Chapter 7
Seven
CLAIRE’S FACE must have betrayed the question roaring in her mind—Then why the dickens did you not come back?—since Jonathan answered as if she’d spoken aloud.
“I wanted to come back. I would have come in an instant had I any hope of winning you over. But I knew all hope must be in vain.”
Claire found that she was holding her breath. “How did you know?”
He raised a brow. “You told me so yourself. Wretched as I’ve been—difficult as it was to stay away—I was never so far beyond honor as to consider forcing my attentions upon a woman who had declined them. Have you forgot what you said to me in the carriage sweep? I have not.”
Nor had she.
Those words would be burned into her brain until her dying day, for she’d had ample time to rehearse them while Jonathan rushed about making all the arrangements for his departure.
And as they’d parted ways in the snow-covered sweep, she’d delivered her speech with a quiet ferocity that had satisfied her pride—if nothing else.
“Should you go,” she’d told him, “you’re not to come back here. Not ever. Nor may you write to me, seek me out, or approach me in public. I never want to see you again.”
His eyes had pleaded with her. “You know I must go.”
“You’re choosing to go. You’re choosing her. And by the time you’ve seen your mistake, it will be too late. I’ll be lost to you forever. So make your choice now…and live with the consequences.”
Though tears had run down her cheeks, she’d held his gaze and refused to wipe them away. Let him see what his betrayal was doing to her. Let him—a man who abhorred nothing so much as the sense of having injured or imposed upon another—see all her naked grief and know he was the cause.
His face was contorted with guilt and remorse, and she wasn’t sorry for it. All she’d wanted in that moment was to hurt him as much as he was hurting her.
And she’d rather thought she was succeeding. He’d looked like she felt: as if his heart were cleaving in two. He’d even looked, for just a moment, as though he might change his mind.
But then an ear-splitting wail had commanded his attention. He’d glanced over his shoulder. Behind him was the chaise, and in the chaise was his mother: bent over, hands hiding her face, sobs racking her body.
He’d made his choice. He’d gone to her.
And Claire was left standing in the snow, an icy wind stinging her wet cheeks.
Now, when she spoke again, that iciness infused her voice. “Why are you here?”
He looked taken aback at the sudden change in her countenance—and perplexed as to how he should respond.
No matter; Claire hadn’t finished yet. “You said you would never force your way in against my wishes. You said you held out no hope of winning me over. Yet here you are at my home…against my wishes…trying to win me over.” She climbed to her feet. “Why did you come?”
He was silent a moment, appearing to consider the question. “I always did hope—without any right to hope—that I might hear some hint of your softening toward me. That’s why I kept Noah abreast of my travels.”
“Noah?” Astonishment made Claire seize the table for balance. “He knew where you were? All year?”
“Of course.” Jonathan frowned. “Didn’t he tell you?”
“Why should he tell me?” She could hear her voice rising, tinged with hysteria. “I’m sure he couldn’t be bothered. He’s never given a moment’s thought to anyone but himself, after all!”
Jonathan looked as if he would defend his friend, but then thought better of it.
“I’m so sorry, Claire,” he said instead, his eyes piercing her with their sincerity.
“I thought you knew where I was—or at the very least, could obtain the knowledge should you want it. I didn’t mean to fall off the face of the earth, if that’s how it felt to you. ”
“Of course not!” Her voice rose even higher. “What in the perfectly ordinary circumstance of your vanishing for an entire year, with nary a word of your whereabouts to anybody save my stupid brother, could have possibly made me feel that way?”
She detected a flicker of frustration. “I was only trying to respect your wishes. You said you never wanted to see or hear from me again. I did what you asked.”
“No, you didn’t!” she burst out. “I asked you to choose me!”
Breathing hard, she wrapped her arms around her shoulders, trying to rein herself in.
“I wish I had,” he said quietly. “I know now that I was wrong, not—” Upon her starting to speak, he raised a hand.
“Please let me finish. I was wrong, not only because maman was a saboteur, but in principle. Even had she been perfectly innocent, still I would have been wrong to favor her distress above yours. You are the woman I should have vowed to love, honor, and keep, not her. Perhaps it required the shock of her treachery to teach me that, but I have learnt the lesson.”
To this speech Claire could make no response. She was too confused. Esteem and the glow of validation were at war with doubt and indignation, and if the seedlings of forgiveness or affection were anywhere to be found, she could not perceive them.
Correcting his error now, she reflected bitterly, after the damage was already done, did not oblige her to forgive and forget.
Jonathan seemed to take her silence as encouragement enough to continue.
“I realize there is nothing I can do to erase my past offenses, though I can promise never to repeat them. Your pardon would be a kindness rather than a justice, and certainly more than I deserve. I only desire you to know that I’ve changed, and—well, that I’m still here. I’m still yours. If you’ll have me.”
Still mine.
Something shifted—just a hair’s breadth—within her. She was not disarmed, but she felt the first inkling of danger. It would be so easy, such a relief, to fall into his arms and let him soothe away all the hardships of the past year. All the constant little stings of deprivation…
Her eyes, deprived of the sight of him.
Her body, deprived of his touch.
Her heart, deprived of the bubbly joy that had carried her smiling through all her days, from the day they met to the day he left.
For a moment, she let herself imagine those comforts could be hers again.
He could be hers again. It seemed impossibly indulgent—after yearning so long for just a word or a glimpse of him—to instead imagine him always by her side.
Always there to talk with, to touch, to hold, whenever she wanted.
They would be quickly married. They would ride off in a carriage together.
They would embark on a blissful new life, just the two of them at—
At Twineham Park.
“What of your mother?” Claire asked abruptly.
Jonathan raised a brow. “What of her? She’s nothing to me now.”
Claire saw right through his indifferent facade, but decided not to remark upon it at present. “Has she given up the dower house?”
“No, but that doesn’t signify.”
“Does it not?” Claire planted a hand on her hip. “She’ll be living a quarter mile from our—that is, your doorstep.”
“So?” He twisted his mouth into a sneer. “A quarter mile is distance enough if we decline to acknowledge her. I was at Twineham just yesterday and never clapped eyes on the woman.”
“You’re certain she was at home?” Claire pressed. “And didn’t try to see you?”
“I’ve no idea. I instructed my butler to turn her away and henceforth never utter her name to me.”
Claire laughed without humor. “And this is your plan? You’ll spend the rest of your life tiptoeing round your own house and pretending she doesn’t exist?”
“Only the rest of her life,” he retorted. “Unless she should decide, on her generous widow’s portion, to remove somewhere else—to Brighton, perhaps, or even Neuf-Marché. Then all parties would be satisfied.”
“Satisfied?” Claire scoffed. “You think your mother will ever give up on reconciling with her beloved son? Or that you and your tender heart could just throw her off with nary a scruple?”
His eyes flashed. “I can be as stout-hearted as the next man.”
“I’m certain you can, in support of a just cause. But avoiding your mother because you’re scared to face a quarrel is not what I would call a just cause.”
“I’m not scared!” He took up the poor napkin again, wringing it without mercy. “I simply don’t care to waste my time. There’s no reasoning with her.”
“How do you know? Have you tried?”
“No, Claire,” he said with exaggerated sarcasm. “Incredibly, I somehow managed to live with the woman for twenty-nine years without ever engaging in a single reasoned discussion. You know, just because you were right about my mother’s deception does not mean you’re an authority on everything.”
“No, not on everything.” Claire drew herself up. “But I am most certainly the highest authority on my own feelings. And I feel your mother’s shadow still hanging over us—and between us. The problem hasn’t gone away; it’s only been swept beneath the carpet.”
He fixed her with an exasperated scowl. “I don’t understand what you want from me. Maman tried to keep us apart, so I severed ties—”
“I never wanted—”
“—but now you turn around and say I must reconcile with her?”
“Not reconcile with her, confront her! Stand up to her, instead of pretending she’s gone. Stand up for yourself! And for me.”
He wrenched a hand through his hair. “For you I would, if I believed any good might come from it. But I see no chance of that. And frankly, I don’t see how my relationship with her is any concern of yours.”
Claire felt as if he’d slapped her. “Then you haven’t changed as much as you think.”
His chin jutted stubbornly. “I promise you, she won’t listen to a word I say.”
Claire could match him for stubbornness. “Whether she listens or not, you’ll have said your piece. You’ll have faced her like a grown man, instead of hiding like a cowed child.”
“Ah, just as you faced me like a grown woman, instead of trying to drive me away with childish pranks?”
“I—” She stopped. And felt herself flush. “You’re right, of course. I have been childish.” She sank back onto her stool, worrying her lip.
His temper seemed to cool. “No doubt Elizabeth goaded you into it,” he said in a blatant attempt to cushion the criticism. “By-the-by, what have you two in store for me tomorrow?”
“Nothing,” Claire fibbed, making a mental note to speak with Monsieur Laurent and Mr. Evans first thing in the morning. Oh, and the stables as well. Could she get round to them all in time? “Our tricks are quite finished.”
“What a relief,” Jonathan drawled. “I feared my trousers must be given up for lost.”
La, she would have to locate those before dinner time. Hopefully Elizabeth knew where they’d got to… “Fear not,” Claire said with feigned confidence. “All shall be put to rights.”
His eyes sought hers. “Between us, as well?”
For a moment, what she saw in the depths of those eyes overpowered her: crushing tenderness, tortured hope, an undercurrent of desire.
She looked away to escape the onslaught. “As far as friendship is concerned, I accept your apology and bear you no ill will.” Or not much, anyway. “But beyond that…”
She shook her head.
“It’s too late, then. As you forewarned.” He braced himself against the table, seeming suddenly exhausted. “And everything we once meant to each other—that means nothing to you now?”
“Not nothing,” she said gently. “Just…not enough.”
“I see.” In seeming response to her gentleness, his tone grew sharper. “Or perhaps not as much as Milstead means to you?”
Before she could open her mouth—before she could even feel outrage—he thumped himself on the forehead.
“No, don’t answer that. It was wrong of me to ask.” He blew out a breath. “Friendship, then. I should like to give it a try, though I’ve no idea how to proceed. Where do we go from here?”
“I don’t know.” Exhausted too, Claire rose. “Right now, we go to bed.”
He sighed. “I suppose we should. Just wait a moment while I clear the table.”
“I’d rather go on ahead.”
“But you’ve lost your candle. It rolled under the stove.”
It was sure to be melted now. “I can find my way.”
“But—”
“Good night, your grace.”
In a low growl, he said, “Don’t ‘your grace’ me, Claire.”
A delicious shiver raced down her spine. She’d never heard him speak that way before. Her name on his lips—that almost wild, guttural Claire—echoed in her ears. It seemed to stoke something buried within her—a dim glow—a faint heat.
“Claire,” came another growl, which made her knees go rather weak. “Don’t be foolish. It’s pitch-black out there.”
“I know my way about the castle.” She tried to escape, disconcerted by her weakness.
But he caught her by the wrist, saying, “Take my candle.”
His touch was a shock. Not that she could sense his warmth through five layers, but she felt the strength of his grip. She saw the size of his hand, the way it engulfed her slender wrist.
The sight conjured thoughts of the last time he’d touched her—really touched her—almost exactly a year ago.
When she’d sneaked into his bed on Christmas Eve.
The memories added fuel to the glow that was warming her from the inside out.
She had an absurd notion that night was the last time she’d felt truly warm.
Now her gaze moved slowly from his hand up to his eyes, which blazed with an answering heat.
Did he somehow know what she was thinking?
Was he thinking about the same thing?
She was surprised when he drew her toward him sharply. He was never forceful with her in the past. He’d never been anything but courteous and respectful.
Yet this new Jonathan had a recklessness about him that made her wonder what he was capable of.
Mere inches between them, she found herself straining toward him. Her heart pounded. Her lips tingled with anticipation.
Would he try to keep her here against her will?
Was his aim to seduce her?
Her heart skittered with dread…or the opposite.
She never figured out which, for instead of dragging her into a passionate kiss, all he did was press the candle upon her. When he let her go, she stumbled back. And though he reached out in concern, she recoiled from his touch, turning to flee the kitchen.
His voice chased her into the corridor. “Sweet dreams, Claire.”