Sharon Sobel

by The Eyes of Lady Claire (v5. 0) (epub)

  He put down his glass. Truly, the gown was remarkable without any enhancement, as it was made of some shimmery cloth that managed to disguise and reveal everything that lay beneath, all at once. Her diamonds, a reminder of what she escaped, and what was now available for another man, dipped in a low V at her cleavage and reflected every color in the dining room.

  “Do you have a mote in your eye, Lord Wentworth?” Lady Claire asked.

  He blinked at her, realizing he might have been a bit boorish, studying her with one eye and then the other.

  “Dab at your eye with a bit of water, Maxwell,” Camille chirped. “Have a care with it.”

  “I am able to manage on my own,” he answered quickly.

  “Yes, of course,” Lady Claire said. “After all, a man who has been on his own in a foreign land, speaking in a strange tongue, must be very competent. What were you doing for your cousin in Portugal, Lord Wentworth? Or am I not at liberty to ask?”

  “You are not,” he said. And then he reconsidered, for that would likely make her only more curious. “That is, I do not think it would be of much interest to two ladies. I was seeing to Armadale’s business interests and the importation of fine wine.”

  Lady Claire swirled her wine in her glass. “You have done very well in your selection, my lord, for the vinho verde is very smooth. But I wonder why it was necessary to disguise yourself in the process. Or is heavy facial hair the current fashion in Lisbon?”

  The woman missed nothing.

  “Yes, it is all the rage,” he said.

  “How remarkable in a warm climate. And for you to be so compliant, though you have already confessed to little interest in fashion and society.”

  “I am not altogether indifferent,” he muttered and reached for his glass again. It provided greater comfort than the roasted duck on his plate.

  “Then you will be glad to know what I am wearing to the Assembly,” Camille said. “Claire helped me decide on the fabric and style, and I think it will fit me to perfection. The neckline is framed with embroidery from Normandy, with little yellow rosebuds to complement the underskirt. There is a lovely green jacket, though I shall remove it when the room becomes too warm and then . . .”

  “This is your doing,” Max said to Lady Claire, just as his sister began her detailed description of her slippers.

  “Yes,” she said. “Are you not very glad of it?”

  And, oddly enough, he realized he was.

  ***

  Of course she stayed for the Assembly Ball, for had she not promised Camille she would do so? It really had nothing to do with Lord Wentworth, nor with his interest in all they did each day, nor in the walks they took every afternoon, nor in his surprising collection of seaside fossils, nor in his willingness to be in the room when Claire read to Camille each morning and evening. It had nothing to do with the way he looked at her over his glass of wine, nor caught her hand to steady her when she tripped on a rock along the woodland path, nor when he chose the gentlest horse in the stable for her to ride upon. It was none of this.

  And she imagined Marissa fared altogether well in her sudden illness, for she doubted her friend even knew she was ill. Her recovery, Claire reported to her friends, was nothing short of remarkable.

  And so she stayed.

  Concerned that she might give her host a heart attack if she wore her green gown again, she had several of her own dresses brought up from London so she might choose between her favorites. The yellow silk, blue chine, and golden damask arrived with much fuss and bother with her maid Arista, who packed a wardrobe into one small carriage. Claire appreciated Arista for her honesty, good taste, and superb hairdressing talents. All this she wished to be applied to Camille, whose own maid, Alice, could stand a few lessons reflecting the styles of the present century. If Arista could be spared to boss them all about, her journey would be treble the value.

  Arista Dopley walked into Brookside Cottage without bothering to wait for an introduction or welcome, and bumped directly into Lady Camille. Claire did not know what they said to each other, but somehow they became close conspirators almost immediately, excluding her from discussions of plaits and coronets, necklines and lace trims. Claire preferred to believe Arista saw Camille as a young lady who desperately needed fashion advice. But she guessed some of their conversation over the next days had to do with other things, such as herself and Lord Wentworth.

  “It will be the golden damask,” Arista said with her tone of unanswerable authority.

  They were to leave for the Assembly in two hours’ time, and Claire examined a little tear in her yellow silk. It could be repaired in a minute or two, but she wondered if anyone would notice.

  “I am fond of the silk, Arista. It is a beautiful gown, but not so extraordinary that the neighborhood women would resent me for it.”

  “The neighborhood women expect Lord Wentworth’s London visitor to outshine them all; they will be disappointed if you do not manage it. I imagine my lord will be disappointed as well.”

  Claire decided to ignore that last statement. “It is true the damask is very fine.”

  “And even better, it should fit you. All this walking around in the country and nonsense like that has made you slimmer. One good country dance and the silk will slip right off your shoulders.”

  “I daresay that will disappoint no one,” Claire murmured.

  “Especially not Lord Wentworth,” Arista noted.

  Claire looked away, towards the mirror. “Have you fitted Lady Camille’s gown to her? And have you decided what you shall do with her hair?”

  “She knows what she wants, that one. She wants her hair to look like Lady Mary Letsom’s, though she has never seen the lady.”

  “She has never seen anyone, Arista. Or, at least, not since she was a small child.”

  “You know what I mean. She doesn’t miss a thing that goes on around her; one should be mindful of that.” Arista’s eyes met hers in the mirror.

  “Then I must wear my damask gown, so I will not disappoint her.”

  “That is my thinking, precisely. You won’t disappoint her brother, either.”

  ***

  Lord Wentworth remained out of sight all day, and did not join Camille and Claire for either breakfast or luncheon. Camille did not seem bothered by the fact, but Claire wondered if he might beg off from the Assembly or if he suddenly was called away on another business trip on Armadale’s behalf. It would not surprise her if he went to some effort to avoid this night, for she already knew how much he disliked public entertainments.

  And yet, when Claire met Camille in the hallway and they descended the stairway together, Wentworth was waiting for them in the foyer.

  “The neighborhood has never before been graced with such fine ladies as the two of you,” he said gallantly, but his eyes only studied Claire. “I shall be the envy of every man in attendance.”

  Camille giggled and put a reassuring hand to her artfully arranged curls. But Claire was not to be distracted by such conventional flattery.

  “And yet you have told me that you do not enjoy social gatherings in general, and balls in particular, my lord. You need not worry that the envy you anticipate will afford you undue attention, for it is the way of such affairs that your sister and I will soon be dancing with other men and sitting down to dine with new acquaintances. Your neighbors will only be reminded of our connection when it is time to depart.” Claire paused, wondering if she had gone too far. “But it would be lovely if you partner your sister for the opening dance.”

  Camille pulled back, looking stricken. “But I did not think of that at all. I have already promised the first dance to Mr. Cosgrove.”

  “Mr. Cosgrove?” Claire and Lord Wentworth spoke in unison, and very nearly in the same tone.

  Claire cleared her throat. “The solicitor?”
She had no inkling Camille communicated with him since they enjoyed tea together in Middlebury. Now Wentworth looked at her as if she conspired with Camille to keep this information from him as well.

  “Of course, that is Mr. Cosgrove,” Camille said, sounding very worldly. “The two of you make it sound as if I am out and about all the time, and know people far from Middlebury. You know I do not.”

  “I did not know Mr. Cosgrove enjoyed any relationship with you other than those involving business matters. And I am not sure what business matters you have in any case.” Wentworth looked so disturbed by what was surely an innocent friendship that Claire was tempted to laugh.

  “Does it matter?” Camille asked, and shrugged her shoulders. “I have known Jamie nearly all my life. He is one of my friends and I am old enough to choose with whom I wish to dance.”

  “This is your doing,” Wentworth hissed under his breath.

  “Are you speaking to Lady Claire? If so, you are wrong. You should be talking to me, Brother, for it is my doing. Mine, and Jamie Cosgrove’s,” Camille said.

  “He is too old for you.” Wentworth was not yet ready to give this up.

  Camille laughed at him, and Claire sensed this was a new experience for both of them. “Too old? He is one year older than you are, Maxwell, which I suppose makes you far too old for Lady Claire as well.”

  How had this conversation turned on its edge?

  “Lady Claire is a widow, and very experienced in this world,” Wentworth pronounced, wagging his finger at his sister.

  “Oh, dear heaven,” Claire said, and walked past the two of them to the door. “I hope there are enough men in wheeled chairs in attendance, so I might have my pick of them. We shall have great fun discussing the ravages of gout.”

  “Do not shake your finger at me, Maxwell,” said Camille, behind her. “You are also experienced in this world, for all you prefer is to stay shuttered in your library. You shall partner Lady Claire for the first dance this night, no matter how elderly you both are.”

  ***

  They rode to the Middlebury Assembly Rooms in silence. Camille seemed to have already forgotten the scene at home, and could hardly remain still in the carriage. Lady Claire smiled coolly at her friend, while avoiding looking at her brother or touching him, though they sat only feet apart in the small enclosure.

  And Max knew he was well and truly trapped by two women—more, if you counted his Aunt Adelaide and that meddling new maid Arianna or someone—who managed very well without him and yet insisted upon including him in everything they did. Was he not perfectly happy with the way things were? He, who had vowed to protect his injured sister all his life, believed he made a perfectly comfortable life for her. And yet she wanted something more, things he could never provide. Jamie Cosgrove, damn him, might be the only eligible man in Middlebury, and Camille somehow found him and already made promises.

  Was it possible this was part of a plan hatched while he was in Portugal, worried about governmental diplomacy, with scarcely a care for what was happening at Brookside Cottage? The ladies knew he would be resistant to Camille making a debut in London. What if they decided to present Jamie Cosgrove to him as a possible suitor, so that he would then desire an alternative—any alternative? Max certainly did not put such a plan past them.

  This is what he meant when he spoke of the widow’s great experience; he certainly did not think she was an elderly matron. How could he when she sat like a golden princess in his presence, shining her light on everything around her?

  This costume, delivered with much haste from London, made that green gown Claire wore a few weeks ago look modest. While the shiny patterned fabric covered more flesh, it also revealed more form, and thus made speculation about what it concealed more of an art than a science. If a painter sought a model of female perfection, he would find no fault with Lady Claire Glastonbury. Nor would any man, for that matter.

  They must go to London, he decided, and that would be an end to it. Camille would be launched into society and find a gentleman more suited to her rank than a country solicitor. And Lady Claire would consider her mission accomplished, and remain with her friends, and he would soon forget her. It would be for the best, for he was coming to despise himself for his responses whenever he thought about her.

  “It is much larger than I thought it would be,” Claire said suddenly.

  Max swallowed and nearly choked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Claire looked at him as if he were a rude child. “This is the first I’ve seen of your Assembly Hall, and I did not expect it to be so grand.”

  “Oh, Claire. Please describe it to me? No one has ever done so,” Camille urged.

  “I am sure it is of no interest to your brother, so he has never mentioned it before. Let me start by saying that there is a row of Corinthian columns across the broad frontage that look to be of marble, though I suspect they have been painted to give that impression. I’m told one creates that illusion by adding oil to . . .”

  Max doubted his sister would ever need to know the secret of marbleizing wooden columns, but she seemed inordinately fascinated by the process. She stopped Claire in her description so often that she would be a nuisance to any other speaker, but Claire seemed unbothered by it all. And so, she went on to describe the full scene before them: the plantings and the windows and the number of carriages and the men all attired in black and white, but for Mr. Gretton, who was in an embroidered waistcoat that made him look like a peacock.

  “And do you see Mr. Cosgrove?” Camille asked eagerly.

  “Perhaps he decided not to come,” Max said.

  “I believe I see him hiding among the columns, much as your brother did on the night we first met. I hope that does not signal his intention to avoid dancing, as it did for Lord Wentworth.”

  Camille laughed. “That is where he said he would be, watching for me. He will meet the carriage to escort me inside.”

  Max opened his mouth to protest, when he was suddenly stifled as effectively as if someone covered his lips. He looked down and saw Lady Claire’s delicate hand, gloved in golden net, on his knee. When he looked up, she shook her head at him. Now he was convinced the ladies had plotted against him, but he also found himself incapable of speech.

  They pulled up in the drive, and the carriage door opened even before they came to a full stop.

  “Lord Wentworth, Lady Glastonbury, Lady Camille,” said James Cosgrove. “You have arrived in good time.”

  “And if we did not, I am sure it would have mattered to no one,” Max said gruffly.

  “It would have mattered to at least one of the company,” Cosgrove said too cheerfully, and helped Camille from the carriage. He held her elbow, steadying her, while she smoothed her skirts, which looked perfectly smooth to Max.

  “Do you like my new gown, Mr. Cosgrove?” Camille asked.

  “You will be the most beautiful lady at the Assembly, begging your pardon, Lady Glastonbury,” Cosgrove said.

  Claire laughed out loud. “You are too kind, Mr. Cosgrove. Do go on ahead with Lady Camille, and we will meet you within.”

  Before Max could protest, Claire grasped his knee once again, though she was considerably less gentle.

  “Do let them go on without us, Maxwell,” she said, familiarly. “As we are old folks, we will somehow manage on our own.”

  Max jumped from the carriage, avoiding the steps altogether, and turned around to assist Lady Claire. “That is not what I meant, as well you know. It is only that we have lived too much in the world, and seem years beyond those our own age.”

  “I believe I prefer Mr. Cosgrove’s compliments to yours, my lord. He seems to have experience in certain things, which might explain why your sister is so happy to see him.”

  “What do you know of this?” he asked. Around him, he heard the buzz of gossip abo
ut his unexpected presence and the appearance of the lady from London.

  Claire smiled to everyone in her little audience, acknowledging their admiration. The minx was accustomed to being the center of attention, which is precisely what he avoided.

  “Of compliments? I know a good deal.”

  He caught her bare elbow and urged her towards the door, out of the crush of people. “Of Cosgrove and Camille.”

  She leaned in towards him as they walked and he caught the scent of something sweet and spicy. “Please believe I know nothing of this, but that I am very happy for her. As you should be as well.”

  “I am not happy at all. And I suspect things are about to get worse. As you, my lady, have already opened the door to a new world, I suspect there is nothing for it but for me to take her to London, and see how she does on a larger stage.”

  He knew he surprised her, for it was not only evident in the expression on her face, but in the stiffening of her body against his. This would have been immensely satisfying if he could only bring himself to believe this was not her intent from the very start.

  ***

  Claire was long accustomed to garnering a good share of attention at social events, so she was somewhat bemused to realize her partner was far more an attraction than was she—and not just to the interested females in the Assembly Hall. She knew Lord Wentworth was reclusive, of course, but she did not realize how he somehow managed to stay so far out of local society his attendance this evening was considered an extraordinary event. She looked for signs of the contempt he admitted he deserved, but saw none of it. Instead, men came up to shake his hand and women approached him no less cautiously, often with young daughters in tow. Claire took a step back, lest they make assumptions about what brought him here this night.

  Of course, those assumptions would be true. She did want him here, to see his sister make a great success of herself, and demonstrate how well she could manage in a world she understood but could not see. And Claire wanted him here for her own pleasure, to finally stand up with him to a dance many months deferred. It was utterly selfish and manipulative. And yet, there it was.