Chapter Four #2
“I’ll fetch more towels, my lady.” Milford took up the pile of sodden ones Clara was producing and strolled into the house.
“Did you have breakfast, Harvey?” she asked.
“He ate two beefsteaks, most of a chop, and followed that with a ham bone Milford found for him to gnaw.” Alden heaved himself from the ground. “That is, after he thoroughly licked my face this morning to wake me. I had to have almost as profound a scrub as we gave him.”
Clara raised her brows. “He slept in the house with you?”
“No, I bunked down in the shed with him. Milford would have had much to say if I’d brought him into the house in the state we found him in.”
In spite of what must have been an uncomfortable night, Alden looked refreshed, the gloomy lines in his face eased. He stood easily, hands on hips, watching Clara without the standoffishness he’d shown yesterday. That was, at least, before he’d kissed her.
Clara turned quickly away at the thought, her face flaming. “You spent all night in the shed?” she asked. “That was thoughtful of you. I’m certain Harvey was frightened when he found himself alone.”
“He was noisy,” Alden said, some of his gruffness returning. “I didn’t want him waking the neighbors. He quieted when I stayed with him.”
“Wasn’t that sweet?” she asked Harvey. “Making sure you weren’t alone.”
“Sweet.” Alden huffed. “Have a care around whom you bandy that word about.”
Clara shot a grin at him. “I’d only—”
She broke off, suddenly uneasy, as two gentlemen sauntered through the French doors that led from the house into the garden.
They wore riding clothes—breeches, boots, and jackets—though their ensembles looked too fine for the athletic feat of horseback riding. Both gentlemen were obviously still half asleep and peered about with bloodshot eyes, squinting as though the light was too much for them.
One had fair hair, the other dark. Otherwise they looked very much alike. Neither was Mr. Forsythe, so these must be the men he and Alden had protected Clara from yesterday.
“Damn and blast,” Alden said. “I thought they’d lie abed until afternoon.”
“We would have lain abed,” the blond man said, hand over his mouth to hide a yawn, “but you were making such a bloody din.”
“Ah, but with good reason,” the dark-haired man said. He sent Clara what he must believe was an enticing smile.
“If you go back into the house now,” Alden said evenly, “I won’t have to thrash you.”
“Don’t be such a wet blanket, Carlisle,” the blond man said. He gave Clara a bow. “George Featherstone, at your service, madam.”
“William Colliver,” the dark-haired man said. “How do you do, good woman?”
Milford broke in with shocked disapproval. “She is Lady Clara Griffin, sir. Daughter of the Earl of Duxford.”
“Even better,” Featherstone said. “Aristocratic ladies like to kick up their heels. Or wash dogs.” He laughed, then winced and rubbed his temple.
Alden started forward. “I warned you.”
Harvey, who’d been regarding the two gentlemen with uncertainty, now stepped in front of Clara. His floppy ears pricked and a low growl rumbled in his belly.
“Is that thing dangerous?” Colliver pointed a trembling, gloved finger at Harvey. “Doesn’t look it. Spindly, too. Best put it down, Carlisle, and have done. She’s much more comely.” The finger switched to Clara.
“How very flattering,” she said with a grimace.
“Did you hire her to look after us, Carlisle?” Featherstone asked. “Or is she just for play?”
Clara began a retort, but her words were drowned by Alden’s roar.
“Out!” He ran at the men, menace in every stride. “Run, before I put my hands around your miserable necks.”
The dandies only blinked at him. “Steady on, Carlisle,” Featherstone began. “It’s only a joke.”
Alden reached them, and the two moved nervously backward. “Apologize to the lady, and then begone. Now.”
“Will take our valets a bit of time to pack.” Colliver retreated one more step. “What happened to your famous hospitality?”
“You wore that out long ago.” Alden towered before them, fists balled, and Harvey’s growls increased. “Milford will send your things on, that is, if I don’t put them on a bonfire. I want the lot of you out.”
“Right.” Featherstone stepped inside the house and peered out through the doorway. “We could give you the cut direct for this.”
“Drop you entirely,” Colliver said as he joined Featherstone.
Alden’s stance told them he cared not one whit. “You are forgetting the apology.”
“Not at all,” Featherstone said loftily. “Beg your pardon, Lady Clara. You’re not offended, are you?”
“I am, rather,” Clara told him. “I accept your apologies, however, if it will speed you out the door. Lord Alden has better friends.”
“She has a saucy tongue,” Colliver observed to Featherstone. “Wonder if Carlisle likes the taste?”
Alden ran at them. Harvey strained at the lead Clara had clipped onto his collar, and finally lunged, ripping the strap from her hand. He charged the door, reaching it at the same time as Alden.
Featherstone slammed it, he and Colliver peering fearfully through the glass as Harvey jumped on the French door, teeth bared with his snarls.
Alden stood next to Harvey, arms folded. Clara couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was giving his former friends his hard-eyed glare.
The two men regarded Alden and Harvey in alarm for another moment, then they faded back into the house, out of sight.
Harvey gave them a final growl before he sat down, keeping watch on the door. Alden patted his shoulder.
“Good lad, Harvey. Another beefsteak for you.”
Harvey looked up, his tongue lolling, tail thumping.
“Please make certain they go at once,” Alden said to Milford.
“Of course, my lord. It will be my pleasure.” The valet gave Alden a nod, moved past Harvey, who panted up at him, and slid noiselessly into the house.
Alden turned and made for Clara, and Harvey, finished with menacing, loped beside him.
“Please accept my many apologies for my asinine and disagreeable friends. I will thrash them if I ever see them again.” Alden’s anger flared once more, then faded, his anguish plain.
“I would never hurt you for the world. I can only hope to make it up to you, and promise that those cretins will never come near you again.”
“Their behavior isn’t your fault,” Clara said with some surprise. “More the fault of whoever raised them. They are naught but spoiled brats.”
“It is my fault,” he insisted. “I am the fool who let them stay here. I should have banished them yesterday, but it was pouring, and I thought to give them shelter at least for the night. See how they repay me? They spoke of the cut direct, but I will be shunning them.”
“You were being kind,” Clara said. “They didn’t deserve it, but again, it is hardly your fault that they are rotten.”
Alden’s eyes began to lose some of their bleakness. “I suppose not.”
“Mr. Forsythe had much better manners.”
The starkness returned. “Worth twenty of them.” He set his mouth in a grim line. “Let us not speak of it.”
“No.” She laid her hand on Alden’s arm. “We will not.”
Mr. Forsythe must have returned to his own home the previous night, she reasoned, or he’d have prevented the other two coming outside. Probably he’d have been helping Alden with Harvey as well, if he’d stayed.
She glanced down at herself and her water-blotched frock. “I am a mess. I must go home and clean myself up, or Mama will scold me.”
Clara looked up to see Alden’s gaze fixed on her bare hand on his sleeve. He covered her fingers with his own, warming them, warming her.
“Will you come back?” he asked in a quiet voice.
Yes, Clara wanted to gush. Anytime you wish.
She cleared her throat. “Why don’t you have a wash and change as well? Then bring Harvey to my house and have breakfast. My sisters will be thrilled with both of you.”
Alden’s brow puckered. “They’ll be pleased to see a misanthrope and a damp hound?”
Clara sent him a smile. “Of course they will be. It’s just going on nine o’clock. Be there as soon as you are able.”
Alden stared down at her, mystified. Before Clara could stop herself, she rose on tiptoes, brushed a quick kiss to his lips, and skimmed to the garden gate. Harvey barked once as she slipped through to the lane.
*
Three-quarters of an hour later, Alden guided Harvey along the path toward the wrought-iron gate with the griffin.
Milford had amazingly seen Featherstone and Colliver gone, Alden washed, shaved, and changed, and Harvey rewarded with more beef in a highly efficient whirl. Alden hadn’t even had time to do his usual growling and complaining. He’d definitely be giving Milford a raise in wages.
Alden walked swiftly, his heartbeat quickening with every step. The impulsive kiss Clara had touched to his lips lingered, his mouth tingling with it.
At the gate, he drew a breath, pausing with his hand on the latch. He’d spoken with the earl over the years whenever they’d encountered each other on the Heath, but strolling into the man’s home after Alden had thoroughly kissed his daughter was another matter.
Harvey, impatient, put a paw on the gate.
“Yes, you’re right,” Alden told him. “Courage.”
Harvey pawed again, probably more fixed on appetite than courage.
Alden opened the gate and entered the garden. He found himself in a space that was small but well laid out, with paths around stands of roses and flower beds. Bright-yellow late-autumn blossoms lent color to the dark brick surroundings.
The house before him, smaller than his home, was covered with ivy and rose vines, windows peeking out from under the eaves. Cozy, Alden thought. Warm. Happy.
The French doors to the garden were closed, with a room full of people around a table behind them.
A girl who appeared to be a few years younger than Clara glanced up, saw Alden and Harvey peering inside, and screamed.