A Lasting Impression (41 page)

He got that look about him again, as though wrestling with something, and the sea blue of his eyes darkened. His thumb slid from her cheek to her mouth, and he traced a feather-soft path over her lower lip. She closed her eyes, thinking that maybe if she didn’t look at him, she wouldn’t be so moved.

But the lack of sight only made her that much more aware of his touch.

His hands, so strong, so warm . . . One of them edged down her neck, and she tilted her head, certain the hillside moved beneath them. And then, his lips on her cheek. Oh, how was she still standing? His breath was warm and minty. And his hand, inching up her arm only added to the weakness in the hollow backs of her knees.

“Open your eyes,” he whispered.

But she didn’t want to. She didn’t want it to end.

“Claire . . .” He sighed, a smile somehow wrapped up in the sound.

Reluctantly, she did as he asked, and what she saw in his eyes took her breath away. It was then that she realized he was holding her in his arms, and her arms were around his neck. And that he intended to—

His lips brushed hers, softly at first, as though she might break, then grew more confident, and eager. He tasted like peppermint and sunshine, and somewhere deep inside, long cordoned off and forgotten, a place slowly began to open again.

Or maybe it was opening for the first time.
Yes
 . . . that was it. Because never had anyone touched her there before.

Sutton deepened the kiss, and her willing response sent a bolt of lightning through him. With determination he knew was right but was already regretting, he drew back. He wasn’t sure who was more breathless, him or her.

Seeing her eyes still closed, her lips full and parted, any question in his mind about whether this woman felt more than mere friendship for him, vanished. He kissed her cheek, and she slowly opened her eyes. His chest tightened at the mixture of innocence and desire he saw there.

On impulse, he drew her to him again and held her, tracing the small of her back, then the curve of her spine, admiring how well they fit together, her head tucked beneath his chin, her arms around his waist. If he had to choose between kissing her and holding her, he would definitely choose the kissing. But the holding wasn’t too bad either.

“My father and I,” she said softly, her cheek against his chest. “We weren’t close.”

We weren’t close.
Only three words. Yet they said so much, and helped to explain her reaction from moments earlier. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“My mother and I were, though.”

He felt her quick intake of breath and tightened his arms around her, wishing he could take away the pain in her voice. “And she passed away how long ago?”

“Almost eight months.” She exhaled. “Tuberculosis.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She gradually looked up at him. “A moment ago you said that your family house
stood.
Meaning it’s not there anymore?”

He looked back in the direction of Laurel Bend. “The house is gone. The Federal Army burned it—and everything else—to the ground. . . . The same day they killed my father.”

Questions flitted across her face, and yet she said nothing, only waited, her gaze patient.

“Federal officers had been out to the house, more than once, demanding that he sign the Oath of Allegiance. That he and I both sign it.”

“But you both refused?”

He nodded. “My father served in the hospitals and cared for the wounded. His family, patients, and friends were fighting for the Confederacy, but he refused to take up arms against his fellow countrymen.” Sutton stared out across the valley toward home, or what was once his home, and told her about finding his father’s bloodied body, and of his mother collapsing in his arms. “The reason my father refused to sign the oath was because of me. I told him that he would be a—” The words caught. “That he would be a traitor to me and to our family name if he signed.”

Claire winced, as though sharing the weight of his regret.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I’d been there. That I could’ve intervened. That I could tell him that no matter what he did, he could never have been a traitor in my eyes.” Sutton bowed his head. If he could turn back the clock and do things over again, he would. It wasn’t right for a father to pay the price for his son’s pride. He took a breath and lifted his eyes. “Now the government’s laid claim to my land and is trying to brand my father as a traitor to his country.”

Claire drew back, fire in her eyes. “But they can’t do that! The war is over. They have no right to take something that’s not theirs.”

He felt the hint of a smile, able to envision her in a court of law. Heaven help the judge who riled this woman. “I’ve made an appeal to the Federal Army’s review board, but it’s a long shot. And the longer it drags out, the less hopeful I am. So . . . I’m preparing myself to lose it all.”

She reached for his hands, raised them to her lips, and kissed them. Her gentleness, the way she held his hands between hers, caused a knot to form at the base of his throat.

“My
maman
used to say that things happen for a reason.” Her smile came slowly, sweetly, and shone in her eyes with a strength that belied the quiver in her voice. “I haven’t always believed that in the past. But I do now . . . believe that God has a plan for me. I don’t know what it is . . .” She laughed, squeezing his hands. “But I’m choosing to believe He does. And I’m going to believe that for you too.”

With effort, he swallowed. “Thank you, Claire.” He knew she had no idea what that meant to him. Or what
she
meant to him. “I’m going to do better at believing that too. For us both.”

He glanced over her shoulder and saw Truxton and Athena standing side by side, munching on field grass, and an idea came. Though he’d not seen the bruise on Claire’s hip after her fall, he’d known from Dr. Denard that it had been bad. And while he didn’t want to push her before she was ready, he was eager to get started on their jumping lessons.

He looked back at her. “How’s your hip feeling these days?”

Confusion clouded her expression.

“I’m just wondering if you’re healed up enough to start those—”

“Yes!” Her face lit and she gave a little squeal. “I’m completely healed. When can we start?”

34

S
tanding between Sutton and Mrs. Acklen on the front portico the following morning, Claire raised a hand in farewell as the LeVerts’ carriage pulled away. Diddie and Cara Netta, seated by open windows, reached gloved hands through and waved. Cara Netta had barely met her gaze when they’d said good-bye a moment earlier. Diddie, too, had seemed slightly less cordial.

But under the circumstances, Claire understood. She assumed Cara Netta had told Diddie about the change in relationship with Sutton, but she guessed from Madame LeVert’s unaffected behavior that Cara Netta hadn’t told her mother yet.

She’d seen Sutton and Cara Netta walking the gardens earlier that morning, but no longer arm in arm. Anyone seeing the sheen of emotion in Cara Netta’s eyes as she and Sutton had said good-bye would have attributed her tears to those of parting, but Claire knew better.

And she felt for Cara Netta. Even as she felt relief at her departure.

She welcomed the familiarity of routine again. She had a reception to plan, after all, and also needed to work in time to paint. And guilty though she felt, when thinking of Cara Netta, she welcomed time with Sutton again. Especially after yesterday’s meeting on the ridge.

She glanced at him and discovered his gaze fixed on the carriage as it rounded the last garden at the bottom of the hill and disappeared from sight. She would have given more than a penny for his thoughts.

As though aware of her staring at him, a slow smile turned his mouth. But he took his own sweet time before peering over at her. His smile took a more intimate turn, and Claire would’ve sworn he’d reached over and touched her. But he hadn’t.

He could do all that with a single look . . .

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of the last word, as it were, she raised an eyebrow as though finding his actions
blasé.
To which he responded by dropping his gaze ever so slowly to her mouth, where his focus lingered. Then he looked up at her again, his thoughts easily read. Claire reached out to a nearby urn to steady herself.

Mrs. Acklen sighed, her mood of a sadder nature this morning. “ ‘Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies.’ ” She turned back toward the mansion, and Claire did likewise, wondering if her employer’s tender emotions were due to the LeVerts’ departure, or to something else.

Sutton offered them each an arm as they climbed the steps. “I’ve no doubt, Mrs. Acklen, that Aristotle had you and Madame LeVert in mind when he penned that notion.”

Mrs. Acklen smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Monroe. But I’m not quite that old. Yet.”

He laughed. “You know that wasn’t what I meant to imply.”

“Of course I do, sir. Because, as we all know, you
imply
nothing, Mr. Monroe. You state it forthrightly and for all to hear.” Mrs. Acklen glanced over at Claire, her countenance growing a touch brighter. “Miss Laurent is improving her skill in that area. You must be giving her private instruction.”

Claire felt Sutton’s nudge and her face went warm.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, hardly missing a beat. “I’ve been working with Miss Laurent on a private basis for some time now. She can be a challenge, as you’re aware. But overall I’ve found the experience to be very . . . gratifying.”

Her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, Claire pinched him through his suit jacket. He smiled as he reached to open the door.

“Mr. Monroe, will you be going into the office today?”

“Yes, Mrs. Acklen, I will. I need to get some files, as well as stop by the telegraph office.”

“I have a letter on my desk for Mrs. Holbrook, regarding a committee we’re on together. Would you take it to her husband, please?”

Sutton closed the door behind them. “With pleasure, ma’am.”

Once inside, Mrs. Acklen paused in the entrance hall and looked up at the picture of her late husband. She said nothing. Only stood and stared, as though no one else were in the room.

Claire shot a look at Sutton, who was gazing at the painting as well. He seemed unbothered by Mrs. Acklen’s sudden reticence, and not the least surprised by it.

“Miss Laurent?” Her voice soft, Mrs. Acklen’s focus remained unchanged.

Claire took a tiny step forward. “Yes, ma’am?”

“We’ll be working in my personal quarters today. We have boxes of letters and cards to go through. I want your assistance in creating something special for Octavia. To present to her at the reception. A book of memories, perhaps, of . . . happier days gone by.”

Claire curtsied, bowing her head. “Yes, ma’am. Of course.” She looked at Sutton, who gave her a silent nod. “But first, ma’am, why don’t I go down to the kitchen and get you a cup of Cordina’s tea? I’ll bring it up shortly.”

Mrs. Acklen turned, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “That would be lovely, Miss Laurent. Thank you. But wait an hour, perhaps two. I’d appreciate time to rest.” She reached the doorway and looked back. “And do remember to bring a cup of tea for yourself too, when you come.”

“I’m glad you stopped in, Mr. Monroe.”

Sutton turned at hearing Bartholomew Holbrook’s voice. “I just came by to get some files and check my mail, sir. I left an envelope from Mrs. Acklen for your wife with the receptionist. But she told me you were out for the afternoon.”

Holbrook waved for Sutton to join him in his office, then for him to close the door. Sutton did and claimed one of the two leather chairs opposite the senior law partner’s desk.

“I’m doing my best,” Holbrook said, “to stay out of sight and get some work done.” He held out a file. “An investigator hired by our client dropped this by earlier today.”

Sutton flipped through the folder that contained another list of cities and dates with titles of art pieces listed beside them. Some, but not all, of the titles had dollar amounts by them. “I don’t want to be pessimistic, sir, but we already have lists like this. We need to identify the people involved.”