A few tentative steps further into the room, the rustle of dried foliage. It sounded as if he were moving toward the St. John’s wort. Understandable, as it also has yellow buds, but not like a daisy’s. A confused exhalation and more movement… closer. Closer. Not this way, the chamomile is over there! She sensed him, felt his nearness, the electricity of his body, the heat from him, and unable to bear it any longer, she opened her eyes.
In that instant, he parted two bunches of lavender and looked straight at her. “Lady Claire?” he said, startled.
“The chamomile is over there,” she blurted, poking an index finger through the lavender, causing a shower of purple flowers.
But his gaze didn’t waver. Those eyes, with their serious expression, their hints of green, their darkness blacker than velvet… And then, God help her, he smiled that funny smile where the left side lifted a fraction higher than the right and the warmth of the sun beamed through. So she snapped her eyes shut.
“My God, how have you been?” he said.
A tremor ran through her body that rattled the dried flowers.
He must have noticed. There was a pause, and then he added, “I didn’t write. I’m so sorry for that.” Another pause. “Can you come out from behind there?”
Too close to crying to speak, Claire shook her head, no.
“There’s an explanation—please let me tell you.”
Again, Claire shook her head, no. Her behavior was foolish, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. He had made her feel pretty; like a bonnet that never failed to compliment an outfit; he made other men seem awful, so that each possible suitor seemed lacking, and worst of all, two years ago, he’d made this scared little bunny feel safe, and she would never swallow that bitter draught again.
He shifted his weight, but stayed where he was. Waiting for her, no doubt. How she wished he would just leave! She stared at his boots. Black Hessians of the finest cut and quality, but scuffed at the toe and worn on the inner calf from hard riding. She’d liked that about him—that he didn’t fuss about his appearance, that he didn’t mind an untalented valet. Did his wife adore that quality, too?
The boots left her line of sight as he came around the rack, and then his hand took her upper arm. A flood of heat poured like molten iron through the spot where he touched. “Come out,” he said gently. “Let me speak to you outside a moment.” She didn’t move, but he kept his hand there, waiting as one would for a wild animal to calm.
Slowly, resistant muscles relaxed and she allowed him to lead her into the center of the storeroom. At the door, she balked. “I can’t spend time with you. There’s too much to be done. I’m going to London for my come out and I’ve promised Mrs. Martin I’d help dry all these herbs.” She gestured at the wheelbarrow. “So, you see, I can’t go.”
“Your come out? But then you’ll marry soon.”
Automatically she shook her head. “No, I’ll be the shy miss behind the potted plant—” She stopped herself. Mrs. Gower, her chaperone, had scolded her a dozen times for saying such things. Raising her gaze, she added, “Or perhaps a gentleman will want to walk his dog with me.”
A look of pain pinched his features. She’d meant it to sting. That was what they had done together during the house party at Lord Hugh Davenport’s estate—walk Hugh’s corgi. And they’d talked, brushing hands occasionally, and they had had—at least she’d thought they’d had—a silent agreement about a future together.
His eyes shifted away. “When I saw you last, our goodbye with all the other guests at the house party… I thought I’d see you again shortly …but something happened that changed my circumstances, and I didn’t think it right to burden you with my difficulties.”
He looked so upset, Claire set aside her own hurt. “What happened?”
His eyes went to the floor. Perhaps he’d lost his money, or title? But those were not things Flavian valued overmuch. Something worse; the way his gaze retreated into sorrow; it felt like watching him walk away again. “Has your mother died?”
He shook his head, and ran a hand through waves of dark hair.
“Then perhaps your wife is ill?”
His head shot up and he looked at her with surprise. “I have no wife.”
She hated herself for it, but such a torrent of relief flooded her, her knees nearly gave out. Mere months into his two-year silence, she’d come to believe he’d wed. All she could muster now was, a thin, gasping, “Oh.”
“Someone at Bingham Hall is very sick. It’s taken all my time, all my energy to... to… There was only the one letter, because I thought at any moment their health would improve, and I could see you again…”
“But I never got any letter at all, and I even asked the postman if perhaps something had happened to a mail coach.”
“I sent a footman. Blast it, it was that fool Davies. Unreliable sot, he told me he’d put it in your hands. I’m so, so sorry, Claire—Lady Claire…”
Bands around her chest, there so long she’d forgotten them, snapped, and for the first time in two years she took a deep breath. “Oh, how I wish you’d written again. They all said I should write you, but I worried it might seem improper.” The fact was, she’d been afraid of his answer because as long as she didn’t know, there was still hope.
A rush of emotion shook him, and his hand came up as if he were about to cup her cheek, but stopped himself. “And I questioned Davies a hundred times when I didn’t receive a reply. I worried that I’d so offended you, you’d have no more of me.”
“But I’m not the sort who wouldn’t write back,” Claire said.
“And I wouldn’t have left you hanging without explanation.”
They gazed at one another in silence. Of course Flavian wouldn’t have hurt her, nor she him, and they knew that about one another. Knew it when they were together at the Davenport house party, yet forgot it when they were apart. At last, Claire shifted her gaze from him. “What a terrible comedy of errors,” she said, with a faint laugh.
“A regular Shakespearean romp.” He scraped some of the lavender buds into a small pile with the side of his boot then looked at her with concern. “Why are you here? Is someone in your family ill?”
“Oh no. Since I saw you last I began working daily with Mrs. Martin to learn more about the healing arts. She’s extremely talented. Perhaps the best in England.”
He nodded. “Her reputation brought me all the way to Exeter.” His eyes met her’s a moment then he pulled his lower lip, and his gaze flicked about the storeroom as if he were in the throes of a momentous decision. “When are you leaving for London?”
“By week’s end.”
“Would you come to Bingham Hall?”
An ocean of feeling hit her—warm waves of joy mixed with sharp finned creatures, stinging invisibles, and rough pelting sands. In the whole world there was no one she’d rather spend time with, yet he’d been torn about asking. Why? How could her visit cause him discomfort? Feeling weak and foolish, she said, “Do you truly want me to?”
The shock on his face burned through her, brighter, warmer than the noonday sun, and her breath caught in her lungs. “Seeing you again, spending any time at all with you, would be my greatest joy. Sincerely, my greatest joy.”
She laughed, truly laughed for the first time in two endless years. “Then we’ll stop. Expect me by the weekend.”
A bright intensity lit the green in his eyes and his body tilted toward her, sending a rush of anticipation through her every limb. A kiss. He would kiss her just as he had at the house party. Every fiber strained forward, compelling her chin up, parting her lips.
But just as it seemed he’d bend to her, take her into his arms—a flash of something undefinable crossed his expression. He stepped back. “I’ll ride straight through the night to make everything ready.” That funny smile quirked his lips, and taking her in, tip to toes, he added in a serious tone, “You are very kind, Lady Claire Albright.”
Confused, she smiled back and said softly
, “Why thank you, Lord Flavian Monroe.”
* * *
Shortly after Flavian arrived at Bingham Hall, his family estate in Bournemouth, he sent two footmen down separate roads to search for the Albright coach. They were to find Lady Claire and deliver a message: “With all my heart, I would love to see you, but please don’t come. For your own sake, continue on to London.”
* * *
The carriage drew to a bumpy stop at the exact point where a crenellated tower cast its toothy shadow. Feeling as if she were lowering herself into the jaws of a beast, Claire stepped from the coach, shivered in the chill shade, and approached the stairs to the massive country house. Two urns squatted like toads on either side of the grand staircase to the front door of Bingham Hall. From each jutted the naked stems of flowers that had been ripped away. Droplets of moisture still oozed from the traumatized stalks, and their red, yellow and purple blossoms lay scattered on the ground.
Claire’s fingers went cold, and feeling her knees grow weak, she clung to the stone balustrade like a sailor in a rough sea. Who would destroy flowers? Unease sat like a stone in her stomach. Come on, fraidy rabbit, she chided herself. Buck up, and have courage.
From inside the coach Mrs. Gower’s chipper voice called out, “Smile dear, bright and happy.”
Lips trembling, Claire forced her mouth into a long line she hoped would be taken as a smile. “Be vibrant, not shy,” the chaperone continued, “And for heaven’s sake, don’t talk about herbs and cures—he’ll take you for a witch.”
Swallowing, Claire paused to collect herself, her confidence dropping to new lows.
“Go on child!” urged Mrs. Gower. “La, he’ll be married to someone else by the time you reach the knocker.”
Please hush, thought Claire, her stomach churning as she ascended the stairs. The door was a great beast of a thing; imposing oak, studded with bolts and straps of iron. A knocker in the shape of a mermaid with her tail curled in an uncomfortable loop graced the center panel. But as her fingers brushed the mermaid’s scales, a butler yanked the door open. Barely stifling a cry, Claire jumped back. Struggling to regain her composure, she pasted what she hoped was a bright smile on rigid lips. “I’m here by invitation from the dowager Viscountess, Lady Monroe, and her son, Lord Monroe,” she said, digging through her reticule for a calling card.
“I see.” A puzzled look crossed the butler’s features as he took the card. “Please come in. I’ll announce you at once.”
Was he not expecting her? But she’d told him she’d arrive today. On the verge of stepping over the threshold, she looked back at Mrs. Gower who waved. “I’ll be right with you, dear. Don’t mind me.” A glimmer from the area of Mrs. Gower’s lap confirmed Claire’s worst fear—that at this critical moment, her chaperone was nipping from a flask.
The entrance hall was dark though impressive, with thick squares of crown molding and handsomely painted frescos. But as she looked more closely, it seemed strangely empty. There wasn’t a single picture, mirror, vase or other decorative piece anywhere. The parlor off to the left was the same; nothing above the mantel, no candlesticks, boxes or figurines, only the plainest hurricane lamps on the tables, and not a single picture on the walls. Apparently, the Monroe family was not much on ornamentation, but it seemed odd that Flavian’s family had collected nothing in its long aristocratic history.
As she contemplated this, Flavian hurried into the hall. “Lady Claire,” he said, taking her hands. “You didn’t get my message.” He seemed oddly alarmed, and looked furtively over his shoulder.
“A message? No. Oh dear, are we playing another comedy of errors? We’ll leave immediately.” Her heart tore in half as she hurried toward the door.
“No, no.” He caught her arm. “I’m sorry. Please stay.” His expression changed to a welcoming smile that warmed her icy nerves. “Fate has sent you to me.” The haunted look left his eyes, and she laughed a little in relief.
“Are you certain?”
Before he could answer, Mrs. Gower trumpeted from the interior of the coach. “La, my lord,” she cried, her bulk stuffing the carriage door, “what a splendid pied-à-terre!”
“Why, thank you, madam.”
“I’m Mrs. Gower, the gel’s chaperone,” she called, “So there’ll be no rascalling about, mind you, not while I’m on duty.” Winking, she lost her balance on the coach stairs. Two footmen dove to catch her just as she bumbled onto the pea-gravel driveway, accidently tearing a gold frog on one man’s livery, but managing to keep her footing. “I got me coach legs on, now I got to find me ground legs,” she declared with a peel of flirty giggles.
Involuntarily, Claire’s fingers clenched.
“And should I expect a footrace when you’re fully intact?” Flavian replied.
“Save your strength lad, for the gel’s a quick one.”
So much heat flooded Claire’s cheeks she imagined her hair might catch fire. “Mrs. Gower, please,” she mumbled.
But Flavian didn’t seem to mind. “I suspect you possessed some sprinting abilities in your day,” he told the woman.
“For you, I’d have stopped in me tracks.”
He tipped his head back and laughed; a sound so happy it sent the cloud of her anxiety scudding away.
“Oh, you’re a charmer,” the chaperone gushed. “Out of my way, lassie, I’m taking him.”
Flavian laughed again with the same good humor Claire remembered from their time at Cowick Hill two years ago. She’d been unnerved by the crowd at Lord Hugh Davenport’s estate. Gatherings made her uneasy, whereas her sisters, Peggity, Ellie and Snap, glittered like crystal when company was about. Her shyness didn’t seem to bother Flavian, however. The first to speak to her, his smile and gentle attendance filled her, for the first time in her life, with confidence, as if she were wildly desirable and able to command a room full of suitors. The next morning, thinking she’d only imagined his interest, he sat beside her at the breakfast table and asked the footman to refill her chocolate. Every day thereafter, they went on walks together, talking for hours, the green flecks in his eyes sparkling with fascination at her every syllable until she became sure of his love, sure he would ask for her hand, sure that her future lay within his protective arms. And then nothing. Not one word. As the months, and then years plodded by she’d come to doubt everything about those golden moments together. Was he silent because of her superior rank as the daughter of an earl? Had he misgivings about her interest in healing, or had she said something he didn’t like? Pain had resided in her like a rock in a waterfall—unmoved by the rush of life flowing past. So much suffering caused by nothing more than a lazy footman. Seeing him now, all the longing returned full force, but the rock remained. And now her confused heart wanted to float straight out of her body, either from love or panic. Perhaps he sensed her disorientation, because his hand touched her back, warm and reassuring.
“I’ll just be a moment,” he said, then swept down the stairs to the coach. One footman assisted Mrs. Gower up a step, while the other struggled with the oversized trunks strapped to the vehicle’s roof. Flavian went to one side, and called, “Pass it down, Hancock.”
Mrs. Gower pivoted heavily to watch him, like a war ship turning in rough seas. Hancock dragged a trunk to the edge of the carriage roof, maneuvered it over the low guard rail, and straining not to let it drop, slid it at a dangerously fast rate toward his master. In one graceful motion, Flavian caught the wooden container and, single handedly, lowered it to the ground. “Now, the next.”
Red-faced and sweating, the footman repeated the procedure. When Flavian had both trunks, he positioned them on their ends and stood between them. Bending his knees, and with fingers clutching each handle, he lifted the two trunks simultaneously.
“Oh lawks!” shrieked the Mrs. Gower, braying like a fishmonger’s wife. “He’s as bluff as bull beef.”
Flavian managed a grin, though his teeth gritted from the strain. When he took a step forward, and another, and another, th
en started up the stairs, Claire could not restrain her admiration. “La, it must be fourteen stone you’re carrying!”
“His lordship’s the strongest man in all England!” cried Hancock from atop the carriage.
Though the viscount was long and lean, he clearly possessed strength beyond that of the typical man his size. A thrill ran through Claire as she pictured the ropes of muscle beneath his coat.
As Flavian approached the top of the stairs, he appeared to falter, almost tipping backward. Claire dashed to his side. “Careful, my lord!”
“Sound advice, my lady,” he said, bringing the trunks to the top of the stairs, then lowering them slowly to the floor. Claire’s hands went to her heart and she shook her head in amazement. “I am in awe. It took four men to load my baggage.”
He grinned, and shrugged, embarrassed by the attention. A bead of sweat raced toward his cheek, and he huffed air, but otherwise appeared as if he’d just hoisted the down of a dandelion.
A slight rustle overhead drew Claire’s attention, and at the same time she felt a tap on the back of her gown. Whirling about she caught the flicker of a face disappear inside a third story window. The sash screeched in its casement, closing with a bang. Confused, she looked behind her at the desiccated body of a rat. She nearly screamed, and jumped away, black spots dancing before her eyes so that she had to hold the door jam to steady herself.
Flavian’s expression went dark. He wrapped an arm around Claire’s waist and guided her into the house. “Clean that up, Marlow,” he instructed the butler.
Had a servant dropped that rat? Claire’s heart thumped in her chest, yet she hoped Flavian wouldn’t make too much fuss, especially since she reacted so outlandishly.
“It’s quite all right,” she said, trying to sound amused. “Someone must be cleaning upstairs. Our cats bring me similar presents all the time.”
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 77
