now then, tomorrow we’ll take the will to the offices of White, in Bond Street, together with samples of Sir Michael’s signature, in order that he may give us his opinion. Twining is
n’t willing to allow the document out of his sight — understandably I suppose — and so I’ve agreed to collect it. His clerk will accompany us to White’s office and wait in the anti-room.”

  “I see.”

  “I need you to arrange for Al Sharmon to be secreted in the back room of White’s office. I don’t want Twining’s clerk to know he’s there. He’ll make his own translation of the will, noting any discrepancies from the usual legal language. He will also make a note of the name and direction of the advocates who drew it up.

  “In the meantime you’ll arrange for Twining’s office to be watched. I want him followed wherever he goes. Use three or four of our best men, but for goodness sake, impress upon them not to be detected under any circumstances. They should lose him rather than have that happen. I have no doubt that Twining will eventually link up with Salik. When he does, have the men follow Salik: I wish to know where he’s lodging. Are you clear on all of that, Simms?”

  “I understand your requirements perfectly, my lord. Will there be anything further?”

  “Not at this moment, Simms.”

  Clarissa lay awake, pondering upon the events of the previous day, waiting for the hands of the clock to make their slow progress round to the time when she would ride with Luc, as she now thought of him. His behaviour was making her hourly more confused. There was now no question that his attentions were beyond anything which could be reasonably expected of her godmother’s son.

  Why had he taken her to the orphanage? None of the explanations he’d offered her in that respect rang true. And why should he mind what her opinion of him was? She’d be gone from his life soon, and they were unlikely to meet again. More specifically, why was he eschewing the company of the ladies that valiantly fought for his attention at every turn in favour of staying by her side? He had exemplary manners and was constantly telling her that she was beautiful and desirable. Huh, she knew well enough that was untrue. Had it been the case then why had Michael not…

  No, she wouldn’t dwell upon that. Suffice it to say that she knew Luc was merely being gallant when he paid her such extravagant compliments. Polished, experienced, and full of confidence, Luc could effortlessly flatter, making her feel as though she was the only creature in the entire universe that held his interest. But Clarissa wasn’t deceived. She knew it all to be a gross exaggeration. She was nothing like the sophisticated ladies she met all the time in the ton, neither had she any wish to be. Huh, she only owned two evening gowns, for goodness sake! For some reason she was unable to name, the thought made her smile.

  Ever since her first evening out, when she’d worn her ball gown, Clarissa had stubbornly turned herself out, night after night, wearing the same gown. She’d seen the astonished looks on other ladies faces. Their reaction amused Clarissa and encouraged her perverseness. She’d noticed several ladies gesticulating when they thought her attention to be elsewhere. They sniggered behind fans and enjoyed themselves at her expense. The gentlemen though were, to a man, attentive and entertaining, and she appeared never to be without the company of at least one of them. In the rare event that Luc needed to leave her for a moment or two, Felix Western appeared smoothly in his stead, as did several other now-familiar faces, all of whom appeared to be competing for her attention. It was incomprehensible.

  Last night Clarissa had decided to counter her depression at the news of the will by wearing her second evening gown. As she descended the stairs, clad in a simple sheath of silver and cream that floated about her legs like gossamer, she noticed at once the appreciation in Luc’s eye. She noticed as well the extra warmth in his devilish smile, and the lingering touch of his lips as he gave her hand its now customary kiss.

  Whenever he touched her it affected Clarissa strangely. Annoyingly, she knew she was blushing like a schoolgirl but was powerless to prevent it. Fortunately, it was impossible for his lordship to detect the turmoil that his marked attentions created within her. She fervently hoped that her countenance didn’t give her away. How else would he find her out? She didn’t know why he was able to make her feel so conflicted, and tried not to dwell upon the matter.

  But sometimes, like now, in the early hours when sleep eluded her, her mind refused to listen to her resolution. She found herself plagued by images of those intense black eyes looking at her with hunger and naked need, of that handsome face, its usually stern planes softened by a curling smiling that crinkled the corners of his eyes and lit up his entire face as he looked at her across a crowded room, making her feel as though she was the only person there. Thankfully, he couldn’t be aware that her treacherous body responded to his attentions with quite disgusting enthusiasm.

  This very evening an even stranger incident had occurred. Emily Stokes had, as always, been in attendance and desirous of Luc’s company, but he treated her almost as though she didn’t exist, all his attention focused upon Clarissa. Later in the evening she had been in the withdrawing room when Emily entered. The other woman stood behind Clarissa, glaring acrimoniously at her in the mirror. The widow had offered little pretence of amiability the best of times, but now that they were alone she was openly hostile.

  “He’s mine you know,” she said venomously. “Don’t deceive yourself or get carried away with fancy ideas. He’s merely doing his mother’s bidding by squiring you around, but he’ll come back to me when he tires of your provincial manners.”

  Clarissa blinked in total astonishment. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t play that game with me,” Mrs. Stokes said viciously. “I can see through you, even if you have bewitched half the gentlemen here. Why don’t you go back to the things you understand? Rusticate in the country and leave the ton to those who belong here?”

  Clarissa was unprepared for her nemesis’s vitriol and even less able to understand what she’d done to deserve it. Unwilling to prolong the unpleasant interlude, she turned away and walked from the room. The memory lingered, though, further depressing her spirits.

  It was time to meet Luc. Clarissa threw back the bed covers and searched in her armoire for the breeches and shirt she had flung at the back, behind her gowns, sure that if Agnes found them, explanations she wasn’t ready to make would be coaxed out of her. Clarissa was, therefore, astonished to find that her breeches had been sponged and pressed and were hanging neatly at the end of her row of gowns. The shirt and jerkin had also been washed and pressed, as had the bands she used to secure her breasts. Even her boots had been polished and were now gleaming.

  Agnes!

  It had to have been her maid — and the fact that she’d made no comment could only mean that she approved. This was just awful. Ridiculous notions would now be fixed in the older woman’s mind. Clarissa sighed and smiled simultaneously as she dressed. Agnes’s attempts at subtle encouragement were never dealt with a light hand.

  Luc was waiting for her as she reached the side door. Wordlessly they headed for the mews. Albert was already saddled, and soon they were in the deserted park. Three quarters of an hour later, breathless and laughing, they returned to the mews. Neither of them noticed Agnes watching them from an attic window, smiling with satisfaction.

  Clarissa dismounted and led Albert into his stall. No grooms were about, so she removed his bridle and replaced it with a halter herself, whispering softly to the gelding as she attended to his needs. She unfastened his girth and was just pulling the heavy saddle from his back when it was lifted from her hands as easily as if it was made of straw.

  “Allow me,” Luc said.

  “I can manage.”

  “I have no doubt. But is it not pleasant to be relieved of the necessity, for once?”

  Luc placed the saddle on the crossbeam behind him, and Clarissa found herself trapped between him and the wall. The space was confined, emphasising Luc’s size and his commanding presence as he loomed above her. Raw masculinity overwhelmed her, causing darts of piercing excitement to attack her body. She observed his predatory smile, the animal-like intent in his e
xpression, and knew she had to get away. Ignoring the unfamiliar lurching feeling that turned her legs to jelly, she backed away from him — only to collide with the wall. There was nowhere for her to go.

  “What is it, sweet Clarissa? Why are you so afraid of me?”

  “I’m not afraid. Why should I be afraid of you?” She averted her gaze. “But it’s getting light. We should return to the house before we’re missed.”

  “Perhaps we should. But first, I believe I’m going to kiss you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Her eyes darted frantically about, looking for a means of escape. “Of course you’re not.”

  “Oh, but I am.” He took a step toward her, his eyes devouring her features as he reached out a hand. “I won our race.” His hand made contact with her face. “To the victor, the spoils.”

  “No, I — ”

  She put her own hand out to ward him off, but her protests lacked substance, and his arm slipped about her waist and pulled her toward him, almost as if she’d willed it to. His face loomed above her, mere inches from her own. His lips were smiling, and she found her gaze fastened upon them in fascination. Somehow she was unable to pull her eyes away. She watched with awe, trembling slightly, as his head descended slowly toward her own.

  It was his breath feathering her face that finally snapped her out of her trance-like state, reminding her of her perilous situation.

  “Why are you so afraid of me, Clarissa?”

  His voice was husky, and without giving her time to respond he dropped his head and captured her lips. Clarissa’s eyes were locked wide open in fear, so she was able to observe his horrified reaction when realization dawned. If the situation hadn’t been so mortifying, she would have laughed at his stupefied expression as he gauged her inability to respond to his kiss. He knew her secret now, damn him. He knew she’d never been kissed before.