Eight
Simon was quite certain he had never seen a more enchanting sight than the tangled emotions rippling across Claire’s expressive countenance. Suddenly the ugly encounter with the ill-tempered blacksmith and the large amount of pounds he had paid over to the brute were all worthwhile. Even the knowledge that he was at the center of the village gossip paled into insignificance. All that was important was the beautiful creature standing before him.
His fingers moved to tilt up her chin for a closer inspection.
“Are you blushing, Claire?” he lightly teased.
With a tangible effort she struggled to retrieve her cool composure.
“Certainly not.” She stepped back from his lingering grasp. “I presume you must be teasing me.”
Regretting the loss of contact with her satin skin, Simon gave a shake of his head.
“Not at all.”
She frowned in disbelief. “Why should you wish to please me?”
If she had been one of the London beauties who had hunted him for years, Simon would have presumed she was angling to trap him into an admission of admiration. Now he simply chuckled at her obvious innocence.
“Why does any gentleman wish to please a young lady?”
Her frown became a positive scowl. “Lord Challmond, you shall catch cold trying that nonsense with me.”
“Oh?” Simon tilted his head to one side, unable to resist temptation. After all, she had instigated the game herself. “I must admit, I am rather baffled.”
“Why?” she demanded warily.
“I presumed that your agreement to bear me company was an indication that you were encouraging my interest.” He deliberately paused as she drew in a sharp breath. “Am I mistaken?”
“I . . .”
“Yes?”
The blue eyes flashed with annoyance at his teasing. “You could not possibly be interested in me.”
“Why not?” he demanded, his gaze sweeping over her stiff frame. “You are the most extraordinarily beautiful woman I have ever encountered.”
With a sharp motion she turned away, clearly unnerved by his persistent flirtation.
“We were discussing Harry.”
“Were we?”
“Yes.” She paused to collect her composure. “I wish you to know that it was a wonderful thing that you did. Indeed, I do not even know how to thank you. I never expected you to go to such an effort for poor Harry.”
It was Simon’s turn to be uncomfortable. Although pleasing Claire had been only one of the reasons he had confronted the blacksmith, he had no desire to be seen as a saint. He was far too conscious of the fact that he had been a sad disappointment as the Earl of Challmond to the village and his neighbors.
“I did very little, Claire,” he protested in quiet tones.
She turned about to shake her head. “That is not true. It is because of you that Harry will be safe.”
He shrugged. “I have no more wish to see a child abused than you, my dear.”
“It is only to be hoped that the dreadful man will not harm any more children.”
Simon briefly recalled the terrified blacksmith begging for mercy. Like most cowards, he bullied only those weaker than himself. When faced with Simon and Locky, he had swiftly lost his nerve. And to ensure he remained suitably cowed, Simon had promised he would personally place the noose around the man’s fat neck if he mistreated another lad. The cunning scoundrel had, however, managed to extract a small fortune to give up his claim on Harry. Money that was meaningless to Simon except for the annoyance of lining the pockets of a common blackguard.
“I sense he will hesitate to repeat such behavior,” he assured his companion.
Her eyes abruptly softened. “I shall ensure that Harry realizes just what a fortunate young man he is.”
A sharp flare of distaste stabbed through Simon’s heart, and he gave a firm shake of his head.
“No.”
She blinked at his abrupt tone. “Excuse me?”
“I do not wish Harry to know anything beyond the fact that he need no longer fear the smithy.”
Not surprisingly she regarded him in confusion. “But why?”
He hesitated. A private man, he rarely revealed his inner emotions. Only with Philip and Barth did he ever speak openly. But he had no desire to see the stray imp saddled with the same troubles he had endured.
“Because I did not free him from the yoke of abuse only to burden him with the yoke of obligation,” he at last admitted.
“I do not understand.”
Of course she did not, he thought with a sigh. She had always been the one to help others. How could she possibly realize it was not a simple matter to accept such help?
“Charity can be a dangerous business, my dear.” His lips .twisted with long-suppressed emotions. “Especially ifyou are the one receiving the charity.“
“You are speaking of the old earl?” she demanded..
A twinge of guilt shot through Simon.
“I do not mean to imply that he was not a decent man or that he in any way mistreated me,” he insisted, not wishing to speak ill of the man who had given him so much. “But he did ensure that I was never allowed to forget just how obligated I was to his generosity in not producing a male heir to claim the title, not to mention the sacrifice in paying for my education and allowing me to reside at Westwood Park. And, of course, there was always the reminder that it was only his goodwill that kept my mother receiving his monthly allowance. If I disagreed with him or did not measure up to his expectations, I was sternly reminded that both I and my family owed him a debt that could never be repaid.”
Momentarily forgetting she desired to keep him at a firm distance, Claire unconsciously reached out to lightly touch his arm.
“That is horrid.”
He covered her hand with his own, savoring the scent of lilacs that filled the air.
“He did not mean to be horrid. In his mind he had done me a great service in taking me out of the vicarage and bringing me to Devonshire to be trained as the next Earl of Challmond. It was my duty to appreciate it.”
She studied him for a moment. “And that is why you avoid Westwood Park?”
Simon was taken off guard by her soft accusation. Few of his most intimate acquaintances questioned his lack of interest in his estate. They simply presumed that he preferred London and the delights of the metropolis. Only Philip and Barth had suspected there was more to his disregard than he admitted, but they had known better than to pry. Now he felt oddly exposed beneath the steady blue gaze.
“Perhaps.”
“Do you wish the earl had not brought you to Westwood Park?”
“At times,” he admitted. “Although I knew that I would one day be earl, I missed my family, especially my mother. It is not easy to be separated from everything you have known.”
“Do you see them now?”
“No.” He grimaced. “I visited shortly after I left school, but it was hardly a success.”
She unwittingly stepped closer, unaware of just how distracting the warmth of her slender body was to a susceptible male.
“Why not?”
“My brothers found my presence discomforting and my mother obviously felt guilty at having allowed me to be taken by Lord Challmond, even if it was for my own good.” An unconscious pain flared through his eyes. The visit had been more than just awkward. From the moment he had arrived at the vicarage he had been out of place with his Weston-cut coats and stories of his pranks with viscounts, earls, and even a duke. And always had been the hint of loss deep in his mother’s eyes that had tugged at his heart. “They were quite relieved when it was time for me to leave.”
Her fingers tightened on his arm. “So you have no one?”
A gentleman could spend a lifetime gazing into those lovely blue eyes, he decided as his blood began to stir.
“I have Locky. And, of course, Philip and Barth.”
“Who?”
Simon smiled, wondering how the two were faring. Philip was no doubt breaking hearts throughout London, while Barth was settling in Kent and preparing to marry his biddable Miss Lawford.
Did they ever recall the strange old Gypsy and her absurd claim they would all find true love? he wondered. Then as swiftly as the thought appeared, he shoved it aside.
What the devil had made him recall the ridiculous hoax?
“They are gentlemen who have become as close as any brothers,” he explained, determinedly lighting his tone. “They saved my life during the war.”
Her lips parted in what might have been dismay. “You were injured?”
He shrugged. “A trifling wound.“
“I did not know.”
The urge to play upon her obvious sympathy was quickly smothered. There were far too many young soldiers in genuine need of sympathy. Instead, a sudden glint entered his eye.
“Would you care to see the scar?”
She immediately pulled away, her expression chiding. “Simon.”
He gave a chuckle. “Will you join me tomorrow for a picnie?”
“I do not think that would be proper,” she informed him in pert tones.
“If you like, I shall bring Locky as a chaperon.”
She firmly placed her hands on her hips. “And promptly send him off to fish?”
He merely laughed again at her accurate assumption. “If you will recall, our last picnic was interrupted,” he drawled. “The least you can do is grant me another.”
As always, she appeared impervious to his attempts at charm.
“Surely you have better means of passing the day?”
He held her gaze. “None at all.“
A hint of confusion rippled over her features. “I . . .”
“Claire.”
The sound of Henry Blakewell’s call had them both turning toward the manor, where the older gentleman hurried in their direction. Simon suppressed a stab of annoyance at the interruption. He longed to carry Claire off to some remote location, where they would not be constantly pestered by others. Of course, he belatedly acknowledged, the arrival of Mr. Blakewell might prove to be an unexpected blessing. It had not passed his notice that Claire was far more likely to accept his invitations in the presence of others. One of the many pieces of her puzzling behavior. He even managed a smile as the gentleman halted beside them.
“There you are, Claire.”
The pale features settled into an unreadable expression.
“Father.”
Mr. Blakewell turned to Simon. “My lord, what a delightful surprise.”
“Mr. Blakewell.”
“I hope you will stay to lunch?”
“Unfortunately I am promised to join Aunt Jane.” Simon sensed Claire’s relief.
“A pity.” Mr. Blakewell frowned, then instantly brightened. “Perhaps later in the week?”
“I should be delighted.” He sent a wicked glance in Claire’s direction. “For now, however, I am futilely attempting to convince Miss Blakewell to join me for a picnic tomorrow.”
Mr. Blakewell glanced at his daughter in pleasure. “What a lovely notion, do you not think, Claire?”
The tiny nose flared as if she found the notion anything but lovely. Still she was careful to keep her stiff smile intact.
“Of course, but tomorrow is the day I help at the orphanage.”
“Nonsense.” Mr. Blakewell waved a negligent hand. “You devote far too much time to that orphanage. It is high time that you enjoy yourself a bit.”
Claire’s mouth opened as if to argue, then, noting her father’s gathering frown, she reluctantly turned toward Simon.
“Very well,” she conceded, narrowing her gaze as she continued. “But I must at least help with the morning lessons. I shall meet you in the far meadow.”
Simon had a distinct sense that there was something brewing behind that mask of innocence, but with her father standing so close, he could only bow in agreement.
“Until tomorrow.”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
Simon eyed her for a suspicious moment, then, with a nod toward Mr. Blakewell, he turned to cut through the parkland. He angled toward the small pathway that would lead to Westwood Park, his thoughts dwelling on the lovely and mysterious Claire. Quite unexpectedly he discovered himself whistling as he walked. It had been years since he whistled, he acknowledged with a vague sense of surprise. Surely his rare goodwill was not due to Miss Blakewell? After all, he was seeking out her company only to punish her for daring to trifle with his emotions. And, of course, to discover the reasons for her odd behavior.
But strangely, whenever she was near he promptly managed to forget everything but the delight of making her eyes sparkle and the temptation of her soft mouth.
Perhaps he did have a fever of the brain, he thought with wry amusement. It was a preferable explanation to the. thought he simply found Claire irresistible.
Still whistling, he crossed the low bridge and went up the sloping hill to the main house. Brain fever or not, he intended to make tomorrow a day Claire would never forget.
* * *
“Dashed rum business if you ask me,” Locky complained as he surveyed the large blanket covered with platter upon platter of delicacies. His glare lingered on the rose petals scattered over the ground and the bowl of chocolate delicately carved in the shapes of cats.
Simon smiled as he opened a bottle of champagne. “Yes, so you have said.”
Locky crossed his arms across his barrel chest. “Bad enough to eat lunch off the ground as if we were back fighting Boney,“ he groused. “Now I discover that I am to play nursemaid to a pair of lovebirds.”
“Hardly lovebirds,” Simon denied, more out of habit than dislike at being romantically paired with Miss Blakewell. “And as for being a nursemaid, I prefer that you make yourself scarce.” He waved a hand toward the distant river. “No doubt there are any number of trout waiting to be caught.”
Locky’s expression hardened with suspicion. “What are you plotting?”
Simon assumed an air of wounded innocence. “Why, nothing more sinister than a lovely afternoon with a beautiful woman.”
“You have not forgotten she is an innocent maiden?” Locky demanded.
“I have not forgotten.” Simon regarded his friend with a hint of impatience. “I have no intention of seducing her with you just a few feet away.”
Locky deliberately glanced over the elegant luncheon, then toward Simon’s claret coat and buff breeches that would not have been out of place in the finest drawing room.
“Then, what are your intentions toward Miss Blakewell?”
His intentions? Simon resisted the urge to inform Mr. Lockmeade that his intentions were none of his concern. He had never interfered in Locky’s private affairs, especially not when it concerned a young lady.
Then, with an effort, he eased his momentary irritation. His friend was simply ensuring that he had not taken complete leave of his senses.
“My only intention is to enjoy a picnic with Miss Blakewell,” he assured in firm tones.
A small, rather mysterious smile sudden lightened Locky’s blunt features.
“I wonder.”
Simon lifted his brows. “What?”
“I am curious whom you are attempting to fool,“ Locky murmured. “Yourself or me.”
“Ridiculous,” Simon snorted. Really, Locky was behaving as if the simple meal were an extraordinary event. Then a distant sound brought a glint of anticipation to his eyes. “Ah . . . I hear a carriage approaching.“
Simon gracefully rose to his feet, his fingers holding a single red rose. It took several moments before a broken nag came into view, followed by an ancient cart filled to near overflowing with noisy children. Seated on the driver’s bench was a dark-haired, handsome woman with a serene smile, and holding the reins was the familiar blue-eyed minx who had begun to haunt his thoughts with alarming frequency.
“ Ha.” Locky regarded the approaching horde with a wide smile.
Simon gave a slow shake of his head. “Good God.”
“It appears, Challmond, that once again you have been outgunned.”
For a moment Simon glared at the approaching cart, feeling a distinct sense of annoyance that his afternoon alone with Claire had been stolen away. Then, without warning, he gave a sudden laugh.
“Vixen.”