Thirteen
The next morning Claire lay upon the bed and brooded upon her long and restless night. What was the matter with her? she sternly chided. Lord Challmond was not the first handsome gentleman she had ever encountered. He was not even the most charming. So why, then, did she melt like a giddy schoolgirl every time he touched her?
There was no reasonable explanation, she at last conceded.
He was simply one of those gentlemen blessed with the talent to seduce the fairer sex, and much as she might wish to consider herself above such foolishness, she was clearly no less susceptible than any other silly miss.
Not an extraordinarily comforting thought, she acknowledged with a sigh. Before Simon’s return to Devonshire she had taken great pride in her cool disregard for childish flirtations. Her mind was concerned with lofty, noble causes that left no interest in common dalliances. It was difficult to accept that she was not nearly so lofty and noble as she believed. Indeed, she was startlingly wanton given the opportunity.
Claire grimaced. At least Simon had belatedly appeared to realize how inappropriately he had been behaving. After the rude interruption by Aunt Jane he had disappeared from her chamber in an oddly stiff fashion. As if he had been as shaken as she was by the fierce flare of passion that had burned between them. Absurd, of course, considering he had no doubt possessed dozens of mistresses. Then he had made only a brief visit after dinner to wish her a pleasant night.
Now she discovered herself awaiting his arrival with a mixed sense of dread and anticipation.
Would he be the charming companion? The intellectual sparring partner? The irresistible seducer? Or the aloof host?
And could she face him without thinking of how it felt to be in his arms?
Chastising her wayward thoughts, Claire was on the point of ringing for the maid and requesting a book from the library, when her solitude was ended by the arrival of a stocky, dark-haired gentleman.
“Mr. Lockmeade.” She smiled, relieved to have her brooding thoughts distracted. Besides which, she genuinely liked the uncomplicated gentleman.
“Please, call me Locky,” he insisted. “May I join you?”
Despite the fact that Aunt Jane had yet to make her appearance, Claire waved a slender hand toward the chair next to her bed. It never occurred to her that this gentleman was anything but trustworthy. Not only was his character etched in the rugged strength of his countenance, but she possessed an unwavering belief that Simon would never choose a friend who did not possess his same inherent goodness.
“Certainly.”
He moved to settle himself in the chair, his gaze lingering on the violent colors still marring her temple.
“How do you feel?”
“Much improved,” she assured him.
“You gave me quite a scare,” he informed her in stern tones.
She smiled with rueful humor. From all reports, she had set the entire household on its head by her unexpected arrival.
“I fear I have not had the opportunity to thank you. Goodness knows how long I might have lain there if you had not come along.”
“I am only relieved that you were not seriously injured.”
Her smile widened. “Thank goodness for my thick head, eh?”
He laughed and reached into his pocket to withdraw a folded piece of paper.
“I have brought you a surprise,” he announced, handing her the paper.
With distinct curiosity Claire gingerly opened the paper to discover a painting of what might have been herself and several stick forms. Lifting her head, she surveyed Locky with raised brows.
“It is . . . lovely.”
“I unfortunately cannot take credit,” he swiftly corrected her. “The children at the orphanage asked that I bring it to you.”
She felt a prick of surprise. “You were at the orphanage?”
Locky shrugged, but there was a hint of embarrassment in his manner.
“Yes, I have been attempting to lend a bit of help while you recover. Not that I could ever hope to fill your position.”
Claire regarded him with growing admiration. How many gentlemen would willingly give their time to an orphanage?
“That is very, very kind of you.”
He waved aside her words. “I have discovered that I enjoy spending time with the children.”
“I am certain they appreciate having you take such an interest.”
He appeared eager to brush aside his good deed, as if he were uneasy at her compliments.
“They miss you.”
Not any more than she missed them, she acknowledged with a pang. Their lively chatter and ceaseless questions were just what she needed to divert her inward restlessness.
“And what of Lord Challmond?” She could not prevent the question. “Does he not object to your spending your visit at the orphanage?”
Locky gave a sudden laugh. “Lord Challmond has been far too occupied to concern himself with my whereabouts.”
“Oh.” It was Claire’s turn to struggle with embarrassment. For the first time, she realized that Simon had indeed spent little time with his companion. “I am sorry to have interrupted your stay with Lord Challmond.”
“Do not apologize,” Locky insisted. “I have never known Simon to be content enough to remain in one place for such a length of time.”
Claire frowned in bewilderment. What on earth was he speaking of?
“But Simon lived in London for years.”
“According to his friends, it was never in one place,” Locky explained. “He would remain at his town house for a week, perhaps two, and then he would be off with Philip and Barth on some lark or another. Almost as if he feared becoming settled.” There was a pause as he considered her pale features. “But since coming to Devonshire, · he has been almost at peace.”
Claire shifted uneasily beneath his regard. Surely he was not implying that she was somehow responsible for Simon remaining in Devonshire? He could not be more off the mark.
“This is his home.” She pointed out.
“And what is home?” Locky demanded. “Is it a place or is it a feeling?”
Claire briefly considered his words. Blakewell Manor was certainly her home, but while she possessed a sense of appreciation for the familiar mortar and stones, it was indeed her father and the staff who had helped to raise her that she loved.
“I suppose it is a feeling,” she slowly admitted. “And what of you, Locky? Do you have someplace to call home?”
“I hope to someday very soon.”
Wondering if he had someone or someplace already in mind, Claire was halted in asking the question as a familiar tingle of awareness had her abruptly turning toward the door.
As expected, Simon was filling the doorway with his large frame. Who else could create that disturbing flutter deep in her heart by merely being near? And as expected, he was elegantly attired in an indigo-blue coat and yellow breeches that set off his well-toned muscles to perfection. What was not expected was the deep scowl that marred his handsome features as he absorbed the obvious comfort between Claire and his best friend.
“Simon,” she murmured, her expression wary.
“Good morning, Claire.” His glittering gaze turned to Locky. “Am I intruding?”
Locky slowly rose to his feet, his heavy features set in stoic lines.
“Do not be a fool, Challmond,” he growled.
The two men regarded each other in prickly silence before Simon gave a sharp shake of his head.
“Forgive me,” he muttered. “Mr. Cassel is here to see you, Claire.”
Uncertain what had occurred between the gentlemen, Claire breathed an audible sigh. At least she would be freed from this infernal bed. She was far too active to take this enforced bed rest in stride. She longed to be up and about.
“Thank goodness.”
She missed Simon’s rueful grimace as he stepped aside and the small, rapidly balding surgeon bustled into the room.
“Here we are, then,” he proclaimed, bending to inspect Claire’s wound without batting an eye at the fact that Claire had obviously been entertaining a gentleman in the bedchamber.
As if realizing the impropriety of his presence, Locky gave a brief bow.
“I shall make myself scarce. Until later, Miss Blakewell.”
“Good day, Mr. Lockmeade,” she murmured, flinching as the surgeon pressed against her bruise.
“Mmm . . .” Mr. Cassel narrowed his gaze. “Any dizziness?”
Not as long as Simon was not kissing her, she acknowledged even as .she gave a firm shake of her head.
“No.”
“No fainting?”
“No.”
“No fever?”
“No.”
He held her lids wide to peer deeply into her eyes. “You are eating well?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm.” At last satisfied, he stepped back, his expression one of disapproval, as if holding her fully responsible for her accident. “It seems that you have been quite fortunate, young lady.”
Claire’s eyes brightened. “Then I can get up?”
“Yes, but I still wish you to take care for the next few days,” he warned. “No more banging your head.”
Claire gave a sudden laugh. “Believe me, I shall do my best.”
“See that you do.”
Suddenly Simon moved farther into the room, his dark features unreadable as he studied Claire’s pleased countenance.
“Thank you, Mr. Cassel. Mrs. King will see you out,” he murmured, then, waiting for the surgeon to make his bow and hurry from the room, he slowly strolled to tower over-the bed. “Well, it appears that you have been released from the jail.”
Suddenly realizing that being allowed to rise from her bed also meant she no longer had a reason to remain in Simon’s home, Claire battled an absurd, thoroughly unexpected stab of regret.
No, she told herself sternly, she could not wish to remain at Westwood Park. Or to be close to Lord Challmond. It had to be a lingering. . . malaise. A reaction to her severe blow to the head.
What other explanation could there be?
“Yes, indeed.“ She forced a light tone. “If you will call for a maid, then I can be dressed and on my way.”
The emerald eyes narrowed. “In such a hurry, Claire?”
She would rather have her tongue removed than admit she was in no hurry at all.
“There is little point in postponing my leave-taking. I am certain you shall be relieved to be rid of your unwanted guest.”
“Do not be so certain. We have, after all, enjoyed the past two days, have we not?”
“Yes, but . . .” Her voice trailed away in bewilderment.
“Perhaps I shall lock you in this bedchamber and toss away the key.”
She caught her breath as they gazed at each other for a disturbing moment. Then, with an effort, she lowered her head. He was merely jesting. He would no doubt be delighted to see the back of her.
“You are being foolish,” she murmured.
There was a long pause. “Yes, perhaps I am,” he at last admitted. “Claire . . .”
With reluctance she lifted her head. “Yes?”
“I . . .” He appeared oddly hesitant, as if uncertain what he wished to say, then, with an abrupt frown, he took a decisive step backward. “It is nothing. I shall fetch your maid.”
Not certain what she expected, Claire experienced a queer sense of disappointment as he gave her a small bow and left the chamber.
So that was that. She was free to go, and as she had predicted, Simon was eager to be rid of her.
There was no reason at all to feel as if she should bury her head in the pillow and cry like a wounded child.
* * *
Three days later Claire was seated in the empty schoolroom of the orphanage, sorting a box full of books that had been donated by a local merchant. It was a task that unfortunately took little concentration, and for what seemed to be the hundredth time her renegade thoughts turned to Lord Challmond.
He seemed to have simply disappeared.
With every passing hour Claire had expected him to appear. After all, he had haunted her for days, even weeks. He was always popping in when she least expected him. And certainly she assumed that he would wish to assure himself that she was recovering.
But day after day passed without a word, and Claire discovered herself growingly vexed with his lack of attention.
What was the matter with her? she silently chided. She had wished Simon in Jericho when he had pestered her with his persistent presence. Then the moment he had behaved with a bit of decorum, she felt oddly abandoned.
There seemed no means of pleasing her, she reluctantly acknowledged. She could only wish she could return to the contentment that had been hers before Lord Challmond’s return to Devonshire.
The sound of the door opening had Claire turning about to discover Harry entering the room and awkwardly crossing the stone floor to join her. With an effort Claire conjured a smile.
“Good morning, Harry.”
“Morning, Miss Blakewell.” He shifted uneasily before thrusting out his hand. “I have something for you.”
Claire reached out to take the smooth rock that Harry offered.
“Why, thank you, Harry. It is lovely.”
“It is a magic rock,” he confessed in low tones.
“Magic?”
“Aye.” He nodded his head in a vigorous fashion. “It will protect you from the bad blokes.“
Clearly the rumors of Mr. Foster had made their way through the neighborhood, and Claire felt a warmth fill her heart at the child’s concern.
“I see.”
Harry squared his thin shoulders. “I t’ain’t need it now that I live here.”
She studied the freckled face. “And you are happy here, Harry?”
A wide grin abruptly split the homely face. “I reckon I t’ain’t never been so happy.”
“I am very pleased.”
His grin faintly faded. “And I promise that I won’t disappoint you, Miss Blakewell.”
Claire was suddenly struck by his solemn words. She recalled Simon’s sense of duty and obligation that had haunted his life. She did not wish to see Harry burdened in the same manner.
“You could never disappoint me, Harry.” She assured him with a smile. “I only wish you to be happy.”
“Harry.” Ann entered the room, regarding the pair of them with raised brows. “You are about to miss lunch.”
“Blimey.” With wiry speed Harry darted out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Gently laughing at Harry’s antics, Ann crossed toward Claire.
“I wondered where you had disappeared to. How are you feeling?”
She was not going to admit that she had deliberately been avoiding Ann.
“I feel quite recovered.”
The dark gaze deliberately lingered on the pale features and sleepless circles beneath her eyes.
“Then you must feel remarkably better than you appear.”
“I am fine,” Claire insisted.
“Well, Mr. Foster has a great deal to answer for,” Ann retorted, her gaze moving to the fading bruise. “Of course, he has no doubt learned to regret his scandalous behavior. It could not have been comfortable knowing that Lord Challmond’s entire staff was searching for him or that the earl had threatened to have him hung from the nearest tree. He is fortunate that he was discovered by the magistrate.”
Claire determinedly kept her countenance smooth. It was far too tempting to presume that Simon’s outrage was more than neighborly concern at a villain being on the loose in the area.
“I am only relieved that he can no longer be a threat to others.”
Ann picked up a leather-bound book, her manner determinedly casual.
“And speaking of Lord Challmond, I believe he should be here any moment.”
Claire felt her heart falter. “Here? Why?”
“I mentioned your suggestion of adding a greenhouse to the orphanage, and he wishes to bring Mr. Davis along and discover if it would be a viable plan.” Ann slowly lifted her head to study Claire’s heated countenance. “I thought you would be pleased?”
Pleased? How could she be pleased when Simon was bound to assume that she had coerced Ann into luring him to the orphanage? It was, after all, what he had learned to expect from women.
And even worse was the fierce, undeniable realization of just how badly she wished to see him. To view his countenance. To hear his voice. To smell that warm, masculine scent.
It sent a shaft of fear straight through her heart.
With a sudden motion she was on her feet.
“I fear I cannot.”
Ann regarded her in surprise. “No?”
“I . . . am expected home for lunch.”
“You could send along a note with your groom,” the older woman pointed out in reasonable tones. “This is, after all, what you have wanted to achieve for years.”
“Yes, well . . . I really must go,” she retorted lamely.
Aim set aside the book and regarded her squarely. “Claire, is there something the matter?”
“No. Nothing at all.”
“Are you avoiding Lord Challmond?”
She desperately battled the urge to blush. She did not know what she was doing. And that, of course, was the trouble. She wanted to be with Simon, but she didn’t. She wished to continue with the life she had chosen, and yet, she felt a restless dissatisfaction deep within her. She wished to turn back the hands of time but realized it was far, far too late.
“Of course I am not attempting to avoid Lord Challmond,” she deliberately lied. “I simply promised Father that I would join him today and I have no wish to disappoint him. I can view the plans on another occasion.“
Not surprisingly Ann regarded her with a hint of suspicion.
“If you insist.”
“I shall return tomorrow.”
Without giving Ann an opportunity to respond, Claire rounded the desk and hurried from the room. Ann knew her far too well not to suspect that something was amiss. All Claire could hope was that she would eventually regain her usual composure.
She moved down the hall and out the door to the front courtyard. Glimpsing her waiting carriage, she began to cross toward it, only to come to a startled halt as she realized the large mare as well as her groom were missing. With a frown she glanced toward the elder servant tugging at an errant weed.
“Rossen, have you seen my groom?”
The servant jerked his thumb in the direction of the pathway.
“He feared that the horse be coming a bit lame. He is walking it to Blakewell Manor and said he would return directly to collect you.”
Blast, she inwardly cursed.
“When did he leave?”
“Not more than a moment ago.”
Now what did she do?
It would be half an hour or more for the groom to return. Certainly not before Simon would arrive with the builder.
Did she wait here and face him, or ignore all practical sense and walk home?
It took only a moment to decide.
She had walked home hundreds of times without incident. And Mr. Foster had been captured several days before. There was no need to linger here like a helpless child.
Not when to linger meant encountering Lord Challmond.
She would go to great lengths to avoid such an event.
Great lengths, indeed.
With a toss of her head Claire determinedly began marching toward the path through the woods.