by Emily Royal
A group of ladies approached him, the feathers in their headdresses bobbing with excitement as they vied for his attention. Turning to Felicia Long at his side, his smile returned, though his eyes remained cold and hard.
The Countess of Strathdean’s voice carried across the room as she announced the start of the concert. Among the scraping of chairs, Jeanette resumed her attention on the musicians, forcing herself to refrain from looking behind her where she had an uncomfortable feeling she was being watched.
During the interval, Viscount Oakville approached, brandishing two plates of food.
“I took the liberty of finding you something to eat. I’d recommend the chicken.”
“You’re most kind.”
“Not at all,” he said. “I wish to know you better. We have much in common.”
“Such as?”
“A love of music. I’ve heard some of my favorite pieces tonight.”
How pleasant to have a fellow admirer of music! Oakville seemed so unlike his friends. His objective was to enjoy the music rather than be seen in society to assert his dominance over everyone in the room.
“Did you prefer the Bach or the Vivaldi?”
“Oh…” he hesitated. “It’s difficult to distinguish between them. I like poetry also. Shakespeare’s sonnets are a joy to read.”
“Which is your favorite?”
“I cannot single one out. The world of literature is a veritable treasure trove, is it not? I’m excessively fond of the written word.”
Jeanette took a bite of the chicken. “I prefer music to literature. Music transports you to a world of your own creation. The written word leaves less to the imagination. But with music, the story can begin, and end, in any manner you desire.”
Oakville waved a footman over who took their plates. He reached for Jeanette’s hand and ran a light finger along her wrist.
“You’re not what I expected, Miss Claybone. I’m pleasantly surprised.”
“What did you expect?”
“I had no idea, but my friends and I are used to ladies who prefer not to dive into the Serpentine on a Sunday afternoon.”
As if on cue, a tall shape moved into her eyeline. Ravenwell leaned against the doorframe with an air of arrogance as if the entire party were beneath his notice.
Not the entire party. Only Jeanette. Brow creased into a frown, he glared in her direction, dismissing an approaching footman with a shake of his head.
Jeanette leaned toward her companion. “Tell me, Lord Oakville, what is it that your friend finds to dislike so much?”
“Ravenwell?” Oakville let out a laugh. “He dislikes most things.”
Ravenwell’s frown deepened. The hand holding his wineglass tensed, knuckles whitening. Rather than display his usual air of contempt, tonight he seemed out of sorts, angry, even. Perhaps he disapproved of her being here.
Why should she be denied the pleasure of music she appreciated and understood better than he?
“Perhaps he dislikes the music.”
Oakville snorted. “My friend has no taste in music. He has very—particular—tastes in other things. But they’re not for a lady’s ears.”
“I’m no lady, as I’m sure you’ve been told.”
“Perhaps his poor temper is the result of my attentions to you.”
“How so?”
“He disapproves of my courting you.”
How dare he! She turned her gaze to Ravenwell to find his eyes still trained on her.
“Of course,” Oakville whispered, “while my behavior is influenced, not always to the good, by my friends, I’m capable of making up my own mind.”
He lifted her hand to his mouth. Across the room, Ravenwell’s lips pursed, his jaw ticking as if he ground his teeth.
Odious man! If the sight of his friend paying her attention sent him into apoplexy, then it served him right.
“I would like to court you, Miss Claybone,” Oakville purred. “May I call on you tomorrow? Now my coat has been cleaned, I’m anxious to wear it again. What better occasion than to take you for a ride in my barouche?”
“I’d be delighted.”
He kissed her hand again, holding it against his lips a little longer than socially acceptable. For a brief moment, his eyes displayed a predatory hunger before their mild expression returned.
Though a little unintelligent, he displayed more gallantry than the rest of them. What harm could arise from receiving his attentions? If she must bear the company of a gentleman, Oakville seemed the least abhorrent.
Unlike his friend.
Ravenwell still watched her, his face glowering with anger.
Why did he hate her so much?
*
“There he is, Jeanie, love. I must say, your young man seems a pleasant chap.”
Papa stood at the window, the sunlight catching in his hair which was turning gray. He seemed out of sorts, but whenever Jeanette inquired, he assured her he was well.
“He’s more than pleasant,” Mama said. “For the past fortnight, he’s called almost every day with a poem for Jeanette. Is that not the sign of a man in love?”
The door opened.
“Rupert Beaumont, Viscount Oakville,” the footman announced with a bow.
“My Lord!” Mama cried. “Jeanette’s been eager to see you. It’s so pleasant outside, might I suggest a turn in the garden before tea?”
He held out his hand to Jeanette. “It would be my pleasure.”
When they entered the rose garden, he reached into his coat pocket.
“I’ve another poem for you.”
“Lord Oakville,” she laughed, “I always thought you a rake, but your poems are so tender. The words you write differ from how you express yourself in person.”
“I’m a little shy,” he said. “I’m not used to courting ladies.”
“I can’t believe that.”
His cheeks flushed. “I’m well acquainted with the opposite sex, but I’ve not lived a virtuous life.”
“Do all young men behave as you do?”
“To maintain my position in society, I must act in a certain manner.”
“You indulge in debauchery to keep pace with your friends?”
“When a man is unmarried, he must display a certain type of behavior to be accepted among his circle,” Oakville said. “A married man has less expectations of him. Once I’ve secured a wife, I intend to settle almost permanently at my country seat.”
He kissed her hand. “Let us take tea, Miss Claybone.”
*
“Have you secured him yet?”
Jeanette stood to clear the teacups. “No, Mama, we enjoy conversation, that’s all.”
“What could you find to talk about?” Mama said. “Good heavens, Jeanette, leave those cups alone! We have servants for that.”
“Mariette,” Papa said, “perhaps Jeanie prefers to keep the details of her conversations with Oakville to herself.”
“Nonsense!” Mama exclaimed. “Has he talked of marriage?”
Jeanette picked up a teacup. “He’s spoken of how his behavior will change when he has a wife.”
“I knew it!”
“Mama, he’s a rake.”
“Pshah! All men have their diversions, but a wife will always be treated with respect.”
“Mariette, my love…”
“No, Robert! Our family’s future rests on Jeanette’s shoulders. Oakville is attending Lord Holmestead’s house party. That would be a fitting occasion to announce a betrothal. I must prepare, it’s only two days away.”
Mama flew to the door in a rustle of silk and lace.
Papa shut the door behind her. “It would be a good match, Jeanie, love.”
“He’s agreeable enough, but I don’t love him. Why should I marry him?”
“You could fare worse.” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Come on, love, he tolerates your Mama’s company, so he possesses a tenacity others lack. He’d be a good match.”
“I want to marr
y for love!”
“Few can afford that luxury.”
He drew her into an embrace. The familiar woody aroma of cigars on his waistcoat transported her to happier times before the baronetcy.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, love,” he whispered, “but consider your choices. Marriage is your only chance of securing a future and a home, your sisters’ future as well as your own.”
“Oh, Papa!”
“It’s not fair, I know. But whatever you do, you’ll always have my love.”
Chapter Five
Henry looked out onto the driveway. The clatter of hooves and the excited chatter of the other houseguests made his stomach clench. Not with the usual boredom. Something else.
Fear. An irrational emotion for a woman unworthy of his notice. Not even the prospect of encounters with Louisa among the grounds of her husband’s estate could lift his spirits.
Rupert’s attempts to keep pace with him and Dominic had often provided source for amusement, tales of debauchery told over port at White’s. But this one was different. Miss Claybone might possess a wit most ladies lacked, but her country upbringing rendered her incapable of navigating the waters of society. Waters infested with predators.
Such as himself. And Oakville.
“Ah, there you are, Dray. Splendid day for a hunt!”
The object of his thoughts joined him at the window.
“And here comes my quarry.”
A carriage rolled to a standstill, and Sir Robert Claybone stepped out. He seemed to have aged since Henry had last seen him, his hair a little whiter, body stiff as he helped his wife and daughter out of the carriage. Rumors circulated that his business was experiencing financial difficulties; something Henry knew well enough. Only last week, Barnes had reminded him, yet again, of the Ravenwell estate’s lack of funds.
Miss Claybone took her father’s arm and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Henry’s heart somersaulted at the tender gesture. He might feel at ease in the sumptuous surroundings of Holmestead Hall compared to the uncomfortable looking pair below. But he lacked one thing money could never buy: the love between a parent and child.
“She’s too intelligent to fall for your wiles, Rupe,” Henry said. “The odds are against you.”
Rupert snorted. “I stacked the deck in my favor. My beloved Clara’s last benefactor was a man of tender words. For a few extra trinkets, I was able to procure a number of poems he’d penned.”
“You’ll need more trinkets to buy Clara’s silence.”
“Nonsense! You’ve always said men like us can do what we like. You can hardly admonish me for following your lead.”
Henry sighed. He must make more of an effort to prevent Rupert from ruining her.
*
That afternoon, Henry left the main party in search of solitude. Or was it because Miss Claybone was nowhere to be seen and his subconscious had willed his body to search for her? The other guests were content to spend the afternoon in idleness—sipping wine, sleeping off their luncheon, or indulging in facile chatter. No wonder a woman of her intelligence saw fit to distance herself from such insipidity.
A familiar laugh came from ahead, and Henry ventured through an arch which led into the walled area of the gardens where neatly trimmed rose bushes lined the perimeter. Miss Claybone stood beside an armillary sphere in the centre of the garden, holding a stick aloft. A small gundog circled her feet, tail wagging excitedly.
“Off you go!” Laughing, she threw the stick across the garden, and the animal raced after it, disappearing into a bush. Not long after, it emerged with its prize and returned, legs bouncing with the tell-tale gait of an untrained puppy. She crouched beside the dog and threw her arms around it.
“You’re such a handsome man!”
In the distance, a man whistled, and the dog disappeared. She turned, and Henry found himself a captive to her green gaze.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Wondering whether your notion of beauty is restricted to dogs.”
Her instant smile matched the warmth of the sun.
“How would you define beauty, Lord Ravenwell?”
“An object must be aesthetically pleasing to be considered beautiful,” he said.
She shook her head as if she were a schoolmistress disappointed with her pupil.
“I beg to differ, sir.”
He gestured around him. “Take this garden, for instance. Even I can see the roses are lined in a neat row, trimmed to perfection, forming a pattern of perfect symmetry.”
“Then you must look closer.”
She moved across the path, and he followed her until she stopped by a rose bush and curled her hand round one of the blooms. “This rose illustrates my point.”
“I fail to understand your meaning,” he said. “It’s flawless.”
“That’s because you’re merely looking at it,” she said. “You must see it.”
He moved closer and bent his head to observe the rose more carefully.
“Can you see it now?” she asked. “At first glance, the rose follows society’s rules of perfection, but the more you look at it, the features which lend it individuality become more apparent. Take the color. From a distance, it’s a pure pink, but on closer observation, the colors vary from petal to petal.”
She ran her fingertips across a petal, stopping where the edge of the bloom had dried in the heat and turned brown and frayed. An insect crawled toward her finger but she made no attempt to flick it away.
“You find beauty in flaws, Miss Claybone?”
“It depends on your meaning of a flaw, Lord Ravenwell. What you might see as a blemish, I see as a definition of character. Nature has given this rose the freedom not to be constrained by society’s ideals of aesthetics. The marks on the edges are a sign of life. The insect is proof that another creature not bound by the rules of society has found the flower beautiful.”
She cocked her head to one side and gazed at him. His chest tightened at the expression in her eyes.
“It’s a sad man who cannot find joy in such observation. But society has deemed it to be so, and is likely to continue to dictate on the definition of beauty and worth.”
“Then society is wrong.”
Her eyes widened at his words, and he plucked the flower and lifted it to inspect it more closely. He closed his eyes, savoring the delicate scent.
Miss Claybone was right. The flaws she possessed—her intelligence, wit, and courage—set her apart. She lacked the air of brittle elegance men of his rank were supposed to outwardly commend. But rather than conform, she embraced and celebrated the traits which rendered her unique among women.
He exhaled and opened his eyes to find her looking directly at him. But, as she had admonished him earlier, it was no casual glance. The intensity of her scrutiny unnerved him. Such insight on society, as expressed in her opinions on an object as ordinary as a flower, rendered him helpless and very much in danger. She possessed the power to look deep inside his soul, to unearth the creature within who yearned to be loved but protected himself with the armor of the aristocracy, the veneer of disdain he used to ensure no woman could touch his heart.
At length, she nodded toward the rose.
“Lord Holmestead would not thank you for destroying the balance of symmetry in his garden,” she said.
“Then I must justify my piracy by offering the spoils to one more deserving than I. Here, take it.”
He held out the rose, and she reached for the stem. As their hands touched, a jolt of need shot through his fingers. She caught her breath and looked up, meeting his gaze as an invisible lock slid into place, binding them together. He brushed his thumb against her skin, and her nostrils flared. The floral scent intensified as the July heat curled round them. The sounds of the summer—the bees in the air, the wind in the trees—faded into obscurity against the ripple of understanding.
“Miss Claybone…”
She parted her lips which tr
embled in recognition of the need in his voice. He had only to lean forward and claim her sweet mouth. One kiss and she would be his…
“Jeanette! Ma fille!”
The shrill voice broke the spell, and he drew back.
Miss Claybone’s lips tightened into a line of exasperation before she smoothed her expression into that of a dutiful daughter.
Muttering an apology, he excused himself. He passed Lady Claybone under the archway, who gave him a sharp look. When she shifted her gaze to her daughter, her eyes narrowed with the predatory hunger of the ambitious Mama.
“Oh, Lord Ravenwell, how delightful!”
“Excuse me, Madam.” He issued her a quick bow, then returned to the house.
He should have cursed Lady Claybone for interrupting him. But it was for the best. Captivating though Jeanette might be, the temptation she presented would soon be too great to resist.
He must avoid her for the rest of the house party, and keep Oakville away from her, too. Not many of Henry’s acquaintances could come close to deserving the body—or the heart—of Jeanette Claybone.
*
Jeanette sighed with relief on entering the dining room. None of the guests were up yet, and her only companions were two silent footmen. Helping herself to eggs, she sat at the table and nodded her thanks to the servant who poured her tea. With luck, none of the other guests would join her, and she could slip into the woods and explore the grounds in peace.
The park stretched beyond the walled garden. She had spotted the line of the trees in Papa’s carriage during their journey. Ever the farmer, Papa had pointed out the evidence of deer in the park—the distinctive straight line of the foliage in the trees, as if they’d been severed with a scythe. It was no wonder that venison had graced Lord Holmestead’s table during dinner.
Eating a forkful of eggs, she smiled to herself. Lady Holmestead had possessed the grace to merely nod and smile last night when Elizabeth De Witt had complimented her on the quality of the Holmestead beef. Jeanette had stifled a laugh and exchanged a smile with Papa, and Ravenwell had immediately engaged in a conversation with his neighbor on his preference for venison, amusement dancing in his eyes.
