by Jane Goodger
After a time, he wandered into the kitchen to see if he could get word about why the family had returned. What he found was a group of servants, some happy to be back and some bitterly disappointed to have missed Christmas in London, gathered around the large dining table for tea. They looked up as one, for he had never shared tea with the staff, instead relying on Mrs. Ellesbury to have a bit of tea delivered to him.
“Suppose you’re as curious as the rest of us about why they’ve returned early,” the cook said, her cheeks rosy from rushing around the kitchen to prepare tea for the staff.
Nathaniel took his seat and shrugged. “I am.”
“That baron fellow decided not to introduce our Clara after all,” she said, ignoring the butler’s frown. It was his strict policy to not gossip about the family below stairs, though the staff often managed to do so. “It’s a crying shame, it is. Not a lovelier girl in all of England than our Clara. Her heart must be broken.”
Nathaniel had a feeling that Clara would not be at all broken-hearted, given what she’d said about the baron. Indeed, she was likely as relieved as…he was. Nathaniel frowned fiercely, which the others took as an expression of affront at what had happened to the Andersons.
“That’s what ’appens when you pretend you’re better than you are,” Sara said, and even though she received a few glares, Nathaniel sensed everyone was in general agreement.
“Be that as it may,” Mr. Standard said, “it is our role to make certain the family is well settled and glad to be home.”
The remainder of the tea was taken up with listening to the adventures of the members of the staff who had been fortunate enough to travel to London. While Nathaniel found it enlightening to hear their opinion of a town he’d spent a great deal of time in, he grew bored with all the chatter and excused himself to return to the garden. Part of him regretted the Andersons’ early arrival, for he would not be able to search quite as vigorously with Clara about, but the far larger part of him was glad she was back. He’d missed her, and knowing he’d missed her meant his heart was far more engaged than he wanted it to be.
This could not go on any longer. He was going to have to tell her who he was, why he was in St. Ives, and beg her to remain silent until he found the diamond. She would be angry, of course, but he prayed she would not be so angry that she gave him up to her parents. Just the thought of facing Mr. Anderson’s wrath was enough to make even the bravest of men quake. The man looked like he could bend iron with his bare hands and Nathaniel had a feeling the older man wouldn’t take kindly to be made a fool of.
As he made his way back to the garden, Nathaniel rehearsed in his head what he would say to her. He would apologize, of course, kiss her until she forgave him. Now that made the lies well worth it, he thought. It was well on dusk, so he resigned himself to another lonely night in his room. At least it would give him enough time to go over what he planned to say to Clara to lessen the blow. Flinging himself down onto his small bed, he allowed himself to imagine that more than kisses were required to convince her to forgive him. And from there, it didn’t take much for him to imagine her naked, warm, and willing beneath him.
He reached into his trousers and let out a low groan as he wrapped his hand around his cock. He was hard and hurting and there was only one thing that could ease the ache at this particular moment, given he was alone and would likely remain so for the foreseeable future. God, what he wouldn’t give to have her hand touching him, giving him the release he desperately needed. Her mouth there, her breasts before him, her tongue tasting him…
“Mr. Emory?”
Nathaniel withdrew his hand as if he were holding a live snake, not his rock-hard cock, and stifled a harsh curse. Swallowing, trying to draw air into his lungs, he sat up, then yanked his shirt from his pants in an effort to cover his obvious physical state.
“Mr. Emory?” This time her soft call was accompanied by a knock on his back door.
“One minute, Miss Anderson,” he called, fumbling for a match so he could light a lamp. While he’d been lost in his delicious fantasy, it had grown nearly completely dark. What the hell was she doing outside his room?
His frustration must have shown on his face when he opened the door, for she stepped back, suddenly looking wary. She gave him a small smile. “We’re back.”
“I can see,” he said, which made her giggle.
“How…” She looked toward the house as if reconsidering her visit. Clearing her throat, she asked, “How is the garden?”
“You are not here to talk about the garden.”
Another woman might have dipped her head in embarrassment at being so transparent, but Clara laughed. “No,” she said, still smiling. “I am not. I am here to see you.”
Should this happen again, I will know full well what I am doing. I want you to know this.
His erection, which had only slightly subsided, once again pressed hard against his trousers. It was Nathaniel’s greatest wish at that moment that he was not a man of honor. If he had no honor, he would drag Clara into his arms and make love to her without a single regret. Alas, he was not brought up to deflower innocents nor to baldly lie to those he cared for.
“Miss Anderson,” he said, aware that his voice sounded strained. “We should not.”
Her brow instantly furrowed, and then the sudden realization of what he was saying hit her. Her mouth flew open, quickly followed by her hand, which made an audible sound when it covered her mouth. “Oh, goodness,” she said, her words muffled.
“I misunderstood, it seems,” Nathaniel said, ignoring a sharp stab of disappointment, which he masked with a low chuckle, aimed more at himself than at her.
Her eyes turned to half moons above her hand and she started to laugh. “I can certainly understand why you came to that conclusion,” she managed to say when she withdrew her hand after finally getting control of herself.
“Why are you here, Miss Anderson?” Nathaniel asked, grinning. “If not to torture me and give me false hope?”
“You are a cad,” she said lightly, then tilted her head in thought. “I wanted to see you, I suppose. To let you know the family has returned.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But do you know the reason why we returned?” He shook his head and she continued. “As tragic as this trip was to my mother, it was wonderful for me. I am finally free, Mr. Emory. My mother no longer has delusions that I will marry a titled man.”
“What happened?” Nathaniel asked gruffly, remembering how the Andersons had been mocked at the art gallery. By God, if anyone had hurt her, they would pay.
“May we walk?”
Nathaniel put out the lantern he held and placed it back on its hook before following Clara out into the garden. Indeed, it was completely dark outside, without even a moon to light their way, and it took a few moments before Nathaniel could see well enough to follow her. Though it was nearly Christmas, the air was brisk, rather than cold, and the sky above them was clear. “Tell me your tale of woe,” he said when he reached her side.
She told him about a baron, some rude sod who’d leered at her and likely wanted her in his bed but certainly not in a church as his bride. Nathaniel could feel his blood burning as she related the humiliating scene, just one of several humiliations the family had faced in the short time they’d been away. He wasn’t certain whether he wanted to throttle the baron or her parents more. What in God’s name had they been thinking, dragging poor Clara around London like some pet pony?
“I hate them all,” she said fiercely. “Every last one of them and I think that, finally, my mother feels the same.” She turned to him, and he could see the fury on her face even in the darkness. “How dare they believe they are better, that somehow my blood would taint theirs? They have done nothing to deserve the position to which they were born, and most of them, even with their power and money, do nothing but squander their lives
on frivolity. Yes, some of them give to the poor, but it’s only to assuage their own guilt. None of them would know what it means to have nothing, to work hard and save and make yourself into something respectable. Like my father. He’s ten times the man the baron is, and yet he was made to feel less. I will never forget that feeling, the way my poor father was humiliated and scorned by a man who isn’t fit to walk the same path.”
She was so angry, she nearly lost her breath on the last word and Nathaniel was momentarily horrified that she might faint.
“Surely, not all members of the aristocracy are bad,” he said, seeing his hopes of her understanding his lies slip away. Not all barons are bad, Clara, I am a baron and I’m a good fellow. Except for lying to you for months and pretending I am someone I am not for the purpose of removing something from your property. Yes, that would be lovely.
“I’ve yet to meet one I would like to spend more than a single hour with. Pompous fools. They waste what they’ve been given and marry heiresses simply to go on with their wasteful lives.”
Nathaniel could feel his cheeks blush, for her description very nearly matched his own situation. “I know there are good men in the peerage who take their responsibilities seriously, who would sacrifice their own comfort to help those who depend upon them. Yes, there are those who become impoverished thanks to their own actions or the actions of their forefathers, but you must not cast them all in the same light.”
“Mustn’t I?” she asked, and marched away from him, clearly upset with his response. “You sound like one of them.” This was muttered, under her breath, and for one long moment, he debated telling her the truth. I am one of them.
But he couldn’t. If he did, he would lose her forever and it was vitally important that he not. What the future would bring, he couldn’t know, but he wasn’t ready to have her hate him. Not yet. It would happen, of this he was certain, but for now, he wanted things to remain as they were.
“What of Lord Berkley?” he asked, just the smallest amount of desperation in his voice. “You’ve said good things about him.”
She stopped and whirled about. “Do you believe for one instant that the earl would offer for me? Do you? I’m pretty. I speak like a lady and comport myself like a lady. Most of the time. Be honest, Mr. Emory, would he?”
Nathaniel looked down at the dew-covered grass before looking at her. She was so damned beautiful, so strong and fierce and any man would be lucky to call her his wife. Yet he knew with a certainty that the earl would never offer for her. “No, he would not.”
“Why? Because of my low birth? What does that even mean?” She flung her arms akimbo in pure frustration. “And if he was desperate enough to marry a nobody, he would always think in the back of his mind that I was not worthy of him. It would be there, this stupid rule society invented to keep the classes apart. I tell you I am glad my mother has finally understood what I have known all along. Now I can marry whom I please, Mr. Emory. That is what I came out to tell you this evening.”
Those words hung there between them until they grew thick and heavy and fell away. If he were a gardener, he might have gotten down on one knee in that instant and asked her to marry him. But he was not a gardener. He was a baron, a member of the aristocracy, a part of society Clara loathed with all her being. So he said nothing and tried to ignore the momentary pain that flickered on her lovely face.
“We’ve been invited to the earl’s ball,” Hedra gushed. It was the day after her parents’ return from London and they’d been eating breakfast in silence. Her mother was still acting as if someone in the family had died, and her father’s silence seemed even heavier, making Clara feel terribly guilty about feeling such vast relief over what had transpired. Until her mother said those words.
“Mr. Anderson, do you hear? The earl’s ball! The very same ball that we would never have been invited to if not for our luncheon. I knew he was interested in our Clara. I just knew it.” Hedra read the invitation again and with every word, Clara’s stomach clenched tighter and tighter. It would never end. Never.
“Mother,” Clara said, trying with all her strength not to scream. But Hedra was so excited, she either ignored or didn’t hear her daughter’s tone. While Clara was glad to see her mother smiling once again, she couldn’t help but wonder why the earl had bothered to invite them. It made no sense that he’d done so, given the list of peers rumored to have been invited to the ball. No secret had been made of the fact the ball was being held for one reason and one reason only: for the earl to find a bride. And now, her family had been invited and her mother’s hopes were raised again.
With a sickening feeling of dread, she knew this could not go well. Clara wasn’t certain she could take another humiliation, especially after what had happened between her and Mr. Emory the night before.
Of all the humiliations that London had wrought—and there had been many—nothing had been quite as humiliating as the silence that followed her declaration that she could marry whom she pleased. What had she thought? That he would fall on bended knee and beg her to be his wife?
That actually was precisely what she had imagined might happen. She could understand his not acting immediately, but she could not understand him saying nothing. Finally, she’d let out a nervous laugh and said, “It’s a good thing because the baker’s son has been sweet on me for years. I can marry him now. Or anyone.”
“I am glad for you.”
I am glad for you. Ugh!
She’d thought she and he wanted the same thing, that the only thing separating them was her parents’ wish that she marry above herself. Their night had not ended with a kiss, as she had secretly hoped, but with a polite nod. As if as soon as she mentioned marriage, something inside him had switched off.
Perhaps kisses had been the only thing he’d ever wanted. God, she was such a fool.
Her mother was prattling on about dresses and the ball and things Clara didn’t care a fig for. She wanted to scream for everyone to stop talking, for everyone to just leave her be. She wanted to scream and scream and scream.
Instead, she smiled and pretended to be excited by the news. Even Harriet, who disliked such social events, seemed excited by the possibility of going to the ball. Then again, Harriet had grown a bit spoony about Lord Berkley. The earl had been inordinately kind to her younger sister during their luncheon together, had even commented on Harriet’s pretty eyes. She prayed the earl would continue to be kind. Wasn’t the invitation proof of his kindness?
Once breakfast was finished, her mother disappeared to decide what she would wear to the ball and Harriet disappeared, an odd dreamy look on her face that Clara had never seen before. She prayed Harriet was not putting too much stock on the invitation. Her father put aside his newspaper and made a poor attempt at stifling a belch, which made Clara smile. While Silas might dress like a gentleman and follow his wife’s plans, Clara had a feeling his participation was not nearly as whole-hearted as he pretended.
“You don’t want to go to the ball, do you, Clara?”
“I hate to see Mother disappointed again.”
He sighed. “You used to call her Mama and me Papa.” He frowned briefly, as if wishing he hadn’t said that thought aloud.
“I remember. And I remember our little room under the rafters. I love this house, I do, but sometimes I miss the way it used to be.”
He grunted out something that Clara took for agreement, then said, “Your mother, she’ll be fine.”
When her father left, Clara sat for a long moment alone, staring at her uneaten breakfast and feeling slightly ill. The man she loved clearly did not love her and her mother still harbored hopes she would marry the earl.
On any other morning that was sunny and bright, as that morning was, Clara would have immediately grabbed her straw hat, apron, and gloves, and headed out to the garden. Today, though, it seemed as if she shouldn’t. Mr. Emory would be there, of co
urse, and the thought of speaking to him after the prior evening’s humiliation was just too much. Why, it was almost as if the man hadn’t a clue what she’d been hinting at.
It was then, just as she was heading to her room to read or mope about aimlessly, that she stopped suddenly. Was it possible that Mr. Emory hadn’t understood what she’d been hinting at? How many times had she heard her mother or her maid complain about how thick-headed some men were when it came to women? Charlie hadn’t even known why Jeanine had started to sob when they’d learned they would miss Christmas in St. Ives.
“How could he not know?” she’d wailed. “He must know I’m expecting a proposal this year. He must!”
But he hadn’t. Charlie was a good fellow who adored Jeanine, and yet he hadn’t realized why she was upset until, upon their return, Jeanine finally broke down and told him why. He’d been flummoxed, then thoughtful. And then told Jeanine she had nothing to worry over. That she was just a silly goose. Since then, Jeanine had been floating on a cloud, dreaming of setting up house and having babies. Truly, she was impossible to speak to for her mind continued to drift away.
Was it possible that Mr. Emory hadn’t realized that she’d been telling him she could marry anyone—including him? That the only reason she would bring up such a subject was so he would ask her? Of course that was it! She thought back to their talks, their passionate kisses, the words he’d said to her before she’d left for London, how he thought he wasn’t good enough for her. But he was so wrong!
You deserve better than to be treated like some common trollop. I cannot marry you, Miss Anderson. You do know that, do you not?
