A Spy's Honor (16 page)

Behind the spectacles, his blue eyes studied her thoughtfully, and when he lifted up his father’s watch, a memory from that night long ago flashed in her mind. The highwayman had wanted John’s watch. His father’s watch. His hesitation in handing it over had panicked her, making her think he valued it over her.

“Allerton gave me this upon our father’s death,” he said. “I thanked him, of course, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. I shoved it in a drawer and forgot about it.”

“How old were you?” she asked, relieved to be speaking of his father and not her parents.

“Eleven. I think I hid it away because I didn’t want any reminders. The memories were painful enough—or rather, the visions of what would never be.”

She had rarely seen him this expressive. His sad smile pulled at her, and Claire realized she had begun to reach out to him. Slowly she withdrew and smoothed her skirts with one hand.

She cleared her throat. “When did you finally start wearing it?”

He was silent for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer. He simply stared at the watch, rubbing his thumb over the embossed surface. Finally he replied, “When my memories of my father began to grow hazy. I found myself wanting a piece of him, something tangible to remember him by.” He flipped the watch over and held it so she could see the engraving on the back. “My grandfather gave it to him. I like to think he remembered his father when he wore it too.”

Claire blinked against a sudden sting of tears. How hard it must have been for him to have grown up without a father. Oh, she had no doubt that Allerton had stepped in and done the best he could, but still, she knew what it was like to be without a parent—or two, as absent as her father had been.

She did reach across and squeeze his hand then. Just once, quickly. His eyes, wide in surprise, cut to hers.

She raised the lace pin for John to see. “How did you know Olivia had something in her pocket? It’s so small as to be unnoticeable.” There, she was talking about the pin and, in a roundabout way, her parents.

“She kept her hand in there, fiddling with it. It wasn’t much to assume it was another of her stolen treasures.” He slid the watch back into his pocket and gestured toward her pin. “Have you ever worn it?”

Claire shook her head. Like John, she had buried the piece. Among her handkerchiefs. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Perhaps you should. It’s been nine years.”

Despite her best intentions to remain relaxed, Claire’s jaw tightened. She knew how many years it had been. She knew how much time she had lost with her mother. The muscles in her throat constricted as well. She squeezed the pin in her palm and whispered, “When I look at it, all I can think about is what he did to her and almost did to me.”

“Your father?”

She nodded and swallowed past the lump in her throat. She wasn’t going to cry. There was no point. “He died in the West Indies. Did you know that? After all his apologies and his supposed remorse over his behavior toward me, he left again just as merrily as you please. How typical. The Earl of Bradwell couldn’t even be buried in England due to his ridiculous rambles.”

No longer able to keep the tears at bay, she turned her head away, knowing one glance at John’s sympathetic face would render her incapable of speech. She hated feeling remorse over her father’s death. He didn’t deserve a moment’s thought from her.

Vision blurred, she jerked to her feet and stumbled away to let the tears fall. She hadn’t cried like this in five years, but she couldn’t stop. She prayed John would go away. Tears frightened most men, so perhaps he would slink away and leave her be.

But then warm hands cupped her shoulders, turning her around and folding her into the comfort of a solid chest and strong arms, into the place where she secretly longed to stay forever. She sobbed a while longer for her mother, who’d abandoned her first emotionally and then in death, and for her wretched father, damn him. Then she wept for herself, for she had no right to be so tenderly ensconced in John’s arms.

“Oh, Claire,” he finally said, pulling her closer still. Her arms were trapped between them, her hands fisted against his chest.

It wasn’t
Oh, Claire, you poor thing,
as his mother might have said. It wasn’t
Oh, Claire, you know how father was,
as her sister might have said. It definitely wasn’t
Oh, Claire, don’t be sad. I can make you feel better,
as Stephen would have said. They were two simple words, said on a sigh without judgment. Exactly what she wanted.

With all the reluctance in the world, Claire pushed away. As comforting as John’s words and embrace were, she was Stephen’s fiancée. One of them needed to maintain an air of propriety, and it didn’t appear as if John ever intended to do so.

She took the handkerchief he offered and dabbed at her eyes. “I shouldn’t have expected him to stay. He never had before.” She paced. “It was wonderful to have him here for those few weeks. He came to dinner, he played charades, and he even escorted me to a ball. I was so desperate and stupid that I was willing to forget everything he had done. I just wanted a father, a parent. Then he was gone again.”
And so were you
.

She’d lain awake so many nights, berating herself for forgiving her father. What had been the point when he’d left again and then died? She was her mother all over again.

“You aren’t stupid. You deserved better from him. I’m so sorry, Claire.”

“Thank you.”

Gently, John laid a hand upon her arm, halting her continued pacing. “I’m also sorry I wasn’t here to help you through that difficult time.”

Up until then his words had been nothing but reassuring. “But you weren’t here, were you?”

“No,” he said. “I wasn’t.”

“Because you jilted me and ran off like a coward.” Astounding, how good it felt to say those words. Until she peeked up at John’s face. He looked as if she’d slapped him.

He had no right to be hurt.
She
was the one who’d been crushed by his swift departure.

“I tell you again, I did not jilt you,” John said as she turned to leave.

He always knew what to say to get a response from her, even if he used that soft, calm tone. She whirled around. “How can you deny it?”

“I did what was best for you.”

Her voice rose against her will. “So you call yourself noble?”

“Never.” His tone was as sharp and jagged as a saw. “You didn’t want me, Claire. I was nothing like Allerton. I was puny and timid. I couldn’t even save you from that bandit. ‘John was just as frightened as I,’ you said.”

Seldom was she stunned into silence, but her brain could barely comprehend his words.

“I wanted to marry you,” he whispered. If she had closed her eyes, she could have imagined the words were uttered with the utmost tenderness.

She found her voice at last but couldn’t help spluttering. “You thought… I didn’t… Why didn’t you ask me if I still wanted to marry you or not?”

“I didn’t want to give you a chance to reject me. I’d left my pride on the side of that road, trampled to bits.” He huffed out a breath and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I had a plan, though. To mold myself into someone you could love, someone you could be proud of. I was going to join the army. Become strong and brave, just like Allerton.”

Claire’s blood boiled over with anger and frustration and desperation. Dear God, how could her heart
still
feel as if it were breaking? “I never asked you to do any of that.”

He let his head fall and shot her a disbelieving look. “Perhaps not out loud, but I’m not, nor have I ever been, stupid. You were infatuated with Allerton and his confidence and his brawn. Look at the man you are marrying. Kensworth is cut from the same cloth.”

She struggled to rein in her emotions, to make sense of what he was saying.
This
was why they hadn’t married? She would concede that she’d been fascinated by Allerton and his seeming ability to take care of every problem, great or small. But she’d never wished John were more like him. She remembered being a little disappointed that he hadn’t reacted more quickly that awful night, and she
had
rushed into Allerton’s arms, but she had still wanted to marry John after all that.

And there was one thing she didn’t understand. She’d waited. And hoped. And waited some more.

“Why did you not come back sooner?” She flapped a hand up and down in front of his lean but no longer “puny” figure. “You are clearly… Well, you’ve achieved your goal, despite not becoming a soldier. Could you not have returned?”

Even as she asked, she wondered if she would have fallen into his arms if he had. Would she have forgiven him so easily? Could she have accepted, even then, an aimless, purposeless John who couldn’t or wouldn’t account for his absence?

He held up his hand and waggled his thumb and two remaining fingers. “This happened. I tried to perfect myself and wound up permanently imperfect.”

And he thought she would care? She, who was nowhere near ideal herself, and probably never would be? A man who sought perfection in himself wouldn’t accept anything less in someone else.

Not that any of these musings or his explanations were relevant. They had lost whatever chance they might have had, all because of John’s pride.

She tried to smile, but the effect was probably paltry. Somehow she would make it to her room before succumbing to a good cry. “I wish you the very best of luck in your search for a bride.”

After giving John a polite but brief nod she headed for the door. She would have liked to have said she didn’t look back, but she was weak; she did. John was running his fingers through his hair, but the expression on his face told her he probably would have preferred to tear it out.

Kensworth,
she reminded herself.
Stephen.
He was her intended. If only she felt with him what she felt with John, maybe forgetting John would be easier. There must be a trick to it, something she was missing.

She went in search of Emily and found her in the back garden tending to the flower beds. “May I ask for some advice?”

Her sister pocketed the pruning shears she was using and wiped her hands on her apron. “Certainly. Having trouble deciding which gown to wear this evening?”

“No. I want you to advise me on…marital activities in the bedchamber.”

Emily’s eyes widened. “Oh my. I suppose your wedding is quickly approaching.”

It couldn’t come soon enough for Claire. She swept her gown beneath her bottom and sat on a nearby bench. Emily arranged her pregnant self on the blanket beside the flower bed and picked up a trowel. She worked industriously, never tearing her eyes away from the dirt, while relating the basic facts of procreation.

Claire didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d gleaned this much from books discovered on a high shelf in Allerton’s library. She needed knowledge of a different sort.

After a flushing Emily finally stuttered to halt she said, “Thank you. I know you were probably hoping to avoid that explanation for many more years—until Olivia is older.”

“Oh, dear sister, I would do anything for you.” Emily’s words weren’t quite as dramatic as they might have been, because she was huffing and struggling to stand up. Claire gave her a hand and Emily joined her on the bench. “Do you have any questions? I’ll do my best to be forthright.”

Now was her chance. “I wonder if you could elaborate on…well, how to feel
more.
” It was her turn to blush. “Kensworth seems good at kissing, but I wanted to know if there was something I could do to feel that much more
alive
when we’re together. I want our wedding night to be perfect.”

Emily looked off to the far ivy-covered wall, a smile curving her lips. “I’ve always found it thrilling to take the initiative. To not be so missish. I must say, I think Allerton likes it too.” She giggled and took Claire’s hand. “Once you are married, he is yours just as much as you are his. You have every right to enjoy the marital act as much as your husband. Don’t forget that.”

Perhaps boldness
was
the key. The night before, slipping her tongue past John’s lips had stopped him cold, but that was because she was engaged. Doing something equally brash might just yield the opposite result with Stephen. Yes, it might just work. And fortunately enough, the Cahills were coming to dinner that evening. Claire would find a way to get Stephen alone and try out this new wile.

She kissed Emily on the cheek and hugged her tight. “Thank you!”

Chapter Twelve

“My lord, thank goodness you are returned at a reasonable hour.” The butler regarded John as if he were a licentious rake who often stayed out until all hours of the night.

“It isn’t even half past six, Hadlow.” Not that John wouldn’t have preferred to remain away from the house until all its occupants were abed, or at least until a certain brunette was clad in her nightdress and safely tucked into the arms of Morpheus. But he had run out of things to do and people to meet. A man who didn’t relish card games or the theatre and was particular about the company he kept could only occupy himself for so many hours before he wanted—no, needed—to return home.

At least he had a home to return to now. Not that he felt he could remain under the same roof as Claire for much longer. Her quiet dismissal that morning had spoken volumes about her disillusionment with him. The old cut hurt no less when it was reopened.

“I know,” Hadlow replied in apology. “But I failed to inform you when you left this morning that your presence is required at dinner. Her Grace, your mother, was adamant that all family members be at home this evening. Severs awaits you abovestairs.”

But John didn’t start for the stairs immediately. “Hadlow, which exalted members of Society are we to entertain this evening?”

“Lord Kensworth and his family.”

It wasn’t too late to turn around, head out into the night, and develop a taste for debauchery…except that Hadlow had already uttered the magic words:
your mother
and
adamant
. Since John had neglected her for the last five years, he couldn’t miss out on a dinner that was obviously important to her, blasted Kensworth or no.