Eight

H e’s still mine.

Claire felt unable to decipher her own reaction. Esteem and the glow of validation were at war with doubt and indignation, and if the seedlings of forgiveness or affection were anywhere to be found, she couldn’t perceive them.

Correcting his error now , she reflected bitterly, after the damage was already done, did not oblige her to forgive and forget.

And yet…

Still mine.

He just stood there, looking at her.

Waiting for her.

He didn’t even blink.

I’m still yours if you’ll have me, still echoed in her head.

Still mine.

At last, Claire felt something shift—just a hair’s breadth—within her. She was not disarmed, but she felt the first inkling of danger.

It would be so easy, such a relief, to fall into his arms and let him soothe away all the hardships of the past year. No more constant little stings of deprivation.

Her skin, deprived of his warmth.

Her body, deprived of his intoxicating nearness.

Her heart, deprived of the bubbly joy that had carried her smiling through all her days, from the day they met to the day he left.

For a moment, she let herself imagine that those comforts could be hers again. He could be hers again. It seemed impossibly indulgent—after yearning so long for just a word or a glimpse of him—to instead imagine him always by her side. They would be always together. They would be quickly married. They would ride off in a carriage and begin their new life at?—

At Twineham Park.

“What of your mother?” Claire asked abruptly.

Jonathan raised a brow. “What of her? She’s nothing to me now.”

Claire saw right through his indifferent facade, but decided not to remark upon it just now. “Has she given up the dower house?”

“No, but that doesn’t signify.”

“Does it not?” Claire planted a hand on her hip. “She’ll be living a quarter mile from our—that is, your doorstep.”

“So?” He twisted his mouth into a sneer. “A quarter mile is distance enough if we decline to acknowledge her. I was at Twineham just yesterday and never clapped eyes on the woman.”

“You’re certain she was at home?” Claire pressed. “And didn’t try to see you?”

“I’ve no idea. I instructed the butler to turn her away and henceforth never utter her name to me.”

Claire laughed without humor. “And this is your plan? You’ll spend the rest of your life tiptoeing round your own house and pretending she doesn’t exist?”

“Only the rest of her life,” he retorted. “Unless she should decide, on her generous widow’s portion, to remove somewhere else—to Brighton, perhaps, or even Neuf-Marché. Then all parties would be satisfied.”

“Satisfied?” Claire scoffed. “You think your mother will ever give up on reconciling with her beloved son? Or that you and your tender heart could just throw her off with nary a scruple?”

His eyes flashed. “I can be as stout-hearted as the next man.”

“I’m certain you can, in support of a just cause. But avoiding your mother because you’re scared to face a quarrel is not what I would call a just cause.”

“I’m not scared!” He took up the poor napkin again, wringing without mercy. “I simply don’t care to waste my time. There’s no reasoning with her.”

“How do you know? Have you tried?”

“No, Claire,” he said with exaggerated sarcasm. “Incredibly, I somehow managed to live with the woman for twenty-nine years without ever engaging in a single reasoned discussion. You know, just because you were right about my mother’s deception does not mean you’re an authority on everything .”

“No, not on everything.” Claire drew herself up. “But I am most certainly the highest authority on my own feelings. And I feel your mother’s shadow still hanging over us—and between us. The problem hasn’t gone away; it’s only been swept beneath the rug.”

He fixed her with an exasperated scowl. “I don’t understand what you want from me. Maman tried to keep us apart, so I severed ties?—”

“I never wanted?—”

“—but now you turn around and say I must reconcile with her?”

“Not reconcile with her, confront her! Stand up to her, instead of pretending she’s gone. Stand up for yourself! And for me.”

He wrenched a hand through his hair. “For you I would, if I believed any good might come from it. But I see no chance of that. And frankly, I don’t see how my relationship with her is any concern of yours.”

Claire felt as if he’d slapped her. “Then you haven’t changed as much as you think!”

His chin jutted stubbornly. “I promise you, she won’t listen to a word I say.”

Claire could match him for stubbornness. “Whether she listens or not, you’ll have said your piece. You’ll have faced her like a grown man, instead of hiding like a cowed child.”

“Ah, just as you faced me like a grown woman, instead of trying to drive me away with childish pranks?”

“I—” She stopped. And flushed. “You’re right, of course. I have been childish.” She sank back onto her stool, worrying her lip.

His temper seemed to cool. “No doubt Elizabeth goaded you into it,” he said in a blatant attempt to cushion the criticism. “By-the-by, what have you two in store for me tomorrow?”

“Nothing,” Claire fibbed, making a mental note to speak with Monsieur Laurent and Mr. Evans first thing in the morning. Oh, and the stables as well! Could she get round to all of them in time? “Our tricks are quite finished.”

“What a relief,” Jonathan drawled. “I feared my trousers must be given up for lost.”

La, she would have to locate those before dinner time! Hopefully Elizabeth knew where they’d got to. “Fear not,” Claire said with feigned confidence. “All shall be put to rights.”

His eyes sought hers. “Between us, as well?”

“Er…”

For a moment, what she saw in the depths of those eyes overpowered her: crushing tenderness, tortured hope…an undercurrent of desire.

She looked away to escape the onslaught. “As far as friendship is concerned, I accept your apology and bear you no ill will.” Or not much, anyway. “But beyond that…”

She shook her head.

“It’s too late, then. As you forewarned.” He braced himself against the table, seeming suddenly exhausted. “And everything we once meant to each other—that means nothing to you now?”

“Not nothing,” she said gently. “Just…not enough.”

“I see.” In seeming response to her gentleness, his tone grew sharper. “Or perhaps not as much as Milstead means to you?”

Before she could open her mouth—before she could even feel outrage—he thumped himself on the forehead.

“No, don’t answer that. It was wrong of me to ask.” He blew out a breath. “Friendship, then. I should like to give it a try, though I’ve no idea how to proceed. Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know.” Exhausted too, Claire rose. “Right now, we go to bed.”

“Wait—”

“Good night, your grace.”

In a low growl, he said, “Don’t ‘your grace’ me, Claire.”

A delicious shiver raced down her spine. She’d never heard him speak that way before. Her name on his lips—that almost wild, guttural Claire —echoed in her ears. It seemed to stoke something buried within her—a dim glow—a faint heat. But she quashed the sensation with all her might, instinctively drawing away from him.

“Claire,” came another growl, which made her knees go rather weak. “Where do you think you’re going? It’s pitch-black out there, and you’ve no light.”

She lifted a sleepy Kippers and tottered to the door. “I know my way about the castle.”

“Take my candle.”

“I’ll be all right.” Before he could stop her, she fled into the dark.