“Oh, but I …” What could she say? That she needed to leave before her mysterious rescuer visited again and possibly recognized her? Conscious that they continued to study her, Clara gulped, and said, “I’m sure I should return soon, and I would not wish to intrude on your time with your family.”
“Never tell me you do not wish to meet the hero?” Mrs. McPhersons’s smile widened. “Most young ladies would.”
“I am not like most young ladies,” blurted Clara.
Mrs. McPherson laughed. “I knew I would like you. Never mind, Miss DeLancey. He will be out all day.”
Relief made its presence felt again, and conversation over tea was almost enough to make her forget her earlier discomfort. Soon it was time to depart. Clara rose, aware of a strange reluctance. Well she understood why the ladies’ young brother would wish to live with them. She had not experienced so warm and friendly an atmosphere in years.
“Thank you, Mrs. McPherson. I have enjoyed my time today.”
“I’m so glad, for I have also. Oh, and please call me Matilda, seeing as we’re to be such friends and all.”
“And I prefer to be called Tessa,” said her sister.
“Very well, Matilda, Tessa.” Clara smiled, holding out her hand. “Please call me Clara. I do hope we might meet one day again soon.”
Now would come the invitation to services, she felt sure.
But no.
A simple farewell and she was walking along the path, exiting the gate, then heading along the street back to where she’d arranged to meet Meg near Donaldson’s again.
She smiled to herself. What an extraordinary time. The vicar’s wife and her sister seemed quite normal. If Mother were to overlook their frank ways—her skin heated again at the unfortunate incident with the spyglass—she might almost approve of such an acquaintanceship.
Chatham Hall … She would have to ask Father if he knew the place. From the way Matilda had spoken, it sounded like their family was well connected. If so, surely her parents would not begrudge her the only friends she had made in Brighton since their arrival months ago.
Her heart tugged again, in a twisting yearn for friendship. Brighton might be pretty, but it was a lonely place, generally filled with the old and the infirm. Strangely, she had not hankered overly for her London friends, those friends whose acquaintanceship had faltered after the trouble wrought by Richard. But these ladies, though they lacked a degree of sophistication, possessed an earthy warmth that something deep within her craved. Perhaps it might be worth persuading Father to attend services on Sunday.
Lost in her musings, she rounded a corner, only to bump into a burly figure. “Oh, I beg your pardon!”
“The fault was mine entirely.” A man whose tanned face and broad shoulders declared him something of a sportsman offered a small bow.
Her breath hitched. She backed away.
The sandy-colored hair reinforced the vague notion of recognition elicited by his voice.
He straightened, his open countenance eyeing her curiously, his gaze as blue as the heavens.
The man. Her rescuer. The person she suspected knew her secret and whom she desperately wished never to see again.
“Excuse me.”
She turned and rushed back around the corner, hurrying into the sanctuary of Donaldson’s, praying he lacked courage to follow.
Ben managed to limp the rest of the way home, his visit to Captain Braith-waite forgotten as his thoughts churned over the unexpected encounter. While never thinking himself a prize as far as ladies went, he’d never known any young lady to actually run away from him before. And while he had no thought of marriage—what impecunious near cripple could?—to have two young ladies flee from him in the space of a week was a trifle disconcerting.
Pushing open the squeaking gate, he walked along the cockleshell-lined path and entered the cottage he currently called home, to find his sisters in the drawing room.
“Benjie? You’re back! Oh, what a shame. You just missed her.”
“Missed whom?”
“Miss DeLancey, remember? She came to tea and—Benjie? What is it? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No ghost.” Just a pretty brunette with the most striking green eyes he’d ever seen. Striking green eyes that had widened in something akin to fear when she’d bumped into him, almost like she had seen a ghost. He frowned. Why did that thought prompt a quiver of remembrance?
He shook his head, trying to clear away his confusion, aware both his sisters were regarding him curiously. He cleared his throat. “Did you have a good time?”
“Oh, yes.” Mattie’s face brightened. “She was a little reserved to begin with but soon grew quite affable. Until …” She glanced at Tessa.
His youngest sister flushed to match her hair. “I showed her the spyglass you gave me.”
“Let me guess,” he chuckled. “She saw rather more than what she anticipated. Haven’t I told you to be careful when the bathing machines are out?”
“I forgot.”
He ruffled her hair. “Never mind. So apart from that you had a pleasant time?”
“Yes.”
“Very pleasant.” Mattie nodded. “I rather gained the impression she had not been out in company much in recent times, which I cannot but wonder at, seeing she’s quite pretty and has been out in London, of all things.”
“And so stylishly dressed,” added Tessa.
Mattie’s head tilted. “I wonder why she is not married. She must be my age.”
His thoughts flashed to the young lady he’d collided with earlier. Was she married? She had no maid in attendance, so she probably was. He felt a tiny, strange pang of regret.
Mattie’s brows rose. “What? No comments about spinsterhood? No jibes about last prayers?” She turned to Tessa. “Perhaps our brother is unwell.”
Tessa’s brow clouded. “How was Captain Braithwaite? Is he any better?”
His sister’s concern drew his thoughts back to his earlier visit. “A little,” he allowed.
“Poor man.” She sighed. “He knows you do not blame him?”
“He knows.” But one could know and still not believe. It had not mattered how many times he’d tried to reassure, still Braithwaite could not forgive himself for not providing Ben with a marine chronometer. Ben cringed again internally, remembering the tongue-lashing they had both received on their return. He would have preferred a whip on his back to the words that stung his soul and the invective Braithwaite had been subjected to. Ben knew the admiral’s vehemence was compounded by grief and loss, and perhaps his dismissal was unfair, but the truth could not be denied. Ben had failed. Ben found comfort in knowing God had forgiven him, even if the admiral never could. Braithwaite didn’t have that assurance.
“We must continue to pray for him.”
Ben studied his youngest sister. Her interest in his colleague had not waned in past months. But recently turned seventeen, she was at an age of susceptibility in matters of the heart. It would not do for her to grow enamored of Braithwaite. He exchanged glances with Mattie.
She gave a little nod. “It is good to pray for all God’s children, that is so. Ben, I’ve been thinking perhaps it is time for Tessa to visit our dear brother. Oh, don’t make that face, dearest. George is not that starched and stuffy. And now he has the title, he should exert himself to think about someone other than himself.”
“You do believe in miracles,” he said.
“Of course I do,” Mattie replied.
Her steady gaze bored reproach within his heart. Well he knew how long his sisters had prayed for him while he was lost. Well he knew it was their faith that had kept him alive. In moments of utter despair, he’d felt the comfort of a Presence he’d long known, a presence poor Braithwaite scarcely dared believe in. When all had seemed hopeless, God had shown Himself yet faithful. Ben’s return to England had seemed a gift from God rewarding his sisters, who had never stopped believing, and proof that His mercy extended to the wr
etched and undeserving.
“I don’t want to stay with George,” murmured Tessa.
“Of course not, but with his money and title you could have a London season.”
“I don’t want a London season. You didn’t have one, Mattie.”
“But Father did not have the baronetcy then. Wouldn’t you like to go to London and see the wonderful sights Clara was describing during her seasons?”
“Who?” Ben asked.
“Miss DeLancey.”
He leaned back in his seat. “If this Miss DeLancey has not found matrimonial success with multiple seasons, perhaps Tessa should not be pushed into something she’s no wish for.”
Mattie frowned. “That sounds very unkind to poor Miss DeLancey, if you ask me.”
“She cannot be so very poor if she’s undergone multiple seasons. In fact, it’s enough to make one wonder what is wrong with her.”
“Benjamin!”
Tessa shook her glossy head. “I do not think I want to go.”
“Ignore Ben. I’m sure it will prove better than you think, dearest.”
“I do not like crowds and noise.”
“Only because you have not experienced them much,” Mattie said. “Even Brighton will get busy when the Prince Regent returns.”
Tessa bit her lip, then murmured an excuse and left the room.
“You should not tease her, Ben.”
“And you should not push her.”
“She needs to grow in confidence.”
An image of the timid young lady he’d bumped into reasserted itself. He shook his head. Heaven forbid Tessa grow so insecure. “I suppose she won’t learn to do so hiding under your shadow.”
His sister’s eyes flashed. “Nor yours.”
“No.”
“Which is why I think George, in his indifference, might be just the one to make her realize the need to assert herself.”
“If his apathy doesn’t kill her,” he said. “He’s so self-absorbed he does not notice anyone that does not benefit himself.”
“This could prove beneficial for them both,” Mattie nodded slowly.
“And you. David is a most accommodating host, but I do not think he bargained on gaining quite so many Kemsleys when he proposed.”
“You know he loves Tessa as his own sister.”
“And I’m sure like most newly married husbands he’d love our not being here, also.” Ben fought a sigh. His idyll in Brighton might need to come to an end sooner than he’d planned.
“But, Benjie, I do not want to lose you again, not when it seems you’ve only just returned.”
“You would not lose me. I’d only be in London.”
“I forget sometimes how well you know London.” Mattie pushed a lock of hair behind her ears. “You never met Miss DeLancey when you were in London before?”
Had he met Miss DeLancey on his one brief excursion into society? If so, she’d left no impression of any substance.
“That was five years ago, Mattie. A lot has happened since.”
“Of course. I just wondered.”
Perhaps Miss DeLancey wasn’t the only one lacking the power of attraction, Ben thought wryly, his mind flicking back to the two ladies who had demonstrated this so ably this past week. Leaving him with this strange feeling of being stuck ashore, yet—more than ever—adrift on life’s seas.
CHAPTER FİVE
“DARLING CLARA”—THE earl’s thick-fringed hazel eyes smiled at her lovingly—“would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Glorious warmth filled her as she leaned closer, her smile matching his. “Yes.”
She’d be a countess! Wife of the most handsome man imaginable! Married to a war hero, no less. A man—oh, such a man!—who shared her passion for so many things. A thousand images sang in her soul. The earl smiling tenderness at her. The earl dancing with her. The earl applauding her musicality. The earl sharing dinner with her family.
Coldness crept around the blanket. She squeezed her eyes shut even more, desperate to hold on to the last fragments of the dream. But it had disappeared as surely as morning fog in the heat of a rising sun.
The familiar ache rippled her heart. How could he have rejected her? How could he have preferred a countrified nobody to a viscount’s daughter? She, who’d been accounted one of London’s belles. She, who knew how to dress, knew the Peerage inside out, knew everything a lady of title and consequence must know. She could have given him children. She would have made him the perfect wife. It had been each of their mothers’ dearest wish.
A tear slipped down her cheek. What was wrong with her?
Rejection swirled, pressing painfully against her soul, wisping ghostlike memories and imaginings.
The earl laughing warmly with his wife. The earl holding his wife close. The earl sharing a house, meals, a bed—his everything!—with the woman that should have been Clara.
How could he have smiled into her heart and then discarded her like she meant nothing?
Had she grown ugly? No man had dared approach her since. Was she simply unlovable? Her heart clenched. Would anybody even tell her if she was?
A sob throttled breath from her body. She rolled to her side, swiping at the tears as she stared at early dawn light seeping past the partially opened curtains. Why had he preferred Lavinia Ellison to her?
Lavinia. The new Countess of Hawkesbury. The woman she had hated for so long until it seemed Clara had a poisonous black hole for a heart and she’d forgotten how to live.
Lavinia. Whose unlooked-for graciousness last year had increased Clara’s self-loathing. Shame had lapped at her soul for months, eroding the last vestiges of self-confidence. She had nothing; she was nothing. She could barely remember how to be around other people. Granted, Matilda and Tessa made it easier than most to pretend to be nice, but that was because they did not know her background. If they did, they would be sure to cut her as so many others had. Besides, she could not expect Mother to countenance her continued acquaintance with such ladies, kind though they may be.
The heaviness inside refused to leave. She could see the years rolling ahead of her much like the past two, years of loneliness and boredom, years of hopelessness and drear. Would she ever be freed to live again and laugh?
The dim light slowly took on a golden glow. She squinted. It must be Sunday. She counted back the days. Yes, today was Sunday. A day of rest.
She pushed herself upright, rubbing a hand over her bleary face.
A day when she felt a strange desire to accept Matilda’s unspoken invitation and insist her parents accompany her to church.
“WELL, CLARA, I can’t say your dragging us here is quite to my liking, but at least there appears to be some acquaintances worth our notice.”
Mama’s comment, whispered though it was, caused a sting of embarrassment. Not that other congregants were not talking, just that she wished Matilda’s husband was not trying to deliver a sermon at the same time.
She fixed her attention to the front, forced herself to listen to his words. It took a while to focus, to keep her thoughts from wandering. God knew she didn’t like to bother Him, but perhaps there might be something worth heeding in the vicar’s address.
“… so this is why our Lord said, ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’” Mr. McPherson glanced around the congregation. “Can any of us claim to be without sin?”
“Really! What a nerve some people have, asking such things!”
“Mother!” Clara whispered. “People will hear you.”
“Let them hear! I have nothing of which to be ashamed.”
Except, perhaps, last year’s ill-advised trip to Hawkesbury House in Lincolnshire. That trip had proved extremely humiliating. The fortitude the new countess had displayed at a time of personal tragedy shone in marked contrast to the icy address of the earl, whose own mother had concocted the scheme designed to unravel the marital felicity of her son.
Shame crawled over her. In that m
oment, so much of her hatred of Lavinia had withered, the seething mass of emotion heating her chest waning under the weight of pity and mortification. To intrude at a time of grievous loss was unconscionable. Yet for the new countess to have borne their presence with so much dignity was unfathomable. What had made her behave in such a gracious way?
The rest of the service passed in a blur, the questions from the past demanding attention. Soon they were swept up in the tide of exiting worship-pers, were shaking the minister’s hand, were outside among the milling congregants, exchanging gossip under an ancient elm.
“Miss DeLancey!” Clara turned to see Matilda hurrying towards them. “You came.”
“As you see.” Clara smiled and introduced her parents. “Mrs. McPherson is the lady I visited on Friday. Her husband delivered the address today.”
Mother acknowledged Matilda’s curtsy with the slightest of nods. “On her return Clara mentioned that you have a brother who resides at Chatham Hall. He is a baronet?”
“Yes.”
The suspicion clouding Mother’s face cleared a mite. “Well, that is something, I suppose.”
“It is something, I suppose, if one considers such a thing to be worthy of notice.”
“To be sure.” Mother nodded, seemingly oblivious to the smile lurking in Matilda’s eyes.
Clara spoke quickly, before her blunt-spoken new friend said something to jeopardize their amity. “Mother, I was hoping we might invite Mrs. McPherson and her sister to tea sometime soon.”
“Oh! Well, I’m not sure—”
“Thank you, Miss DeLancey, but Tessa is to return to Kent very soon.”
“There.” Relief softened Mother’s face. “What a shame.”
“But perhaps Mrs. McPherson could still attend, if she is not too busy.”
Matilda smiled. “Thank you. I’d be delighted.”
Her smile warmed a corner in Clara’s heart. Perhaps the way to have friends was to be friendly. Heaven knew she needed to do something other than isolating herself as had been her wont these past months. They arranged a day and time, before someone claimed Matilda’s attention and the surge of congregation members separated them.
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 4
