Three
Simon had left his estate early that morning with every intention of proving to himself that the lovely Miss Blakewell had been mistaken. Surely Foster could not be as bad as she had indicated? He would have known if something were amiss.
But it had taken only moments to realize that he was the one mistaken.
A smoldering fury lodged in the pit of his stomach as he visited the crumbling cottages and rode past the overgrown paddocks. Worse were the resigned faces of his tenants and their obvious disbelief in his promises to make things better.
It was no wonder Miss Blakewell charged him with neglect. The entire estate suffered beneath the care of Foster.
Of course, Foster’s days at Westwood Park were done, he promised. He would personally run the villain off the estate. He would also ensure his next steward would be a man he could depend upon to care for Westwood Park when he was otherwise occupied.
Those had been the thoughts running through his mind when he had fIrst entered Mrs. Foley’s cottage. Then one glimpse of Miss Blakewell, and those thoughts had scattered.
Suddenly he was no longer aware of the neglected cottages and nagging guilt that he was avoiding his duties. Instead, he was remembering the feel of her slender body pressed close to his own and the delectable softness of her mouth. He had kissed dozens of women, most of whom were as experienced in the ways of pleasing a man as they were beautiful, but oddly, none had lingered in his thoughts in the manner this unruly, sharp-tongued shrew had managed to do. Indeed, the feel and taste of her had kept him awake long into the night.
And he had possessed every intention of kissing her once again when Locky had intruded upon their momentary privacy. Now he sternly smothered his flare of regret as he loosened his hold and stepped away.
“Ah, Locky, allow me to introduce Miss Blakewell. Miss Blakewell, my very great friend, Mr. Lockmeade.”
Claire gave a small dip. “Mr. Lockmeade.”
“Miss Blakewell.” Locky closely surveyed Claire’s fine features and stormy blue eyes as he bowed in return.
“Did you enjoy your walk?” Simon asked his friend.
The blunt features lit with genuine appreciation. “Yes, quite a nice bit of land you have here.”
“So I am beginning to realize,” Simon retorted in dry tones.
“I was on my way to the river.” Locky paused as he eyed Simon in a speculative fashion. “I did not mean to intrude.”
“You are not intruding,” Claire denied in fierce tones, the charming color in her cheeks the only indication that she had been disturbed by his touch. “I did not realize Lord Challmond had a guest. Is this your first visit to Devonshire?”
“Yes.”
“How nice. I am certain that once the neighborhood discovers that Lord Challmond is in residence, there will be any number of entertainments devised to keep you occupied.”
Locky grimaced. “I fear I shall be more comfortable with the local trout than the local gentry.”
Claire smiled with sympathetic humor, and suddenly Simon was struck with an absurd notion.
“Nonsense,” he announced in decisive tones. “I shall introduce you to the neighborhood myself. We shall host a small gathering. Aunt Jane will no doubt agree to act as hostess. And, of course, Miss Blakewell will attend to ensure our success.”
Even as the words left his mouth, he wondered at his own sanity. He had not come to Devonshire to entertain. In fact, it had been his need to be away from society that had led him to Westwood Park. But somehow the thought of seeing Miss Blakewell seated at his table and playing his pianoforte was irresistible.
It was clearly not so irresistible to Miss Blakewell, who favored him with a glare.
“Unfortunately, Lord Challmond, I am much more like Mr. Lockmeade. I also prefer the trout to the gentry.” With an effort she summoned a smile for Locky. “Please excuse me. I wish to ensure Mrs. Foley has eaten her soup.”
Both gentlemen watched her stride briskly back into the cottage, then Locky turned to Simon with a mysterious smile.
“Spirited little thing.”
Spirited, ill-mannered, and thoroughly adorable.
“Claire the Cat,” he murmured with a low chuckle. “Come, Locky, we have a dinner to plan.”
* * *
A week later Claire was seated in the library when her father entered, holding a gilt-edged card.
“A dinner party,” he announced. “How delightful. I shall wear my new coat.”
Claire blinked in surprise. When she had received the invitation to Lord Challmond’s dinner party, she had simply tossed it onto the foyer table in annoyance. She had warned the arrogant lord she possessed no interest in his gathering. It had never occurred to her that her father would display the least interest in the invitation. Now she regarded him in disbelief.
“You plan to attend?”
“But of course.” He appeared surprised by her question. “Why should I not attend?”
“You have always avoided such invitations,” she retorted in exasperation. For goodness sake, what was the matter? It was bad enough that she was on edge because of Lord Challmond’s disturbing presence in the neighborhood. Did she also have to worry that her father was losing his senses as well? “You claimed a rational gentleman preferred an evening with a good book and brandy to an evening with rattles and bores.”
Henry smiled as he crossed the Brussels carpeting and stood next to the marble chimneypiece.
“That was before I became acquainted with Mrs. Mayer.”
Claire gave a muffled choke. of disbelief. “You must be jesting me.”
“Not at all.”
“But . . .”
“Yes?”
Claire hesitated. She had always been close to her father. Hardly surprising considering they had been on their own since her mother’s death when she was just a child. And beyond their occasional disagreements over Claire’s refusal to toss herself into the marriage mart, they had always rubbed along remarkably well. But suddenly she felt as if this man standing before her was becoming a stranger.
“You have never displayed the least interest in Mrs. Mayer,” she pointed out as she set aside the book she had been reading. “Indeed, you have gone to considerable lengths to avoid her company.”
Henry removed an enamel snuffbox from his pocket and delicately sniffed the scented tabac before responding.
“I have had a change of heart.”
“But . . . why?”
He set the snuffbox on the mantel. “Because neither of us are getting any younger.”
“What?”
He studied her puzzled expression for a moment, then slowly moved to settle himself next to her on the green and ivory striped sofa. Claire frowned at his strange behavior.
“I will admit that after your mother died I was content to withdraw from society. After all, I had you to bear me company, and I never intended to remarry.”
Claire gave a slight shrug. “And?”
“And I was content with my life until the past few months.”
Claire felt a sense of foreboding enter her heart. “What has occurred?”
“Nothing beyond the fact that I have grown to an age when I must consider the future.” He paused and eyed her in a meaningful fashion. “Most important, the future of this estate once I am gone.”
Gone? Was her father ill, she wondered with a stab of fear.
“That is ridiculous. You are far too young to consider such nonsense.”
“Not if I desire to produce another heir.“
Just for a moment Claire discovered it impossible to comprehend her father’s meaning. After all, to produce another heir would mean having more children. And to have more children he would have to wed again. And he could not possibly contemplate such a farfetched notion.
Then something in his expression warned her that he was indeed referring to such a farfetched notion, and her fear catapulted to shock.
“Good God, Father, have you taken a blow to the head?”
“You need not appear so surprised,” Henry chastised his daughter with a faint hint of pique. “As you said, I am not entirely ancient.”
“Why would you wish for another heir?”
“Because, my dear, as much as I adore you, I have quite given up hope you will one day wed,” he informed her in stern tones. “I want grandchildren who can keep the estate in the Blakewell family. So it has become obvious I shall have to wed again and hope for children that are more devoted to carrying on the family name than helping the needy.”
Claire gave a slow shake of her head. Although her father had often chided her to travel to London for the Season, or to at least attend the local gatherings in search of a husband, he had never indicated he would go to these lengths for grandchildren. After all, the estate was not entailed. There was no fear it would be left to a distant relative who might force her out of her own home. And in truth, she had never considered what would happen after she was gone.
Suddenly, though, she realized that her father had not only considered the future but had decided to take matters into his own hands.
“But this is absurd,” she exclaimed before she could halt the impetuous words. “You can not mean to marry Lizzy Hadford.”
“Mrs. Mayer, my dear,” her father corrected her.
Claire gave an impatient click of her tongue. “It does not matter what title she uses, she is still a common, fortune-seeking—”
“Claire, that is quite enough,” Henry interrupted as he rose to his feet. “I will not hear another word against her.”
“But—”
“I have made up my mind. Now I must prepare for the evening ahead.”
With an uncharacteristically stubborn expression Henry Blakewell marched from the room and left behind a bewildered Claire.
Lizzy Hadford her stepmother?
That would mean that ghastly woman moving into Blakewell Manor. Claire would see her every day. She would be at the dining table every night. And in the breakfast room every morning and—
No.
Claire pressed a hand to her heaving stomach. It did not bear thinking of. But what could she do? Her father possessed every right to marry whomever he chose. Even if it was to a grasping harpy who would sell her own grandmother for a quid.
Moving toward the bay window that offered a view of the garden, Claire frantically attempted to think.
Her father obviously did not love Lizzy Hayden. What gentleman in his right mind could? His only interest was ensuring the future of the Blakewell estate. So, what she needed was a means of convincing him that the future of the estate was settled. At least until Lizzy had managed to lure another gullible fool to the altar. Perhaps then her father would at least choose a lady that was not thoroughly revolting.
But how?
For a long while Claire stared blindly out of the window, then a grim expression of determination settled on her delicate features.
She knew quite well that the only means she possessed of halting her father’s ridiculous courtship was to begin one of her own.
Not a real courtship, she swiftly reassured herself. Not even to rid herself of Lizzy would she hand over her freedom to a husband. Her life was devoted to helping those in need, not pandering to the whims of a spoiled aristocrat. But there was nothing to halt her from pretending an interest in an eligible gentleman.
Once her father had become convinced he need not wed Lizzy, then Claire could return her life to normal.
Now all she needed was a gentleman willing to court her....
* * *
Attired in a rich burgundy coat and silver pantaloons, Simon awaited his guests. A rather wry smile· played about his mouth.
Over the past week he had debated several times on simply canceling the dinner party. Why would any gentleman of sense make such an effort to spend an evening with a lady? He had only to ride into the village to have any number of women make themselves available for his attentions.
But as he had passed the days attempting to determine the vast repairs needed throughout his estate, he had discovered himself searching for a glimpse of Miss Blakewell. He had visited his tenants, attended the nearby church, and even ridden to Blakewell Manor on more than one occasion in the hope of encountering the elusive maiden, but she had maddeningly all but disappeared. And so the invitations to his dinner had duly been delivered, and he found himself actually looking forward to the evening ahead.
Surely Miss Blakewell would attend?
Simon poured himself a generous measure of brandy, then with a sense of relief watched as Locky entered the room. He was not certain he wished to dwell on his desire to be in the company of Miss Blakewell.
“Well, well . . . most elegant,” he drawled as he regarded the black coat and white pantaloons.
Locky grimaced as he tugged at his knotted cravat. “I feel a fool.” Simon smiled in sympathy as he poured another measure of brandy. Poor Locky.
“Here.” He crossed to place the glass in his friend’s hand. “This shall soothe your discomfort.”
Locky regarded him with a resigned amusement.
“I thought that we came to Devonshire for peace, not to prance about like the veriest dandies.”
“It is a small gathering,” Simon consoled. “Besides, as earl, it is expected I should contribute something to the neighborhood entertainments.”
Locky’s smile twisted. “Odd you did not speak of entertaining before you encountered Miss Blakewell.”
“Did I not?” Simon blinked with seeming innocence.
“No.”
“That is odd.”
Locky gave a sudden chuckle. “She is very lovely.“
Yes, she was lovely, Simon acknowledged with a stirring deep inside him. Perhaps the most lovely creature he had ever encountered.
“She also has. the temper of a shrew and the tongue of a viper,” he retorted. “A pity Prinny did not ship her to France when Napoleon first began creating difficulties. She would have frightened him into exile years ago.”
Locky gave a shake of his head. “She cannot be so bad. She possesses the face of an angel.”
“An angel? When we were children she terrified the entire neighborhood. I once watched her bully the local baker into climbing a tree to save a nest of baby birds after he killed the mother with a stone.” He smiled at the memory. “She could not have been more than nine.”
“Only a gentleman of considerable strength could hope to manage such a woman,” Locky murmured.
Simon instinctively stiffened. What the devil was Locky implying?
“Only a gentleman daft in the head would ever wish to manage such a woman.”
Lifting his glass, Locky gave a faint shrug. “Perhaps.”
Opening his mouth to argue further, Simon was halted as the butler entered the room to announce the arnval of his elderly aunt. With reluctance Simon swallowed his fierce words of denial. Locky was simply attempting to get a rise from him, he assured himself. Moving forward, he clasped the thin hand of the silverhaired woman.
“Ab, Aunt Jane, how lovely you look.”
Jane gave a vague frown. “What?”
Simon leaned closer to speak. directly in his relative’s ear. Aunt Jane was notoriously hard of hearing, one of the reasons the previous earl had rarely invited her to Westwood Park, and it appeared her condition had only worsened.
“Lovely,” he repeated loudly. “You look lovely.”
“Oh . . . yes, quite nice weather.” Aunt Jane smiled with benign goodwill.
Simon merely nodded his head. Aunt Jane meant well, and she was the only relative within the area who was in a position to act as his hostess. Leading her to the center of the room, Simon left her in the care of Locky as the butler returned with a short, jovial gentleman and his well-rounded wife.
“Lord and Lady Merfield,” the servant announced.
Once again wondering at his own sanity, Simon moved to greet his guests. It was too late to regret the impulsive dinner invitations. He could only hope that it was worth his effort.
For the next half hour Simon was occupied with the elegant guests filling his drawing room. He set about charming his curious neighbors, although his gaze maintained a close guard on the doorway. His diligence was eventually rewarded as his butler entered with a gentleman attired in a shocking-red coat with pink pantaloons and following behind him the raven-haired beauty he had waited a week to see again.
“Mr. Blakewell and Miss Blakewell.”
Simon stepped forward, his gaze lingering on the pale rose gown with silver netting that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight.
He was quite certain he had never seen a more beautiful woman. With an effort Simon turned his attention back to the awaiting gentleman.
“Mr. Blakewell.”
“My lord.”
“I am very pleased you have come.”
“Delighted,” Henry retorted. “Simply delighted.”
Simon smiled, then gratefully turned back to the silent maiden. Ignoring her frosty expression, he grasped her slender fingers and raised them to his lips. He felt a flare of satisfaction as she gave a faint shiver.
She was not as indifferent as she would have him believe.
“And the enchanting Miss Blakewell,”—he murmured softly. “I feared that you might not attend my modest gathering.”
“How could I resist, my lord?” She firmly pulled her hand from his lingering grasp. “The neighborhood has been unable to speak of little else.“
“I hope they shall not be disappointed.”
“Yes, let us hope.”
Simon laughed at her direct thrust. How refreshing she was from the horde of women who would agree with every word that passed his lips.
“You are quite exquisite.”
The blue eyes darkened, but the frost never wavered.
“Must you flirt with every woman you encounter, my lord?”
“Despite your obvious belief, I am not a rake, Miss Blakewell,” he assured her. “Indeed, I have been the bane of hopeful mamas who are in search for a suitable flirt for their daughters.” .
“Fah.”
He laughed. “I see you are determined to label me an incurable rogue. Perhaps we should discuss more important matters. I have not seen you at Mrs. Foley’s. Have you stopped visiting her?”
As expected, a hint of embarrassment rippled over her countenance. Simon had no doubt that Claire had been avoiding the cottages in the fear he might appear. He also knew she would feel a measure of guilt at her absence.
“No, of course not. I went to see her this afternoon.”
Knowing that he would be occupied, Simon acknowledged wryly.
“She is improved?”
“You know that she is, my lord.”
“I have also ordered repairs at once on the cottages. “
“Your tenants will be very pleased.“
Barely aware that they were standing in a room filled with curious onlookers, Simon leaned even closer, inhaling deeply of the faint scent of lilacs.
“And what of you, Miss Blakewell?”
She eyed him in puzzlement. “Me?”
“Are you pleased?”
“Certainly.”
“Good.” Allowing his gaze to deliberately drop to the full softness of her mouth, Simon reluctantly stepped away. As much as he would have liked to devote the evening to the tantalizing Miss Blakewell, he had a duty to his guests. “I believe dinner is about to be served. Excuse me.”