Living London (23 page)

Hearing a collective feminine sigh, he looked over to see a few older widows tracing his body with their eyes, clearly giving their imaginations free rein. Ewan favored them with a wink and suppressed a laugh when the eldest tossed him a wink in return. He turned away before he invited more trouble than he needed and returned his attention to Lady Jarvais. She cast a glance heavenward before she gave him an impatient look that told him she had seen his antics and was unimpressed.

"La, of course, dear. I'll take care of it," she cooed as she walked away without a care, leaving a brooding Ewan behind.

He was losing his touch. Two women in one evening, and neither had been affected in the least by his famous stare-down. Flirting with the widows didn't count. He'd have to practice, especially if he was to be protecting Grace from a possible seduction by Shiply.

At least now he could easily explain his intervention with Grace's affairs. Perhaps the sudden onslaught of bedroom fantasies where Grace was concerned would subside. Odd for them to start; he'd never had this problem before. What was it? He had never been the jealous sort.

After adjusting his collar once more, he nodded to Lady Jarvais, who had paused and was watching him. He took his leave, picking a spot from which he could watch Grace the rest of the evening, trying not to wonder what she would look like wearing nothing but that delicious smile.

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Chapter One

Lady Clara Huckabee trembled. She felt it in her traitorous knees, which threatened to deposit her in an undignified heap on the Grecian Axminster carpet, and in her throat, tightened almost unbearably beneath her morning gown’s simple velvet neckline. Disappointing her guardian was bad enough, but since he started this fiasco, surely he’d endeavor to bear it. Shocking her aunt, though — for shocking her response would be — was far worse, because it must necessarily cause a measure of pain and Aunt Helen’s sweet soul outweighed her silly, old-fashioned notions. Clara steeled herself. It was their actions, their insistence, which forced her to this miserable necessity. If they refused to consider her wishes in the selection of a husband,
her
husband, then they must accept some of the blame for the contretemps that ensued.

Hopefully the housekeeper wasn’t listening behind the closed drawing room door.

A deep breath, and Clara softened her clenched hands into gentler folds. Only then did she trust herself to meet the Viscount Maynard’s black eyes, unblinking and glittering. No matter how many times she ordered herself to be meek and affable, he still looked like a possessive lizard.

“It distresses me to cause grief in anyone, particularly a gentleman as eminent as my Lord Maynard, and I find no pleasure in disappointing my esteemed aunt and uncle.” She paused. Those reptilian eyes widened and bulged; perhaps she was the first person to dare cross the arrogant booby. Clara hurried on before she could be interrupted. “However, the selection of a lifetime partner is too delicate an operation to be entrusted to any third party, no matter how revered. Kingdoms will neither rise nor fall on my lineage and therefore I believe my own desires and tastes should be consulted. I am sorry, but I cannot accept my lord’s offer of marriage.”

Viscount Maynard’s gaze drifted from her face, drifted lower. “The child has an opinion of her own.” When he’d asked for her hand, his voice had been courteous and correct; now he drawled his words, taking twice as long to state a simple sentence. His lips curled as if he smelled something unspeakable. “How precocious.”

Her skin crawled. His gaze boasted weight and mass, as if his hand explored her without permission. So much for meek and affable; the viscount was surely more interested in her inheritance, in Papa’s money, than in her or her hand. “My lord, your anxiety to change my opinion must be unbounded.” She dropped her most formal curtsey and escaped from the drawing room. Let him eat cake; just not hers.

After the drawing room’s sun-drenched warmth, the cool Grecian elegance of the entryway made her face feel hot. If the housekeeper had bent her ear to the door, she’d run in time. With luck, Clara would escape, too, without additional arguments. But on the curved stairway’s far side, the library door stood ajar. That would be Uncle David’s temporary retreat and he’d be listening for the first sign of movement. Yes, there was his shadow, approaching the doorway. No time to spare.

Clara composed her expression as she ran up the white marble stairs, her slippers soundless, her pale muslin skirt gathered in one hand, the other trailing up the ebony banister. A few moments alone, hidden in the old schoolroom where Papa had taught her mathematics and the stars, and she’d compose herself. The little telescope was still there, beneath the heavy canvas covering they’d sewn for it, pointing as he’d left it, to the merchant shipping and men-of-war anchored in the Sound. If she held the canvas close to her face and breathed deeply, sometimes it seemed she could still smell his musky scent on the neat stitching, so much more even than her own. The memory cooled her temper, but did nothing for the hole he had left behind in her heart. She’d always miss him, always, and no man — certainly not that titled twaddle — could ever remove him from the foremost place in her heart.

Aunt Helen waited at the top of the stairs, almost dancing in place. The artless little brunette wisps fallen from her upturned hair framed her delighted smile, and she held out her hands as Clara paused, three steps below. Surely Aunt Helen, with her superb taste, hadn’t presumed she’d accept that man?

“Our viscountess-to-be! My beautiful niece, I wish you joy.”

Inexplicable. But horribly true. “In regard to my fortunate escape, I’m sure.” The tart words tumbled forth without thought. But there was no recalling them and while it had been dreadful imagining Aunt Helen’s shock, seeing it only added a cold edge of satisfaction to Clara’s anger.

“You didn’t — you didn’t refuse him? Clara, how could you?”

“With relief and a smile, I assure you. Dear aunt, how could you imagine I’d agree to marry anyone so cold and arrogant?”

“But he is a viscount. The ways of the nobility are not like ours. Great wealth and vast landholdings, dating from generations long gone, give a titled man a sense of entitlement that you and I cannot understand. He would make an excellent husband for you.”

The anger broke her restraint, floodwaters rushing from a collapsing dam. “I am no entitlement. And Aunt Helen, could you marry without love?”

“Oh, Clara—” Aunt Helen tucked the fallen curls behind her ears. “Not that again. We’ve had this discussion over and over—”

“You will never convince me.”

“—and while it’s a wonderful, romantic notion to marry for love rather than for stability, fortune, or position, it’s simply not practical. You must have a husband—”

“An encumbrance I know only too well.”

“—and it will not be the Frenchman.”

That was a new voice, a masculine, booming one, coming from the stairs behind her. Clara whirled. Uncle David had approached to within two steps, and she hadn’t heard his footfall through her temper tantrum and their raised voices. His blue eyes, usually warm despite their cool deep color, now burned like chips of Arctic glacial ice.

“Uncle—”

“We are at war with France,” Uncle David said, “a fact you seem able to forget but which torments my every hour, waking or sleeping. Your father’s ships — your fading inheritance — are being taken, sunk, burned, destroyed, and your father’s sailors are dying and wasting away in Napoleon’s prison hulks.” He stepped closer, and while he wasn’t a tall man, in this tempestuous state he seemed twice as large as life, and she seemed smaller. “I will see you unmarried and disinherited before I allow you to wed a Frenchman.”

His declaration rang through the stairwell and entry. Aunt Helen stepped back, hand to her throat. Clara gripped the banister. He would not make her cry. And she would not allow him to win.

“Viscount Maynard has been so good as to accept my invitation to supper and cards.” Uncle David’s voice, while quieter, surrendered none of its authoritative ice. “We both agreed that not every immediate refusal equates to an absolute no.”

Again her knees threatened to deposit her, this time onto the white marble. And this time was far worse. She would not cry, no matter what he said.

“You will go to your room and consider the viscount’s proposal in greater depth.” He turned and clattered down the stairs, the tails of his claret-colored coat fluttering with each step.

No tears. And he would not win.

* * * *

Clara threw the inoffensive morning dress onto the floor and, in her shift, rang for fresh water. “Take that rag away, Nan, please.”

The maid picked up the muslin, nervous hands folding and refolding it. “Shall I have it cleaned, miss?”

“No. Throw it out. Give it to the poorhouse. Keep it for yourself. But get rid of it. I’ll never wear it again.”

Alone, she sponged the lingering stain of those hungering reptilian eyes from her skin, washing again and again until she finally felt clean. The cold way he’d leered at her, as if she were a broodmare at auction, mouth open to be checked! Clara shivered. Did that ugly, open sort of scrutiny best symbolize the marriage market? None of the gentlemen in her usual set, and certainly none of the Frenchmen she’d met during the too-short Amiens peace, had ever looked at her in such a lewd manner. It was not to be borne.

The marriage market. That was Diana Mallory’s term for it, this desperate seeking for a powerful, rich, fashionable husband, and Diana had seen enough of it in London to not complain when her parents moved her to Plymouth. So long as they returned to London for the season, of course. And oh, the horrifying stories she’d told; poor Harmony Barlow’s jaw had hung open like a fly trap. It had seemed so hilarious from that safe distance. Now, her giggles were quite gone.

Hands trembling still, Clara pulled on a clean shift — Nan could have the old one, as well as the dress — short stays that tied in front, and a petticoat. When she reached into the wardrobe, it wasn’t to her other morning gowns, on the left, but to the walking gowns, in the center. She crushed her favorite grey sarsnet to her bodice. Uncle David had told her to go to her room and think. He hadn’t told her to stay there. And she was finished thinking, at least as far as the viscount was concerned. Yes, she’d vanish for a while, until the household’s broiling emotions cooled and soothed. Too bad she couldn’t simply vanish and return, happily married to the perfect man, on the day before her nineteenth birthday, five months hence.

She tugged on the round dress, the colorless color of diffused shadows and trimmed with light dove crepe, added the matching bonnet, silk wrap, and kid gloves, grabbed her lace-making kit for luck, and snuck down the back stairs. The housekeeper and Nan bustled past in the hallway, gossiping in such low tones that all Clara could hear was her name; indeed the blasted woman had listened outside the drawing room door for quite long enough. Once the horizon was clear, Clara slipped out the back window, guilt and smug naughtiness fighting for dominance. She hurried across Ker Street in the face of an oncoming hackney coach and joined the pedestrian flow toward Plymouth Dock.

The fresh breeze tried to snatch her shawl away, billowing the silk behind her, and she tightened it about her arms. The bonnet’s brim shaded her eyes from the noonday light, but welcome summer warmth reached her face when she tilted up her chin. Behind her, the assembly hall and shops tempted, a promising source of news and fun. Perhaps the latest fashion plates had arrived from Paris, and if so, Harmony and Diana would have something droll to say about them. But it was likely the viscount had discussed his intended marriage with his friend, Colonel Durbin, who would of course tell Mrs. Durbin, which meant Miss Dersingham and therefore everyone else in town knew about it, too. Better to avoid the popular places until she felt more capable of speaking rationally on the subject; Harmony and Diana would consider her scrape just as worthy of their wit. While there was a ridiculous side to the affair, she wasn't yet prepared to discuss it.

It was impossible to think on private woes while walking a public street. She hurried on, determinedly keeping her mind and features a composed, sociable blank. As she neared the Dock, the ocean’s scent counterbalanced the horses and coal-smoke. The houses crowded together and the streets narrowed. But before respectability deteriorated too far, a mews opened to the side. Clara ducked inside, away from the lane. Halfway down the long, low building stood a faded yellow door, locked, of course. But Paul, Papa’s stable boy, had taught Harmony and her how to open it during their long-ago hoyden days. A shake of her wrist while turning, one hard push, and the door clacked open in defeat.

Inside was dark as the darkest night, quieter than the streets, and the slice of brilliant sunshine cutting through the open door revealed dust cloth-covered lumps — long sofas and loungers, high-backed, old-fashioned wingchairs, stubby little tables for teas long gone. She and Paul used to peer beneath the white sheets at the fine old furniture, giggling and sneezing as dust flew about them, Harmony worrying her fingernails and hanging on her heel in the doorjamb, ready to run at the first hint of trouble and adamant no dust would touch her white gossamer gown. No one had ever come near, though.