by Mary Balogh
Love nonsense—sex nonsense—he was used to murmuring in the beds of courtesans and his mistresses. He was not used to talking nonsense for the mere sake of lightheartedness. But he talked it for a whole hour while he got his boots wet—she stayed back a safe distance, giggling; not laughing, but giggling—and then walked with her along the water’s edge, the wind in their faces, their arms about each other’s waist.
They stopped when they reached the ancient wreck of a boat, almost disappeared into the wet sand.
“It was there even when I was a child,” she said. “I believe it was something as unromantic as a fisherman’s boat that had outlived its seaworthiness, but we used to weave tales of pirates and treasure about it. We used to hunt for that treasure at the foot of the cliffs. We were convinced that there must be a cave there that had always escaped our notice.”
“And I suppose,” he said, “you want to take me cave hunting and treasure hunting?”
“No.” She laughed and turned to him and set her arms up about his neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “We found it centuries ago and spent every penny of it. It was the treasure of childhood.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, and he had a strange and fleeting image of the small children—her own—to whom she should be telling this story. He could almost see them scampering off to find the treasure for themselves. Her children and h—Her children.
“Gerard.” Her smile softened. “It is beautiful here, is it not? I always feel most the wonder of creation when I am close to the sea. A little fear and a whole lot of awe.”
“It is beautiful,” he agreed, and he circled her waist with his arms and kissed her. And smiled at her. And that was another thing he could not remember doing before, he thought. He could not remember kissing a woman purely for the pleasure of her company, her friendship. But their kiss was no more than that. And no less.
It was a good thing, he thought as she lowered her arms and they turned to stroll back the way they had come, their arms about each other’s waist again, that Florence’s party was not to be a week-long affair or a two-week-long one. Three days of this intense, unreal type of romance were quite long enough. Even now it was going to be difficult… But he would not think of that yet. There was the rest of the day to enjoy and all of tomorrow.
“Florence and Mullins were walking off in the opposite direction,” he said. “But there is no sign of them. Do you suppose they have gone back up to the inn already, Claire? What poor-spirited creatures our fellow guests are, are they not?”
“Yes,” she said. “Inside a stuffy inn when they might be out here.”
“Getting cold and windblown,” he said, “and having their complexions and their boots ruined.”
“Very poor-spirited,” she said.
And they were off again, talking nonsense and laughing and finally puffing their way up the cliff path and to the inn, which they would not for worlds have admitted was warm and cozy and welcome.
All ten of the others looked at them, when they came inside still laughing over some nonsense, rather as if they had two heads apiece, the duke thought. Claire’s cheeks, he saw at a glance, were apple-red, as was her nose. Her hair beneath the bonnet looked as if it had not seen a comb for a month. He looked down at his boots and grimaced. At least, that was what he would normally have done. Actually he did not—he grinned instead. And Claire had never looked more adorable.
The evening passed quickly. Indeed, it was not a long evening after the return to Carver Hall, several of the ladies pleading weariness after the afternoon’s excursion and Sir Charles Horsefield declaring quite candidly that he was not averse to going to bed before midnight, though not necessarily to sleep, of course.
But they were not allowed to escape too early. They must all provide some entertainment to set the mood for St. Valentine’s Day on the morrow, Lady Florence insisted. And so there was singing and reciting, one very short story, two off-color jokes, and one solo dance—by Olga Garnett.
Claire played Beethoven and closed her eyes and thought of the sea, not as she had seen it that afternoon, but at nighttime with moonlight across the ripples and a strong arm about her waist and a broad shoulder against which to rest her head. And the Duke of Langford sang one of Robert Burns’ songs—to Claire’s accompaniment. He had an unexpectedly fine tenor voice, she thought, listening to him even as she concentrated on her own part. And Burns had never sounded so romantic.
“Why, Gerard,” Lady Florence said after the applause, “I had no idea you were hiding away such a talent.”
“A relic of boyhood evenings spent en famille, Florence,” hee said, his eyes hooded, his hand straying to the ribbon of his quizzing glass. To Claire he sounded a little sheepish. “It was either sing or play the violin. The only time I tried that, my father offered to bring up the cat from the kitchen so that we might play a duet.” He spoke in the languid voice that Claire had not heard all day.
Sir Charles Horsefield yawned loudly. “Well,” he said, “now that we are all in the mood for tomorrow’s festival, Florence, may we retire to sleep on the expectation?”
“You may, Charles,” she said. She tittered. “And so may you, Olga.”
Claire felt uncomfortable again as all about her guests rose in couples and stretched and seemed to feel it necessary to pretend to tiredness, although it must still be earlier than eleven. She did not know if she should rise with them or stay quietly at the pianoforte. It was the first time all day that she had felt awkward, except briefly that morning when she had entered the breakfast room.
“Claire.” The duke was bending over her. “Shall we stroll into the conservatory?”
She smiled up at him gratefully and got to her feet.
But the awkwardness remained even after they had reached the conservatory and wandered among the plants there and looked out into starlit darkness beyond the windows. The day was over—the day of romance—and it was nighttime again.
He set an arm about her waist and turned her against his body. “Claire,” he said, kissing her briefly on the lips, his voice low. “You know what this party is all about. Last night you were willing.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes. But she was glad it was out in the open again. The tension had been too great to bear.
“And tonight?” he asked. “You are still willing?”
The silence lasted only a moment. And yet it was the most fateful moment of her life, Claire felt. “Yes.”
“You know what it will mean to you, do you not?” he said. “For you it is a far more momentous decision than it is for me.”
“Yes.” She opened her eyes again and looked up into his. “It is something I want, Gerard. A Valentine’s Day to remember. I want to know what it is to be fully a woman.”
His eyes searched hers in the dim light. Gone were all the gaiety and laughter and teasing of the day. In their place was a hunger almost frightening in its intensity. But Claire did not look away. And her own heart was beating so fast that she could hear it hammering against her eardrums.
He framed her face with his hands, ran one thumb across her lips and circled her cheeks with both. And he kissed her softly on the throat, on the chin, on the mouth.
“Come on then, my valentine,” he said, and his voice was almost unrecognizable in its huskiness. “Let me find somewhere comfortable to lay you down.”
“Yes,” she said.
She hardly knew how she set one foot ahead of the other to walk back into the hall and up the stairs and along the corridor to her bedchamber. Every breath she took, it seemed, was a conscious effort. All the way up the stairs she told herself that she would turn him away at the door, that she would find some excuse, that somehow before it was too late she would shake herself free of the dreadful immorality that she had allowed to rule her for the past two days. But when they reached her room and he opened the door, she stepped inside with his arm about her waist and not one word or gesture of protest. She turned as he closed the door and raised her face for his
kiss.
And having passed the point of no return, she abandoned conscience and the moral training of a lifetime and molded her body to his as his hands came to rest on her waist, and opened her mouth to his seeking tongue. She would not allow guilt to spoil her night. Doubtless it would have its way with her in the coming days. But not tonight.
“Claire.” His voice was a murmur against her mouth. His hands were in her hair, withdrawing the pins one by one, sending them tinkling to the floor. And then his fingers were pushing through her hair and it fell in a heavy cloud over her shoulders and down her back. “Claire.”
“Make love to me,” she whispered back into his mouth as his hands came beneath the fabric of her dress to mold her shoulders. Her own hands found their way inside his coat to the satin of his waistcoat. “Please, Gerard. Make love to me.”
And then both his arms came about her and hugged her to him like iron bands. Her face came to rest against the folds of his neckcloth. She could hear him inhaling deeply and exhaling raggedly through his mouth.
“I can’t,” he said at last. “My God, I can’t, Claire.”
She felt frozen. Every muscle in her body tensed. Her eyes were tightly closed.
“I can’t,” he said, his voice against her ear softer, more normal in tone. “Do you not realize what you are doing, Claire? You are becoming part of a Valentine’s orgy arranged for the amusement of twelve bored members of the ton with not a moral principle amongst the lot of them. You are merely a substitute guest to take the place of the twelfth. As soon as you lie down on that bed and allow me the use of your body, you will be catering to the pleasure of perhaps the most bored and the most depraved rake of a select six in this house.”
“No,” she said, but she did not lift her face away from his neckcloth. “It is not like that, Gerard. Not with us. There is romance. Not for long, it is true. But for a short while. There is beauty in it. And you are not like that. I have seen beneath the mask you put on for the benefit of the world. Don’t make this seem sordid.”
“It is sordid,” he said, and he took her arms in an ungentle clasp and put her from him. His face was harsh, his eyes hooded. “We were strangers two days ago, Claire. After tomorrow we will be strangers again for the rest of our lives. But for tonight and tomorrow night we are to lie naked on that bed taking pleasure of each other’s body—in the name of romance? In the name of St. Valentine, whoever he might have been? It is sex, my dear. Sex pure and simple.”
“You don’t want me,” she said, and she could hear petulance in her voice and could seem to do nothing either to change her tone or her words. “I am undesirable. You have been kind and you have tried to make the best of a bad situation. But when it comes to the point I am undesirable.”
She turned sharply away from him as his figure blurred before her eyes. She hated herself. For being undesirable. And for whining about it. She seemed to have left her pride at home with everything else.
She heard him draw breath and release it again. “If you believe that, Claire,” he said, “you are indeed inexperienced. Let’s keep to the romance, shall we? It has been a lovely day, has it not? Let’s not spoil it by doing what we will both regret afterward. You would regret it, Claire, much as you think you would not. Let’s try to make tomorrow as good as today has been, perhaps even better. Shall we?”
She set her hands over her face and could find no words with which to answer him.
“Good night, then,” he said softly at last from behind her.
Her misery was too deep to allow her to return the words. If she opened her mouth she would begin to beg again, she knew. And somehow pride was beginning to return already.
She thought the silence would never be broken. But finally it was. The door of her bedchamber opened quietly and then closed again as softly.
And then at last she allowed the tears to flow between her fingers.
———
The morning of February the fourteenth was as bright as the morning before had been and the sky was as blue and cloudless. But this time the brightness hurt the eyes as sleep was reluctantly relinquished—it had come only a few hours before. And this time there was nothing to stretch for, nothing to make her want to bound from the bed and over to the window to see what type of day was facing her.
It was St. Valentine’s Day, she thought, her eyes still closed, and she swallowed against the lump in her throat. The day for love and lovers. But she felt alone—more achingly alone than she had ever felt. And she felt dull and unattractive and knew even without having to look in a mirror that she would not look her best. She had controlled last night’s tears after just a few minutes of self-indulgence. She could not be seen belowstairs with red and puffy eyes. But sleeplessness always made her pale and her eyes dark-shadowed. And she was no beauty even when she did look her best.
She wanted to go home, she thought. More than anything she wanted to climb into Roderick’s carriage, draw the curtains across the windows, and know that she was being taken away from it all, away to forgetfulness and the familiar dull routine of her life. She was tempted. It would be so easy to ring for a maid and send the message, to remain in her room until the carriage came. She could plead a headache.
But there was one day left. They would try to make today as good as yesterday had been, he had said. Perhaps better. Claire grimaced and opened her eyes at last and swung her legs determinedly over the side of the bed. At least she must not add cowardice to everything else. She had not behaved in a very, admirable manner since her arrival. At least let her face this final day with her chin up. In one month’s time, one year’s time, she knew she would be willing to give all she possessed for just one hour with him. Yet now she had a whole day.
She dressed herself and did her hair without the services of a maid, as she usually did. And she went resolutely downstairs to breakfast. Everyone was there except Mrs. Tate and Lord Mingay. And except him.
“Ah, Miss Ward,” Mr. Shrimpton said. “Looking, ah, as if you could do with another few hours of sleep.”
It was not an insult. Everyone laughed and someone commented on the fact that they all felt that way this morning even if they did not all look it.
“But Gerard could not stay abed so long,” Lady Florence said, a gleam of something like malice in her eyes. “He went galloping off for a ride more than an hour ago. But he will be back, Miss Ward. How could he not be? This is St. Valentine’s Day, after all.”
Lady Florence had wanted the duke for herself, Claire thought. Indeed, it was surprising that she had not found some way of ensuring that it was her own valentine he had picked up. Claire half filled a plate and sat down at the table and felt awkward and self-conscious again. And somewhat relieved too. She did not know how she would face him today, how she would look him in the eye.
He did not return until luncheon was almost over. He strode into the dining room in his riding clothes and apologized to Lady Florence. Claire kept her eyes on her plate, even when he took the empty chair beside her. She had hidden away in the library all morning, looking resolutely at page one hundred and twenty of a book whose title she could not now even remember. She had not wanted to intrude on a houseful of amorous couples. And she had sat through luncheon, eating food that tasted like paper and wishing the floor would open up and swallow her.
“Goodness,” Lady Pollard had said. “Did you and Gerard have a lovers’ quarrel, Miss Ward?”
Claire set her spoon down as soon as he sat down at the table. Her hand was trembling and she would not have anyone else notice. He did not speak to her but conversed with everyone else. He had been so absorbed with the beauties of nature around him, he explained, that he had lost all track of time.
Claire rose from the table with everyone else and hurried from the dining room. She half ran toward the library, as if it were the only haven in the whole wide world. Or as if she had the hounds of hell at her heels. She grabbed a book from a shelf and threw herself down into a deep leather chair, wishing sh
e could be swallowed up by it. The library door opened behind her.
There was a lengthy silence before a pair of Hessian boots and buff-colored pantaloons above them appeared before her and he sat down on a low table.
“Forgive me for being late to wish you a happy Valentine’s Day?” he asked her quietly.
“Of course,” she said, looking up quickly. “There is nothing to forgive.” She had forgotten just how handsome he was, she thought with great absurdity.
“Come walking with me outside?” he asked.
“There is to be a picnic,” she said.
“Hang Florence and her picnic too,” he said uncharitably. “Come walking with me to our lake. Will you, Claire?”
She looked at him and shrugged slightly.
“It is warmer even than yesterday,” he said. He got to his feet and held out a hand for hers. He looked down at the book closed on her lap and smiled. “Do you enjoy reading Greek philosophy?”
She bit her lip as she set the book aside and placed her hand in his.
The ornamental lily pond was not far from the house, they had discovered the day before. They set out for it now on foot, and he took her hand and laced his fingers with hers just as if he had not slapped her in the face, figuratively speaking, the night before. And just as if she had not humiliated herself by begging him to take her. Just as if the romance of the day before could be recaptured. And perhaps it could be. She closed her eyes briefly and willed herself to live for the moment, to enjoy everything that she would remember in the coming days with an ache of longing.
“My valentine is not smiling today,” he said softly.
She shrugged.
He untwined his fingers from hers to set an arm about her shoulders and draw her against him as they walked. “I hurt you, Claire?” he asked her. “I did, didn’t I?”
“It does not matter,” she said.
“It does.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Did you not realize that I could not do it because I like and respect you too much?”
“Respect is a cold lover,” she said.
