Sixteen

Q uietly holding hands, Claire and Jonathan stared at the door long after his mother had disappeared behind it.

Claire was first to break the silence. “You were right,” she said with a rueful sigh. “She didn’t listen to a word you said.”

“Perhaps.” Jonathan shrugged “But she knows the terms on which I’ll welcome her back into my life, should she ever decide to meet them.” He looked down at Claire. “In any event, I am glad to have said my piece. And for that, I have you to thank.”

She gazed steadily up at him. “I’m still in shock that you’re here. Dead set as you were against seeing her—la, was it only yesterday?” She shook her head in wonder. “What made you change your mind?”

Looking rather discomfited, he released her hand. “To own the truth…”

When he collected his satchel and pulled a familiar book from inside, she felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. “Where did you find that?”

“Fallen in the upstairs corridor,” he said sheepishly.

“Horsefeathers! And you…you read it?”

He nodded. “Are you angry?”

“I…no—yes—I don’t know. I’m mortified. I never meant anybody to read—let alone you —” She gulped. “The things I wrote about you were not very kind?—”

“Yet not unjust!” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I particularly enjoyed the inspired nickname?—”

“Don’t say it!” Claire was torn between dissolving in laughter and hiding behind the sofa. “Please! It’s all Elizabeth’s fault, you know.”

“I do know. And I can’t blame her one bit. If a man behaves like a Ratbag?—”

“I said don’t say it!” Claire cuffed him on the shoulder, though she couldn’t quite suppress a smile. “When I wrote those things I was confused, to say the least. I didn’t know my own heart. You’re not to take any of it seriously.”

He sobered. “I think you did know your heart—or at least, your pen did, for it was evident in every word on the page. Your heart’s nobility and generosity, its eagerness to give love—if only the object of that love could offer the smallest proof of his worthiness.” He took her hands. “I cannot but take your writing seriously, for it showed me how wrong I was to doubt you for even a moment. It brought me from despair to hope.” His eyes implored her. “Still, I know I shouldn’t have read your private words. Can you forgive me? I’ve already thought of a way to even the score.”

“Oh?”

She was mystified to see him reach once more into the satchel, producing a sheaf of letters tied with string. “I settled it with Noah when we met each other on the stairs.”

“What’s Noah got to do with anything?”

Jonathan pressed the bundle into her hands. “This is our correspondence of the past year—Noah’s letters to me, and mine to him. He gave me permission to share them with you. And I think it’s important that you read them.”

“Very well.” When he just continued to look at her, she raised a brow. “You mean right now?”

He nodded.

“What about dinner? We must change, and?—”

“Forget dinner. Noah can host tonight. Or Elizabeth. I’ll ask Mr. Evans to set up a private table in the library.”

“How irregular!” she said on a laugh, though she didn’t dislike the idea.

She and Jonathan had never dined alone before.

“I don’t care if it’s irregular. It’s Christmas Eve, and I should like to have my fiancée to myself.”

That settled, Jonathan left to make the arrangements while Claire sat by the fire and read the letters.

The first was from Jonathan to Noah, written in the sparse style that was typical between gentlemen, to inform his friend he was embarking on a Grand Tour. Short though it was, Claire could read Jonathan’s melancholy between the handful of lines. And so did Noah, evidently, for his reply was banal excepting one pointed reference to how famously Claire had been getting on—an obvious effort to throw cold water over any lingering hopes.

Ha! she chortled to herself. Well done, Noah!

He may have told a bald-faced lie—for at the time the letter had been penned in mid-January, Claire had scarcely left her room—but it was exactly what she would have wanted him to say of her.

Perhaps Noah wasn’t the very worst of brothers, after all.

The bulk of the correspondence continued in this manner. Jonathan’s letters were invariably wan, while Noah’s were oddly focused on his middle sister—the many friends she’d gone to stay with, dance floors she’d graced, suitors she’d rejected, and so forth—all fictitious, of course. Claire was touched to see how staunchly her brother had safeguarded her pride.

But the final exchange brought about a sea change. When she looked at Noah’s last letter, the date immediately caught her eye:

12th November 1819

Claire’s birthday. She remembered her family had marked the day with a dinner party including all of Monsieur Laurent’s best prawn dishes and all of Claire’s favorite people: her siblings, her Cainewood cousins…and, unexpectedly, Lord Milstead. Having paid a call that morning on his way through the neighborhood, he’d been only too delighted to join the family celebration.

The remainder of Noah’s letter proceeded as follows:

Caro amico,

Forgive the abrupt style of this message; I fear there isn’t time for pleasantries. I must own I have not been entirely candid with you. Though Claire bears up admirably, the truth is that she’s in a bad way. It’s not mine to divulge the particulars, but I believe she’s about to make a terrible mistake, and unfortunately I haven’t enough credit with her to prevent it. You, on the other hand, may yet hold some sway. If you care for her still, I beg you to come to us in all haste—although, even should you leave directly, I suppose the journey could hardly be completed before the new year. It may already be too late.

Though I do hope you’ll come, in the spirit of our long friendship, let me end with a word of caution?—

If you hurt my sister again, it will be out of my power to avoid meeting you at dawn.

Yours etc,

Greystone

Jonathan’s reply was a nearly illegible scrawl.

Rome, Italy

1st December 1819

My good man,

Count on me by Christmas.

Rathborne

“Still reading?”

Jumping in surprise, Claire looked up to find Jonathan before her. “I’ve just finished.”

“And?”

“I’m glad you showed them to me. Thank you.” Sighing, she leaned back in her chair. “I suppose I shall have to thank Noah, too, eventually…after I’ve boxed his ears for keeping me in the dark.”

Jonathan smiled crookedly. “His methods may have been a bit underhanded, but I daresay he had your best interests at heart.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, flapping her hands at Jonathan. “You’ve made your point. I’ll make friends with him again, never fear.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Catching one of her hands, he drew her to her feet. “May I escort you in to dinner, madam?”

She didn’t answer right away, for she’d found herself quite close to him. Close enough for his body to fill her vision.

His impeccably tailored suit revealed the width of his shoulders, the solidity of his form. Her eyes were level with his mouth, its contours emphasized in the play of the firelight.

Gazing up into his face for a moment—or an hour—she could not but marvel at the miracle of having him here.

Was this real?

After all this time, was he truly hers?

On impulse (and heedless of the public setting), she went on tiptoe and touched her lips to his. She saw the flash of surprise in his eyes before they drifted closed.

Though this was not their first kiss, she’d never been the instigator before. She liked the feeling of power it gave her. And when he pulled her flush against him and deepened the kiss, she equally liked how it felt ceding that power to him.

When she was ready to take it back, she freed her arms so she could bury her hands in his hair, that thick, silky mass more luscious than any woman’s.

With a strangled laugh, he broke away. “Confound it,” he groaned, holding her at arm’s length as he caught his breath. “Are you trying to make me duel your brother?”

“Oh, dear! I’ve made you all rumpled…” She reached up to smooth his disheveled mane.

“Don’t!” He leapt away from her.

“Sorry!”

“No, I’m sorry!” Looking foolish, he dragged his own hand through his hair—which only made it look worse. “But if you do that again, I’m not certain of keeping my wits about me.”

She flushed with pleasure. Too giddy to form a proper response, she settled for silently directing him to a looking glass. While he stood before it to repair the damage, she stationed herself behind him.

“I’ve wanted to touch your hair,” she found herself confessing, “ever since I first saw you. Imagine my regret all this past year that I’d never done it when I had the chance…”

A low chuckle escaped his lips. “Was it worth the wait?”

She nodded seriously. “But if you don’t like it?—”

“Claire, stop,” he growled in that way that made her shiver. “You have my permission, or rather my encouragement, to touch my hair as often as you’d like—the very instant we are married.”

She caught his eye in the mirror. “And when might that be?”

“Just as soon as you like.” He grinned, slightly abashed. “Don’t think me overbold, but as soon as we landed in Dover, I put Andrews on the stage to Canterbury…”

Claire half-gasped, half-laughed. “That is bold! Were you so sure of succeeding with me?”

“Not at all! But I was sure if I did succeed, and any legal niceties sprang up to hamper us, I’d go stark-raving mad.”

“As would I,” Claire said fervently. “Have you had word from him?”

“I have not.” His hair back in order, Jonathan turned from the mirror to offer his arm. “But if he isn’t at Twineham by now, with the special license in hand, I should be very much surprised.”

Claire took the arm. Now she was grinning too, so wide her cheeks began to hurt. “We could leave the party a day early,” she ventured, “and ride to Twineham Park on Sunday…”

“To wed on Monday? Won’t you mind shirking your hostess duties?”

“Elizabeth can step into the breach.” Claire breathed a happy sigh as they set off for the library. “It’ll be her job soon enough.”