Chapter 13
Thirteen
“MY DEAR LORD Greystone!”
When the singsong greeting reached their ears, both Noah and Claire froze, his hand still gripping her arm. Their furious argument ended abruptly. They looked round in trepidation, having both forgotten the matter of their surprise guest.
But the duchess was nowhere to be seen—until the sound of a yapping dog drew Claire’s gaze to the chaise window. A little black nose was poking through the curtains, as well as a delicate gloved hand wiggling its fingers.
Claire signaled a footman, who sprang into action.
Finally shaking off her brother, she straightened her clothing and moved forward to receive the duchess.
As Noah joined her, she realized most of their guests were also gathered round, having observed the siblings’ tussle with avid interest. Mary was in her element.
The footman lowered the chaise’s steps, and the Duchess of Rathborne seemed to float down them. Beneath a fur-lined velvet cloak, she was magnificently attired in red and gold silk. Rather too magnificently for traveling, Claire thought, though perhaps not for barging into a Christmas party.
Under one arm she carried a Pomeranian as immaculately groomed as his mistress. Today the little dog wore a collar of rubies and diamonds, matched to those at the duchess’s ears and throat.
“Your grace,” Noah said, bowing over her small hand. “I beg pardon for my shameful neglect.”
“Tiens, you must not think of it!” she replied in her breathy French accent. “I’m sure if poor Rousseau”—she scratched the Pomeranian’s ears—“were not so very thirsty, I should not mind sitting out in the cold and damp as long as you please.”
To this pointed remark Noah could only respond by inviting the trespasser inside. Sending Mr. Evans off for a dish of water (pursued by her grace’s directive that Rousseau drank only green tea of the first quality), Noah offered the duchess his arm.
Claire and the company of eager spectators followed close on their heels. Everyone swarmed through the entrance hall, burying three footmen beneath mounds of discarded outerwear on their way to the drawing room.
Noah led her grace to the fire, talking indifferently of weather and roads until he’d got her installed in comfort, with her dog at her feet daintily lapping Imperial Hyson Tea.
Then he fell into pensive silence, and Claire guessed he was scouring his memory for an acceptable way to ask a duchess what on earth she was doing in his home.
Thankfully, her grace spared him the trouble. “You’ve proved so very kind, my Lord Greystone, that I know you shall be only too happy to oblige my wish of visiting with my son.”
“Oh! I see. Yes, well…”—Noah threw Claire a look of panic—“I believe the duke is rather indisposed”—her grace scowled, and he swallowed hard—“but naturally, I’m at your service!” He rose. “I shall fetch him at once.”
The scowl transformed into a serene smile. “So very kind,” she repeated.
In his haste to escape, Noah nearly collided with Mr. Evans by the doorway.
“Begging your lordship’s pardon,” the butler said with ruffled dignity, “but may I venture to apprise you of the time?”
“Hmm? Oh, blast, is it already time to dress for dinner?”
As Noah scurried off to his task and everyone else filed out after him, Claire realized with dawning horror that she was about to be alone with the duchess. For it was unthinkable to leave such a distinguished guest unattended, and as Greystone’s mistress, the duty of staying behind fell to her.
She sought Elizabeth’s eye in order to plead for assistance. But it was in vain, as her sister was either lost in contemplation or pretending to be, and she quit the room without a backward glance.
Claire could only hope Noah would return quickly—and with a stout heart in his chest. She feared her grace might not accept her son’s inevitable rejection with anything close to actual grace. She might even try something drastic to force Jonathan to see her.
She would not succeed, however, in Claire’s estimation, even should Noah’s resolution falter. For as Claire knew all too well, pigs would fly before Jonathan came within spitting distance of his mother.
In fact, odds were Jonathan had already left Greystone. And, believing what he did of Claire, he’d likely never come within her spitting distance again, either.
She could still feel his kiss on her lips and his hands on her body. She was still startled by his desperate passion, still burning with her own need for him. But the sensations were dulled by an all-too-familiar bitterness and despair.
For a spell she’d let herself believe the long nightmare was over; the world was coming right again; Jonathan would be hers again.
But she should have known better. She should have seen it was too good to be true.
She wasn’t guilty of the accusations he’d hurled at her. But it was just as well she’d never get the chance to plead her innocence, since even if she could find the words to persuade him, it wouldn’t change anything.
Because nothing else had changed.
Despite his heartfelt assurances, his mother’s hold over him was as strong as ever. Whether it pulled him to her or drove him from her made no difference. It plainly remained more powerful than whatever he felt for Claire.
“Will you be needing anything, my lady?”
“Hmm?” The query drawing her from her reverie, Claire looked to Mr. Evans—her last remaining ally, as everyone else had gone. Though his expression betrayed no telltale sentiment, Claire knew the old butler well enough to perceive his concern for her.
Feeling touched, she managed a small smile. “Thank you, Mr. Evans, but I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your dinner preparations.”
He hesitated. “Are you certain?”
She squared her shoulders. “Quite certain.”
While he would never be so undignified as to wink, she detected an approving twinkle in his eye. “Very well, my lady.” He bowed and went out—though decidedly leaving the door open, as if to accord her the option of shouting for help.
Then Claire had nothing left to do but to go settle herself in the wingback chair opposite her grace’s. Folding her hands primly in her lap, Claire regarded the duchess with wary expectation.
Instead of meeting her gaze, Jonathan’s mother continued staring into the fire. Claire studied the dance of light and shadow upon her formidable face. It threw every droop and crease into sharp relief, making the duchess appear ten years older than she had last Christmas.
And all at once, Claire realized she felt no animosity toward this woman. Her quarrel had never been with the duchess and her bad behavior, but with Jonathan and his willingness to be taken in by it.
The Dowager Duchess of Rathborne was by no means pleasant company.
But whatever her reasons for interfering in her son’s affairs—whether she’d taken some dislike to Claire or simply feared losing pride of place in his heart—Claire could only pity her.
To have gone to such lengths and concocted such schemes spoke of deep desperation.
Having witnessed the genuine bond between mother and son, Claire could only attribute that desperation to the deepest love.
It was love misapplied, of course—and disastrously so. But Claire fancied the events of this past year (and most especially these past days) had taught her something of love and desperation, and indeed, schemes and mistakes.
And if all that had been driven by a love forged in mere months, Claire shuddered to think what a mother’s love might drive her to…
Claire might have passed the whole of their private audience in such charitable reflections, had she not felt the increasing necessity of saying something. Resolved on keeping to the most banal of civilities, she cleared her throat. “I hope you left your mother in good health.”
Only at her grace’s astonished reaction did Claire realize she’d made a controversial remark. She’d somehow forgotten that when they’d last parted, the duchess was allegedly en route to her mother’s deathbed.
Before responding, her grace lifted the little Pomeranian onto her lap.
“The marquise is in a tolerable way, considering.” Stroking Rousseau’s back, she looked to Claire with wide, concerned eyes.
“I only pray, ma mie, the same can be said of yourself! You appear to have suffered some sort of accident, n’est-ce pas? ”
Claire followed the duchess’s pointed gaze down to the large, wine-colored stain on her gown. “Oh! Yes, an accident. I am honored by your grace’s compassion, but I have suffered no injury. It’s only spilled wine.”
“Bien s?r! Forgive me, I did not realize the English mademoiselles engaged in such, ah, spirited modes of celebration.”
“Oh, no,” Claire protested, blushing hotly. “I’m not ‘spirited’ at all! I’ve barely had a sip! The spill only happened because—”
“Ma mie,” the duchess interrupted with smothering generosity, “there is no need for embarrassment. Do not imagine me to be censuring you, for I am quite sure you are beyond reproach. The mistake is all mine. Unsociable as I am, I’ve become woefully ignorant of the general conduct of young ladies.
I fear,” she concluded, her eyes hard, though her voice lost none of its sickly sweetness, “I am only familiar with the conduct befitting a Duchess of Rathborne.”
Though Claire could hardly fail to understand the rebuke, its framing left her unable to attempt any defense. Instead she merely quailed beneath the duchess’s withering glare and wished to expire on the spot.
Which she might have done, if not for the timely entrance of her rescuer.
“Noah!” she greeted him with undisguised relief—but the tall and reassuringly solid figure striding into the room was not her brother’s. “Jonathan?” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“I believe I was summoned,” he answered coolly and came to stand beside her chair. “Evidently to engage in a discussion of conduct befitting a Duchess of Rathborne. Have I got that right, maman?”
Though Claire was glad to see Jonathan—as well as the return of his normal coloring—he brought her more distress than joy or relief. With a sinking heart she noted his full satchel and impatient air, and that his eyes were still flashing with anger.
The duchess’s eyes, meanwhile, were drinking in the sight of her son—her first glimpse of him in a year. She was plainly overwhelmed. Claire could see all that she felt laid bare upon her face: hurt, indignation, even fury.
But these were mere whitecaps atop an ocean of longing.
Claire also saw love and hope and a palpable desire to leap from her chair and scoop her child into her arms. Her grace seemed to tremble with the effort of remaining in her seat, unless it was out of fear that her son would leave her again.
She clung to Rousseau like a life preserver, appearing unable to marshal her powers of speech.
Which was actually irrelevant, since Jonathan’s question had been rhetorical.
“Perhaps you haven’t considered,” he continued without awaiting her answer, “that as the Duke of Rathborne, I have the final say on this matter. And in my present humor I find it more appropriate to discuss conduct unbefitting a duchess of my house.” His jaw tightened visibly.
“Consider, for instance, a duchess brazenly trespassing upon a gathering to which she was not invited.”
His mother was stung into a reply. “I came to you on a matter of urgency!”
“And how did you know where to come?” he demanded. “Are you having me followed?”
She scoffed. “Mais non, must you be so dramatique? I learned your whereabouts from Andrews.”
Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “You couldn’t have; he didn’t know I was here.”
“He did not need to; my coachman encountered him coming off the stage from Canterbury. I knew what that meant.”
Jonathan’s eyes blazed. “Spying on my servants is as bad following me, maman.”
“What other choice had I?” she cried. “You refused to see me.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said coldly, “but you had the choice to respect my wish to be left alone—which I made quite clear.”
“You made nothing clear! Voyons, you vanished without a word! I had no idea where you went, when you were coming home, why you left—”
“Why? You dare ask why?” He laughed without humor. “If ruining my wedding—three times!—wasn’t enough, perhaps we might add in the repeated lies, dragging me to another country under false pretenses, and oh, let us not forget locking me in a closet—”
“It was a dressing room! And I did not lock you in! I merely took advantage of a f-fortunate…accident…”
She trailed off, eyes wide as she took in her son’s thunderous expression. Silence reigned for a long, tense moment.
“Mon coeur,” she began again in a much less strident tone. “I may have gone too far at times, but you must understand I did the best I could with what means were available. I desire only to help you—to save you from an ill-considered marriage—”
“What could possibly be ill-considered about Claire?” Jonathan burst out. “She’s an earl’s daughter from an irreproachable line! Her family counts kings as friends—”
“It is not her family I object to. Just look at her! Her hair, her dress…”
When they both wheeled round to do so, Claire discovered it was impossible to die from embarrassment, for otherwise she would surely have perished. Which might have been preferable to enduring their scrutiny whilst attempting to flatten her windswept hair and conceal her stained gown.
Contempt deepened the lines around the duchess’s mouth.
“These English girls,” she muttered. “I had hoped to introduce you to some suitable young women during our time in France, mon coeur, that you might see what is lacking here. No élégance, no dignité, no humilité. Nothing but vulgar Protestant pride! I am sure Lady Claire is a nice girl, but she will not make you a good wife. She is too willful, too strong-minded to be ruled by her husband as she ought. She will never learn her place.”
By this time, tears—of shame or rage, she didn’t know which—were beginning to prick Claire’s eyes. She needed to escape before she either lost her temper or broke down in sobs. But as she staggered to her feet, Jonathan’s next words brought her to a standstill.
“You’re right, maman.”