“I do, with your blessing of course. I had hoped to tempt her to show me your beautiful gardens. I have often admired them when I have passed this house.” Lord Woodridge said.
“Of course, of course. Abby here can go with you, for propriety’s sake.”
“Thank you, Mr Weston.” Lord Woodridge said, offering Clarisse his arm. “Are you prepared with no notice as it were?”
“I am.”
Clarisse and Lord Woodridge made their way through the house and out into the beautiful formal gardens, where the afternoon sun warmed the flowers, and delightful scents surrounded them. They wandered down one of the winding paths, with Abby trailing a long way behind, to give them some privacy.
“You have another suitor?” Lord Woodridge asked, his lips pulled into what seemed a nervous grin as he looked at Clarisse.
“Another suitor? Are you a suitor?” Clarisse teased.
“And if I was, what would be your feelings on that?”
“I would be happy to have it so.”
“Then please, consider me a suitor.”
“I confess that I already was doing so… or at least I hoped…”
“And who is my competition, if I may be so impolite as to ask?” Lord Woodridge asked. “I feel it only fair that I understand the strength of the challenge I face.”
“Perhaps we should find another avenue for our conversation,” Clarisse said with a smile. “I am not well practised at flirtation, or at being the subject of men’s attention. I am not well versed in dealing with such things. I don’t think that I am ready for two men fighting over me, so, if they are both kept in ignorance of the other’s identity…”
Lord Woodridge laughed.
“You are better at this than you perhaps give yourself credit for.”
“Oh, I give myself much credit,” Clarisse said, laughing a little.
Lord Woodridge laughed with her, and turned the conversation to other topics. Talking to him was easy, and the discussion ranged widely as they walked amongst the flowers, eventually arriving at a bench under the trees beside the pond at the very bottom of the garden.
Clarisse watched him as they walked, his face alight with energy and laughter, his eyes that remarkable, almost glowing green, which reminded her of spring grass, and she felt almost giddy. Even with the discolouration of the bruise on his jaw, he was a very handsome man. His intense focus on her was flattering, and his ability to entertain her delightful. She found herself wanting the afternoon to never end, wanting to know more of him, to understand him.
And, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind, to discover the truth about him – for he seemed not the sort of man to have gambled away a fortune, as her father had stated he had.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer, full of a warmth she hoped she did not imagine.
“And so you should give yourself credit. You are beautiful, and intelligent.”
She looked at him, a little startled.
“You flatter me my Lord.”
“Far from it. I simply speak the truth.”
Clarisse was a little stunned. He seemed genuine, not just flattering, and she was not certain how to respond. The silence lengthened, companionable, not demanding more speech. They settled on the bench, and looked out across the pond. Abby was discreet and lurked quite a long way back along the path, barely in sight of them. It was as if they were truly alone, as they had been, that evening by the stream.
The sun warmed her, where it filtered through the leaves above, and suddenly she felt peaceful, more so than she had for some time. There was something about Lord Woodridge which made her feel safe. Which made it even more important that she discover whether her father’s words about him held any truth at all.
“My Lord, despite the ‘accident’ which has left you bruised, you seem much happier than when I first met you, by the stream. Has something changed, that you no longer suffer the anguish you did then?”
He looked at her, those bright green eyes considering, and hesitated before responding. Then, with a tiny shake of his head, he spoke.
“Yes, something has changed. I am here with you. Whilst other things still wait to trouble me, for this moment, here, I can forget them, and enjoy spending time with you. I know that I will have to deal with my problems later, but let us not allow that to cast a cloud over this beautiful day.”
“Problems, my Lord? Forgive me, but what sort of problems might a man of your position suffer?”
“None worth worrying about today. Life is always a matter of choices, and balancing one’s funds, and activities. Even when one has a man of business. And sometimes old choices have a long-lasting effect. But enough of that. Tell me more of yourself. What do you wish from your life? What interests you?”
Clarisse looked at him, wondering how honest she should be. Social convention said that she should speak of ordinary thinks, inoffensive things, that any young woman might care about. But somehow, with this man, she felt compelled to be more honest.
“In truth, I do not know. For much of my life, I have been happy in my father’s company, happy reading books, and learning a little of his business and investments. But now, now that I am of an age where I must consider my future, must consider the prospect of marriage, I find that I am not certain of what I want. It is all so new. I do know that any man I might choose to marry should care for me. I do not want a marriage lacking in affection, even if such are common.”
“That is wise of you. My father has been blessed – he has found love twice – with my mother, who died near four years ago now, and with his new wife, who is a wonderful, gentle, and caring woman. With that as an example, I also find that I abhor the sort of cold marriages that are so often arranged.”
Clarisse turned and looked at him, meeting his eyes, surprised. Few men seemed to care for love or affection – generally they cared only for money, and their physical comfort. Lord Woodridge was so different. She wondered, in that instant, what Lord Langerden thought of such matters. He had been personable enough, but had not, she realised, ever expressed an opinion on love.
Then all thought fled, as Lord Woodridge lifted his hand, and gently cupped her cheek. His green eyes held her, and the world seemed to still around them, as if she was suspended in the sunbeams that played across her face. Slowly, he brought his lips to hers, in a kiss so soft, so gentle, that it was barely there. Yet it inflamed her senses, sending warmth throughout her body. She sighed, her lips parting slightly, and the tip of his tongue traced the softness so revealed.
Moments later, she heard a sound, and came back to her senses with a snap, pulling back from him, a blush colouring her cheeks – what would Abby think? What might she tell Clarisse’s father?
Lord Woodridge looked at her, taking in her pretty confusion.
“I’m sorry, I should not have…”
“Don’t be. We should return to the house.”
Clarisse was immensely grateful when he nodded, and rose, offering her his arm. They started back through the garden paths, and the scent of roses surrounded her, heady and rich, almost as intoxicating as his kiss. After a short while, he spoke again.
“Might I call on you again soon, Miss Weston? Perhaps to take you for a drive? I have a rather comfortable carriage – open of course, so that there will be no impropriety, and with room enough for your maid to accompany us.”
It was as if the kiss had never happened. Clarisse was not sure if she was pleased by that or not.
“Yes, my Lord, I believe that I would like that.”
“Then I will call again, in a few days’ time.”
They spoke a little more, of inconsequential things, as they returned to the house, but Clarisse was aware of the warmth of him beside her, the strength of his arm beneath her hand, for every second of that walk. They spent a short while in the parlour, her father insisting on calling for tea, then Lord Woodridge departed, after promising, again, to call on her within the week.
“So, daughter, now y
ou have two suitors. Whilst Lord Woodridge is personable enough, I still believe that Lord Langerden is a far better choice. After all, he has a higher title, and he is a solid man with a respectable military history. Lord Woodridge’s reputation as a gambler greatly concerns me, and does not look well by comparison. I’d ask you to remember that.”
“Really Father, I have spent but one afternoon with each of them – I don’t think that I am in any position to attempt to choose yet! That would be most precipitous.”
“Just be careful, Clarisse. For this choice will determine your future.”
“I will be careful, I promise, but now it is you who is being precipitous – assuming that either of them will offer for me!”
“Perhaps, perhaps. We’ll see.”
Mr Weston rose, and went to his study, leaving Clarisse alone in the parlour, still trying to catch her breath in some ways, her mind racing. Lord Woodridge was a delightful and unusual man, a man who made her feel safe, and calm. But Lord Langerden was also good company.
It was the strangest feeling, to know that they both wanted her, or at least they seemed to, and she knew not what to do. It felt wrong to encourage both men, yet… how could she choose – she did not know enough about either of them yet.
Chapter Five
Every few days, Frederick called upon Miss Weston again. He was becoming used to the idea that he might marry her – although he still struggled with it at times. She was rather tiring to talk to, he had discovered over time – for he had to always be on his best behaviour, being courteous and always suitably polite for a lady’s presence. After years at sea, regardless of his gentleman’s upbringing, to have to be always so constrained was somewhat irritating.
Still, once he married a woman, he would not need to be so careful in his home. She could learn to deal with him, as he was. And the Weston girl was certainly physically attractive enough, and the size of her dowry would make him forgive much. But each time he saw her, he found her bright innocence rather grating. Years of only dealing with experienced women had not prepared him for the limitations of innocence.
He went up the steps to the Weston residence, for yet another visit, with no plans beyond a walk in the garden with her, and a conversation.
He was not sure that he was ready to offer for her yet, but he was also not sure that he should not simply do so, and get it over with. The footman opened the door, and showed him in.
In the parlour, Miss Weston sat with another woman – one obviously somewhat older than her, but one who was beautiful regardless.
“Lord Langerden, my Lady.”
The footman announced him and left, closing the door behind him.
“Clarisse, you really must make more effo…” The older woman had been speaking, and stopped, half way through a sentence, to turn towards him. She gave a creditable curtsey, but her eyes were not demure. They scanned him from head to toe, appreciatively, he thought, and a small smile touched her rather full lips. “My Lord. I am Mrs Weston, Clarisse’s stepmother. She has spoken of you so much, it is a delight to meet you.”
Frederick watched her mouth as she spoke, watched the tip of her tongue brush those full lips, and felt, in that instant, a very intense awareness that this woman was not any kind of innocent. The contrast to her stepdaughter could not have been more extreme. He pushed his thoughts away from that comparison, and focussed on the need for polite conversation.
“I hope, Mrs Weston, if I may be so impertinent as to assume it, that Miss Weston has only had good things to say?”
The knowing eyes of Mrs Weston considered him, as if she might say something about his manner, then she simply smiled again.
“Perhaps, my Lord, I should not tell you. Perhaps it would be better for you if you were left wondering?”
“Ah, Mrs Weston, you are merciless! Now I will suffer for days, imagining what might have been.”
“I am sure that will be good for you, my Lord – it will, perhaps, develop the imagination?”
Frederick felt the smile on his own face match hers. There was something conspiratorial in the moment, and his imagination did, indeed, take flight. But it was not words from Miss Weston’s mouth that he imagined. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to turn to Miss Weston.
“Then I shall simply have to importune Miss Weston to tell me herself. I pray that she is not so cruel as her stepmother.”
Miss Weston laughed, a little uncertain. Frederick knew, instantly, that the girl had no inkling of the subtleties of the conversation which had just played out before her. He sighed, and took her hand, bowing.
“My Lord, you worry unnecessarily. Of course, I have only spoken well of you. I do believe that my stepmother is teasing you.”
‘Yes,’ thought Frederick, ‘she is most definitely teasing me – but not in the way that you mean the words, little miss innocence’.
“Then I must, as a gentleman, take your word for that, Miss Weston. For I am certain that you would never be so cruel as to lie to me.”
“Of course I would not.”
“Then I am relieved indeed. Shall we proceed to the gardens? I do find the gardens of this residence to be remarkably beautiful.”
He almost ground his teeth, hearing his own words – how insipid. Society required a man to be truly boring. He offered his arm, and Miss Weston took it. Mrs Weston smiled again, her eyes assessing him in that heated way, and nodded.
“Do enjoy your time in the gardens, my Lord.”
They left her in the parlour, and went out into the warmth of the day. He would manage to be charming, and tolerate the ignorance of innocence. For, in the end, if he married her, he could bring that innocence to an end. Perhaps he could teach her to be as ripe and knowing as her stepmother was, but only for him, of course.
~~~~~
Helena Weston watched her stepdaughter walk out of the room on Lord Langerden’s arm. Well, no, if she was honest with herself, she watched Lord Langerden, watched the movement of the muscles displayed so well by his tight fitted breeches, and the coat that clung to his broad shoulders. Unconsciously she licked her lips.
He really was a rather attractive man. Jealousy curled within her. That she should have to spend her days and nights with a man like Arthur Weston, with his growing waistline and rather undistinguished manners, his banal conversation, when Clarisse had the choice of a man like Langerden!
Langerden was, she felt certain, far more capable of satisfying a woman’s needs than Arthur Weston was.
She had thought, when she’d charmed and married Weston, that she was oh so clever – he was very wealthy, and she would be able to have a luxurious life, with whatever she wished. But now, nearly a year into that marriage, she was beginning to understand all of the things that no amount of wealth could buy. Things that she had discovered she liked, and wanted.
She would have to think on it. Surely there was a way to satisfy her needs, without losing the advantage and protection of wealth?
~~~~~
Over the next few weeks, Gervaise called upon Miss Weston every few days. She was, he thought, almost as hard to resist as gambling. Still, oddly, he found that, on the days when he spent time with Miss Weston, his mind dwelt less on gambling. The pull seemed weaker. He could only be glad of that.
Even so, he found himself, around once a week, allowing himself a game of cards, to settle the craving. Slowly, he was managing to do that, without getting in too deep. He would set aside a specific amount to play with, and, once it was done, would stop – although the temptation to keep going, to try to recoup his losses, was strong. If he found himself ahead, then he forced himself to stop at the end of the hand, and walk away with the winnings. He dreamed of a day when doing so was easy, when the insistent voice was not there, whispering ‘just one more hand…’. But that day was not yet.
As he spent more time with Miss Weston, his affection for her grew. He had not, since that first walk in the garden, dared to attempt a kiss, but he treasured the memory of tha
t moment. He knew that, whilst she was bright and intelligent, she was, in most ways, an innocent. He would do nothing to tarnish that, if there was one thing that the last year had taught him, it was patience.
On this particular day, he was anxious to see her. He intended to drive her to a beautiful spot along the river, and there indulge in a delightful picnic, from the basket which his cook had prepared that morning. It was odd how such a simple pleasure became wonderful, when taken in good company. Two years before, he would have scoffed at the very idea, but now, his view of the world had shifted.
He drew up before the Weston residence, again admiring the classical grace of the building, and their footman came down to hold the horses. Gervaise nodded his thanks, and went into the house, where Abby greeted him.
“Miss Weston is in the parlour, my Lord.”
Gervaise followed Abby to the parlour, and smiled broadly as Miss Weston rose to greet him. She was beautiful. Her hazel eyes seemed greener than usual, and sparkled where the sun through the window caught them. Her soft brown hair was caught up into a knot, with tendrils of hair escaping to curl over her shoulder. Her dress was simple and practical, yet all the more elegant for it – a plain fall of a pale gold tone, with just a little lace at the hem and around the bodice. He started, realising that he was staring, and uncertain of how long he had stood, caught in her spell.
“Miss Weston. You look beautiful as always.”
“Lord Woodridge. I declare, you are an inveterate flatterer!”
He offered her his arm, and they stepped out of the parlour, with Abby following. Mr Weston came out of his study, a smile on his face. Gervaise had to hope that the man viewed him favourably – but with Weston, he was never sure.
“Woodridge. Take care of my girl.”
“I will sir, for I suspect that I treasure her just as much as you do.”
Mr Weston snorted in amusement, but nodded, and waved them on their way. Soon, with Abby tucked into the little seat at the rear of the carriage, they were rolling along the winding road, following the river. Gervaise could feel himself relaxing in her presence, could feel a sense of peace and happiness invading him. It startled him to realise that he had not felt such happiness since before his mother’s death.
Betting on a Lady's Heart: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 14) Page 4
