Fourteen

“ M y dear Lord Greystone!”

When the sing-song greeting reached their ears, both Noah and Claire froze, his hand still gripping her arm. Their furious argument ended abruptly. They looked round in trepidation, having both forgotten the matter of their uninvited guest.

But the lady was nowhere to be seen—until Claire at last caught sight of a delicate gloved hand wiggling its fingers inside the chaise. At the same time, a dog began yapping.

Claire signaled a footman, who sprang into action. Finally shaking off her brother, she straightened her clothing and moved forward to receive the duchess. As Noah joined her, she realized most of their guests were also gathered round, having observed the siblings’ tussle with avid interest.

Mary was in her element.

The footman lowered the chaise’s steps, and the Duchess of Rathborne seemingly floated down them.

Beneath her fur-lined velvet cloak, she was magnificently attired in red and gold silk—rather too magnificently for traveling, though perhaps not for barging into a Christmas party. As always, under one arm she carried a Pomeranian as immaculately groomed as his mistress. Today the little dog wore a collar of rubies and diamonds matched to those the duchess was wearing.

“Your grace,” Noah said, bowing over her small hand. “I beg pardon for my shameful neglect.”

“ Tiens , you must not think of it!” she replied in her breathy French accent. “I’m sure if poor Rousseau”—she scratched the Pomeranian’s ears—“were not so very thirsty, I should not mind sitting out in the cold and damp as long as you please.”

To this pointed remark Noah could only respond by inviting the trespasser inside. Sending Mr. Evans off for a dish of water (pursued by her grace’s directive that Rousseau drank only green tea), he offered the duchess his arm.

Claire and the company of eager spectators followed close on their heels. As everyone swarmed through the entrance hall, three footmen vanished beneath mounds of shedded outerwear.

Noah led her grace into the saloon, talking indifferently of weather and roads until he’d got her installed by the fire, with her dog at her feet daintily lapping Imperial Hyson Tea. Then he fell pensively silent, and Claire guessed he was scouring his memory for an acceptable way to ask a duchess what on earth she was doing in his house.

Thankfully, her grace spared him the trouble. “You’ve proved so very kind, my Lord Greystone, that I know you shall be only too happy to oblige my wish of visiting with my son.”

“Oh! I see. Yes, well…”—Noah threw Claire a look of panic—“I believe the duke is rather indisposed”—her grace scowled, and he swallowed hard—“but naturally, I’m at your service!” He rose. “I shall fetch him at once.”

The scowl transformed into a serene smile. “ So very kind!” she repeated.

In his haste to escape, Noah nearly collided with Mr. Evans in the doorway.

“Begging your lordship’s pardon,” the butler said with ruffled dignity, “but may I venture to apprise you of the time?”

“The time? Oh, blast, it’s time for us all to dress!”

As everyone began reluctantly filing out, and Noah scurried off to his task, Claire realized, with dawning horror, that she was about to be alone with the duchess. For it was unthinkable to leave such a distinguished guest unattended, and as Greystone’s mistress, the duty of staying behind must fall to her.

In vain she sought Elizabeth’s eye in order to plead for assistance. But her sister was either lost in contemplation or pretending to be, for she quit the room without a backward glance.

Claire could only hope Noah would return quickly—and with a stout heart in his chest. She feared her grace might not accept the inevitable rejection with anything even close to (actual) grace, and indeed, might try something drastic to get her own way.

She would not succeed, however, in Claire’s estimation—even should Noah’s resolution falter—for as Claire knew all too well, pigs would fly before Jonathan came within spitting distance of his mother.

In fact, odds were Jonathan had already left Greystone. And, believing what he did of Claire, he’d probably never again come within her spitting distance, either. She would never get the chance to argue her innocence—which was just as well, since she hadn’t a clue what she could possibly say to convince him of it.

“Will you be needing anything, my lady?”

“Hmm?” The query drawing her from her reverie, Claire looked to Mr. Evans—her last remaining ally, as everyone else had gone. Though his expression betrayed no telltale sentiment, Claire knew the old butler well enough to perceive his concern for her.

Feeling touched, she managed a small smile. “Thank you, Mr. Evans, but I would not for the world keep you from your dinner preparations.”

He hesitated. “Are you certain?”

She squared her shoulders. “Quite certain.”

While he would never be so undignified as to wink, she detected an approving twinkle in his eye. “Very well, my lady.” He bowed and went out—though decidedly leaving the door open, as if to accord her the option of shouting for help.

Then Claire had nothing left to do but to go and settle herself in the wingback chair opposite her grace’s. Claire folded her hands primly in her lap and, as Jonathan’s mother continued staring into the fire, took a few moments to survey her opponent. But as she studied the dance of light and shadow upon the formidable face—throwing every droop and crease into sharp relief, making the duchess appear ten years older than she had last Christmas—she realized she felt no animosity toward this woman.

Her quarrel had never been with the duchess and her bad behavior, but with Jonathan and his .

Whatever the duchess’s reasons for interfering in her son’s affairs—whether she’d taken some dislike to Claire or simply feared losing her own place in his heart—Claire could not but pity her. To have gone to such lengths and concocted such schemes spoke of a desperation one could only attribute, having seen mother and son together, to the deepest love.

A love misapplied, of course, and disastrously so. But after the events of the past year—and especially the past days—Claire fancied she now knew a bit about love and desperation, and indeed, schemes and mistakes. And if all that had come about for love of a man she’d kept company with for but a few months, what might a mother’s love drive her to?

Claire might have passed all her time with the duchess in such charitable reflections, had she not felt the absolute necessity of saying something. Resolved on keeping to the most banal of civilities, she began with: “I hope you left your mother in good health.”

Only upon her grace’s astonished reaction did Claire realize the inflammatory potential of her remark—given that when they’d last parted, the duchess was allegedly en route to her mother’s deathbed. She wished immediately to recant, but knew not how.

Before responding, her grace lifted the little Pomeranian onto her lap and began to stroke its back. “The marquise is in a tolerable way, considering.” When her gaze returned to Claire, her eyes were wide and round with concern. “I only pray, ma mie , the same can be said of yourself! You appear to have suffered some sort of accident, n’est-ce pas?”

Claire followed the duchess’s pointed look down to the large, wine-colored stain on her gown. “Oh! Yes, an accident. I am honored by your grace’s compassion, but I have suffered no injury. It’s only spilled wine.”

“Bien s?r! Forgive me, I did not realize the English mademoiselles engaged in such, ah, spirited modes of celebration.”

“Oh, no,” Claire protested, blushing deeply. “I’m not ‘spirited’ at all! I’ve barely had a sip! The spill only happened because?—”

“ Ma mie ,” she interrupted with smothering generosity, “there is no need for embarrassment. Do not imagine me to be censuring you, for I am quite sure you are beyond reproach! The mistake is all mine. Unsociable as I am, I’ve become woefully ignorant of the general conduct of young ladies. I fear,” she concluded, her eyes hard, though her voice lost none of its sickly sweetness, “I am only familiar with the conduct befitting a Duchess of Rathborne.”

Claire could hardly fail to understand the rebuke, but its style of delivery left her equally unable to offer any defense or, indeed, to say anything at all. Instead she merely blushed deeper and quailed beneath the duchess’s withering glare.

After a few seconds of excruciating silence, broken only by the whisper of fingernails upon fur, Claire was ready to expire on the spot—and might have done, if not for the timely entrance of her rescuer.

“Noah!” she greeted him with undisguised relief—but the tall and reassuringly solid figure striding into the room was not her brother’s. “Jonathan?” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“I believe I was summoned,” he answered coolly and came to stand beside her.

She found that reassuring, as well as the return of his normal coloring. But with a sinking heart, she also noted he’d brought with him a leather satchel and an impatient air, and his eyes, resting on her but briefly, still flashed with anger.

“Summoned,” he went on, “it would seem, to engage in a discussion of conduct befitting a Duchess of Rathborne. Have I got that right, maman ?”

Upon seeing her son for the first time in nearly a year, the duchess was too overwhelmed for concealment. Claire watched her drink him in, everything she felt laid bare upon her face: hurt, indignation, even fury.

But these were mere whitecaps atop an ocean of longing.

Claire could see a palpable desire to leap from her chair and scoop her child into her arms, along with a tremble of fear or of weakness, as if she were already expecting him to leave again. Though her well-bred restraint compelled her to keep her seat and continue stroking Rousseau, whom she clung to like a life preserver, she seemed unable to marshal her powers of speech.

Fortunately, Jonathan didn’t wait for an answer. “Perhaps you haven’t considered,” he went on, “that as the Duke of Rathborne, I should have the final say on this matter. And in my present humor I find it more appropriate to discuss conduct un befitting a duchess of my house.” Claire noticed his jaw tighten. “For instance, barging into an acquaintance’s castle, ordering him about your errands, and being rude to his sister; is this the sort of behavior I ought to expect and condone?”

His mother was stung into a reply. “What other choice did I have?” she cried. “You refused to see me!”

“I beg your pardon,” he said coldly, “but you had the choice to leave me alone and respect my wishes—which I made quite clear.”

“You made nothing clear! Voyons , you vanished without a word—no idea where you went, when you were coming home, why you left?—”

“ Why? You dare ask why , after what you did?” He laughed without a shred of humor. “If ruining my wedding—three times!—wasn’t enough, perhaps we might add in the repeated lies, the dragging me to another country under false pretenses, and oh, let’s not forget locking me in a closet?—”

“It was a dressing room!” she protested. “And I did not lock you in, merely took advantage of a f-fortunate…accident…”

She trailed off, evidently realizing (based on her son’s thunderous expression) this line of argument would get her nowhere.

“ Mon coeur ,” she began again, “I know I went too far at times. But you must understand I did the best I could with what means were available. I desired only to help you, to save you from an ill-considered marriage.”

“What could possibly be ill-considered about Claire? An earl’s daughter from an irreproachable line!”

“It is not her family I object to—just look at her! Look at her dress, her hair…”

When they both wheeled round to do so, Claire discovered it was impossible to die from embarrassment, for otherwise she would surely have perished. Which might have been preferable to enduring them watch her awkwardly pat her windswept hair and try (and fail) to cover her stained gown.

Contempt deepened the lines around her grace’s mouth. “These English girls,” she muttered. “I’d hoped to introduce you to some suitable young women during our time in France, mon coeur , that you might see what is lacking here. No élégance , no dignité , no humilité . Nothing but vulgar Protestant pride! I’m sure Lady Claire is a nice enough girl, but she will not make you a good wife. She is too willful, too strong-minded to be ruled by her husband as she ought. She will never learn her place.”

By this time, tears—of shame or rage, she didn’t know which—were beginning to prick Claire’s eyes, and she felt the need to escape before she either lost her temper or broke down in sobs.

She rose from her chair.

Then stopped dead upon hearing Jonathan’s next words.

“You’re right, maman .”