Courting Claudia (2 page)

Then again, his looks went beyond handsome. He wore his dark brown hair too long and had to keep pushing it out of his face. It gave him the look of a privateer. No, he would definitely be a pirate, not a privateer. His smile was easy, yet not one of great humor but more of secretive amusement—as if he alone knew the surprise of the joke.

But it was his eyes, Claudia decided, that made him so dashing. So brown they appeared black, framed with arching eyebrows that reflected his intelligence. Unlike most gentlemen, he had looked at her, really looked at her, eye to eye. Not terribly well-mannered, considering they had just met, but necessary under the circumstances. And it made her feel alive, noticed, important. As if he'd really seen her.

Feelings that no strange man should ever evoke in a lady. Gracious. More than his dashing good looks, everything about Mr. Middleton overwhelmed her. She had expected him to be furious at her deception and to refuse to pay her for her last assignment. But he'd scarcely blinked when he'd come to the realization that he'd hired a woman. Then he'd gone several steps further and praised her work and offered her more money.

It was ludicrous. Unheard of. Women were hired for factory jobs, not professional positions with newspapers. But he'd been quite serious. Name her price—as if her skill was something extraordinary and worthy.

Well, even if that were true, and she doubted it, she couldn't continue her employment. But oh, was it tempting. In her life she couldn't remember anything she loved more than illustrating. While she was quite accomplished with watercolors, illustrating was her true passion.

If only she could figure out a way to continue working. She'd managed to keep her secret for six months, but now that her father read the paper, too much was at risk.

Illustrating, making her own money these past six months, embodied her dreams as if she'd been living someone else's life. But she couldn't con
tinue living the fantasy, so she'd have to settle for the entire experience being a sweet memory.

She had made the right decision. The only decision. No matter how much she longed to continue drawing and no matter how tempting Mr. Middleton and his offer were, she'd stick by her resignation.

 

“You shouldn't scowl like that, dear, makes you look dangerous.”

Derrick looked up from his dinner and gave his aunt a weak smile.

“Bad day?”

“Rotten.” He pushed his food around on his plate with his fork. He still hadn't figured out what to do about Miss Prattley's resignation.

“Your vocabulary is too much for my feeble mind,” she said dryly.

Leave it to Aunt Chloe to give him a chuckle.

She leveled her gray eyes to his. Her silver hair piled atop her head like a crown gave her the illusion of being a tall woman. But it was her confidence and boldness that made her regal, not her appearance.

He knew better than to come home expecting to keep his troubles to himself. She was simply too nosy. She certainly loved him, but more than that
she had a streak of curiosity as wide as the Thames.

“One of my illustrators resigned today.”

“And now you have to find a replacement?”

“It's not likely. It was the illustrator who's been doing the Society Fashion Report.”

She frowned. “I know I'm a dreadful aunt for not even glancing at your paper since I've been back in town. So forgive this old woman and be a dear and explain yourself—Society Fashion Report?”

“The Society Fashion Report was my answer to persuading more of the nobility to purchase the paper. A weekly segment featuring illustrations of the latest fashions. I figured even if it was women who initially bought the paper, it would get into the hands of their husbands eventually. This particular illustrator is on the inside of Society and draws her peers. It's quite the rage, as you know how those gossips love to be the center of attention.”

“Brilliant plan, dear boy. And I should like to see these illustrations. But you mustn't forget that the paper is already a success. You have plenty of readers.”

“Yes, but not enough. At least not enough of the right kind.”

“Your paper doesn't have to be like your fa
ther's, you know. You've exceeded his success with the first fully illustrated paper. And you've made it available to the common man. Look around you, look at all you've accomplished. Your father would have been proud.”

He didn't need to look around. This was his dining room. His house. He knew what it looked like. Tasteful yet simple decor. He hadn't picked any of it himself, because he didn't really care. He only cared that he had a dining table, not that it was mahogany and sat eight. None of the details mattered. The house, the money—yes, he'd done well for himself, and his father would have been proud. But his father had worked to bring political news to the public; for him it had never been about the money.

“My father loved political news,” he replied.

“Your father loved you.”

She was right, his father had loved him, but Phillip Middleton had lived and breathed for his paper. The paper had come first with him, and then his family. And with one story, that paper had been destroyed, the credibility and honor stripped away. Derrick hadn't penned another story since.

“It's not your fault, and he knew that. It's a shame you can't see it.”

Derrick took a bite of roasted hen and let the silence settle in around them. He should send for new lighting for this room. It was too damned bright.

“Back to this illustrator,” Aunt Chloe ventured. “What are you going to do?”

“I'm not sure. She won't be replaced easily.”

“I'm rather intrigued that you hired a woman. You never mentioned that in your letters.”

“I didn't know I'd hired a woman. Not until she came into the office today.”

“Who is she?”

“Claudia Prattley. She made mention of her father deeming it inappropriate that she have a paid position, so I'm assuming that he's titled and finds men like me who work for our money nothing more than scuff marks on his boots.”

“Prattley, you say? Oh, he's titled alright.” Aunt Chloe gave him a smile. A slow smile that resembled a barn cat after she'd devoured a mouse. She all but licked her lips.

“Do you know her father?”

“Indeed. As do you, my dear. Prattley is the family name of the Viscount Kennington.”

Derrick dropped his fork. This day could not end soon enough. Of all the rotten luck. Had there been a storm, he wouldn't dare go outside, be
cause lightning would surely strike. He eyed the chandelier, surprised it hadn't fallen on him.

By God, he would have paid his entire fortune to keep in his employ the daughter of Kennington. The man who had made it his personal agenda to ruin Derrick's father and the reputation of
The Challenger
.

The bastard hadn't succeeded, but his letters to the editor disputed every sentiment raised. People had listened to him, as he'd been the chancellor of finance at the time. Despite his efforts, Kennington hadn't ruined the paper; Derrick had managed to do that himself.

“I can tell by your reaction that you hadn't made the connection. Don't you think old Kennie would love to know his precious daughter worked for you and your dirty little paper?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

Derrick chuckled. “And if it weren't for the fact that I want her to continue working for me, I just might tell him. I'm not sure the girl would fare well if he ever found out. I would wager he's a tyrant in his own home. He certainly raises enough hell in Parliament.”

“Did she indicate why she needed to resign?”

“She has to marry.”

“That shouldn't stop her. Marriage never
stopped me from doing anything.” His aunt pointed her fork at him. “You
are
going to convince her to continue working, aren't you?”

“I haven't figured that out as of yet.” He shrugged. “I did find out where Miss Prattley will be tomorrow evening. I have secured myself an invitation and will do what I can there to persuade her.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I have my sources. Newsmen never reveal their sources.”

“You're no fun.” She drained her wineglass. “To whom is she betrothed?”

“She's not. It's confusing—at least it confused me. I suppose she is getting pressure from her father to marry.”

“If that is indeed the reason she cannot continue working, then you simply need to ensure she doesn't marry. But first you must convince her to work for you until she is safely wed. Then you prevent the latter from happening.”

“You are wicked, Aunt.”

“I don't mean indefinitely, dear boy. Just until you can convince her to work for you regardless of her marital status. Or until you find a replacement.”

That might work. Surely he could convince her to postpone resigning until she wed. He had al
ways been successful at persuading people to his way of thought.

“But how do I prevent her from marrying?”

“Simple. You court her yourself.”

T
he glittering ballroom fluttered with people and noise. Claudia stood in a circle with Poppy, Poppy's mother, and three of her friends. They chatted endlessly about the weather and the girls who had just been introduced into Society.

The Draper ball, while never a grand affair, not in comparison with some of the others of the Season, was well attended and nicely decorated. Rose topiaries and ferns lined the ballroom, and the wall of opened balcony doors allowed a gentle breeze to drift through the room.

Claudia sensed Poppy's annoyance—she had sent her a note promising details of her meeting
with Mr. Middleton, but a day had passed since then, and she no longer wanted to divulge every detail to Poppy. Mr. Middleton had occupied far too many thoughts over the last twenty-four hours, and it was vastly inappropriate. Claudia would not admit to that, not even to Poppy.

It mattered not now. He had left her life as quickly as he'd entered. And while she regretted not meeting him before yesterday, lamenting a missed friendship seemed silly. Besides, married women didn't have male friends. Soon, she hoped, she could call herself a married woman. If Richard
ever
proposed.

Poppy looked over at her and rolled her eyes.

She smiled. As long as the others remained, they protected her from Poppy's inquiries.

“Girls, we're going to the refreshment table. Do you care for anything?” Poppy's mother asked.

Splendid
.

“No, thank you, Mother,” Poppy said.

Poppy would probably be suspicious if Claudia went with the other ladies to the refreshments. Deep breaths, that's all she needed. She inhaled; the sweet, tangy scent of roses filled her nose. Claudia watched the three women walk away. She bit the inside of her lip.

“Now that we've successfully rid ourselves of company, tell me what happened,” Poppy said.

She just needed to remain calm. She wasn't a silly young chit; surely she could mention the man without salivating on herself.

“I met with Mr. Middleton and resigned. He was courteous and didn't toss me out on my ear—just as you said. So now I am officially unemployed.”

“And?”

“He didn't know that I was a woman and admitted that he probably wouldn't have hired me had he known. But he did say that my illustrations had contributed to the success of the paper in Society.”

“How did he react to your resignation?”

“He wasn't pleased. Offered me more money.” So far, so good.

Just then lords Chester and Brookfield and Mr. Collinsworth appeared to secure dances from Poppy.

She handed them her dance card, then whispered, “How much more?”

“He told me to name my price.”

Poppy's green eyes widened. “Honestly?” she asked through her teeth, all the while smiling prettily for her admirers. “So what did you do?”

Claudia waited until the men left. “I told him the truth. That it wasn't about money—that I had to resign so that I could marry.”

“I see.”

“I agreed to complete my latest assignment, and then my resignation will be official.”

“Well, that doesn't sound horrible,” Poppy said.

Claudia eyed her best friend, who appeared to be carefully considering their discussion. She hadn't said anything else; perhaps her interrogation about Mr. Middleton was over.

“What of Mr. Middleton himself? What was he like? Dashing as all the rumors I've heard?”

Perhaps not
. She took a deep breath. “He was handsome.” She shrugged and tried to look indifferent.

Poppy's eyebrows raised.

“If you like that type of man,” Claudia quickly added.

“What type of man?”

“He's not very polished.” She scrunched her face. “He's wild—admitted it himself.”

Poppy narrowed her eyes. “So what you're saying is that he's not the type of man you find attractive.”

“Correct.” She nodded once for emphasis.

“And what type of man do you find attractive? Richard?”

Richard was kind, the perfect gentleman. But was she attracted to Richard? No, not especially.
She supposed he was nice to look upon, but he wasn't precisely handsome. His features weren't sharp and defined; they were softer, gentler.

At least, her heart never raced around him. And her hands never itched with sweat. She'd never been particularly fascinated by his mouth. All things she'd experienced yesterday with Mr. Middleton. “Richard is lovely,” she finally said.

“Richard is lovely? Listen to yourself. I'll tell you what Richard is—Richard is not right for you.”

“I cannot understand why you dislike him so.”

Poppy shrugged. “I don't trust him. He's too agreeable to be genuine. And I don't think he pays proper attention to someone he's supposed to be courting. You know what you need?”

Claudia shook her head.

“A decent husband. Someone who will take you away from here and let you be yourself. Someone who will love you. Like Stephen and Anne—he adores her and allows her to do as she chooses. Look at them.”

Claudia turned toward the dance floor. Anne was four and twenty, three years younger than Claudia and Poppy, but they'd all been friends when they were girls. Anne and Stephen had married last year. He did adore her—it shone all over his face. He looked at her as if she were the only
woman in the room. The only person in the room. A love like that would be wonderful. More than wonderful—but love like that didn't happen often, and certainly not to women like Claudia.

Claudia raised her chin a bit. She twirled a stray curl behind her ear. “You and my father agree on something, isn't that a miracle?”

“Agree on what?”

“On my needing to marry.”

“I don't, however, think Richard is the right man for you. If your father is so fond of him, why doesn't he marry him? He certainly could use someone's love to soften him.”

“If my mother's love couldn't soften him, then no one's could.”

“True indeed. In any case, you deserve to find a man who loves you—you should have the freedom to marry your choice and not your father's protégé.”

“We both know that marriages like Stephen and Anne's are very rare. And might I point out that you are not married either.”

“No, but I have plenty of suitors.” Poppy flashed her a smile.

A footman walked by with a tray of champagne. They each took a glass. Claudia sipped at the sparkly liquid, enjoying the bubbles tickling her nose.

“You don't like any of them,” Claudia said.

“That's not true.” Poppy stuck her chin out and crossed her arms. “Why, last month I almost fancied myself in love with Christopher Newman. Then he up and married that girl from the country. He didn't want to marry me.” Her voice softened. “None of them want to marry me. Simply because my dance card is always full doesn't mean, when it comes down to it, I'll have my pick. I know my fate. I shall have to marry some old codger like old man Weatherby with yellowed teeth and bad breath.”

“It won't happen like that.” Claudia took Poppy's hands and squeezed them. “You'll find someone lovely. You're beautiful.”

“Sometimes being pretty isn't enough,” Poppy murmured.

Claudia loved her friend, but she'd never understood her aversion to her own looks. Granted, Poppy's nonexistent dowry had made marriage proposals nonexistent as well, but why would being beautiful ever be a bad thing? Oh, to know how it felt like to walk into a room and have all the men stop and stare!

“This isn't about me,” Poppy said. “We're talking about you, remember? I know you don't want to abandon your illustrating.”

“Not this again. Poppy, I have to. You understand about familial duty, I know you do.”

“Yes, but my family is supportive of one another.”

“Would your father approve of you taking a paying position?”

“I don't know. If my family doesn't figure out some way to get back some of our money, I very well may have to. Claudia, it's 1848, the times are changing. Someday it will be respectable for women like us to have paid positions other than governesses. Being a governess is all I could do, but not you. You're so talented, and you shouldn't have to give that up. Not for your father or any other man. If you found the right husband, someone who would support you…”

“It would be nice,” Claudia agreed. But it wouldn't happen. “You know something? You and I together make the perfect woman. You with your beauty, not to mention grace, and me with my pretty dresses and dowry. Someone would snatch us up, wouldn't they?” Poppy looked so pretty in that dress, prettier than it had ever looked on Claudia. Poppy, an accomplished seamstress, had taken it up in all the places where Claudia had more flesh than a girl should have, and the bodice fit snugly against her slender body. She'd removed the bows and ribbons so that now it was simple. Just a pretty, sea-green, satin dress.

“Indeed they would. But someone will snatch you up. Look at this hair.” She picked up one of Claudia's ringlets. “And you don't even have to use an iron to get these curls. I would wager half of the girls in this town would likely pull themselves bald if they thought their hair would grow back like yours.”

Claudia nodded to the scene in front of them. “I hate to admit it,” she said quietly, “but I should like to see Francie Barkwell yank all her hair out. Of course if she doesn't marry soon, her mother might do that for her.”

They both giggled as they watched Francie's mother practically push her daughter into a passing earl's path.

“I almost feel sorry for her,” Poppy said. “But as I was saying, I just don't think you should close yourself off to other suitors. Why should you have to put your life on hold while Richard pussyfoots about? He's not your only choice.”

“He's my father's choice. Besides, it's not as if I have a line of men to choose from.” Claudia held up her dance card. “He will propose when the time is right. He's merely busy with his career. Like it or not, Richard is my only choice.”

“What about Mr. Middleton?”

“What
about
Mr. Middleton?”

“What color were his eyes?”

“Brown.” She said that entirely too fast. Cripes. She was supposed to be uninterested in that man. If she was so uninterested, why did she keep thinking of him? And his brown eyes.

“But he's nothing special?”

“Oh, all right, he's handsome. Devilishly so. Satisfied?” She crossed her arms over her chest, then smiled in spite of herself.

“Partially.”

“It simply doesn't matter whether or not he's handsome, I'm still not work—”

Gracious, he was here. And dressed head to toe in black, like a walking sin. His hair, tied back tonight, gave him an almost civilized look. But the sharp slant of his eyebrows over those sensual eyes revealed his secret. She popped open her fan and waved it back and forth a few times. Her cheeks blazed as if on fire. Perhaps she had a fever. Where had that pleasant breeze gone? As if even the trees and wind stilled when he entered the room. What was he doing here?

“Claudia?” Poppy waved a gloved hand in front of her face, which brought her attention back to her friend.

“Yes?”

“Care to share your secret?”

“That's Mr. Middleton.”

“I suspected as much. I could tell by his devilishly handsome face.”

“Stop that.”

“You'd better stop waving that fan about—you're beginning to make a spectacle of yourself. What is he doing here?”

“How should I know?” Claudia closed the fan and slipped it back on her wrist. “It matters not to me why he's here. We have no relationship, nothing whatsoever to discuss.”

“Then you'd better think of something to discuss, because he's headed in our direction.”

 

He saw her standing across the ballroom, dressed in flamingo pink. She looked more like a frosted cake than a woman. How exactly did he court a woman like her? He'd never courted a lady before, not even his former wife. But tonight he didn't have to think of courting. No, tonight he only needed to convince her to continue to work for him. Tomorrow he could start his courtship.

Damn, there were enough ruffles on that dress to distract a man from noticing her womanly curves. A ruffle gathered the entire neckline that dipped subtly off her shoulders. Clusters of rosebuds bunched on the gathers of her two-layer
skirt, but it was the rosebuds pinned at her cleavage that grabbed his attention. It was a bosom that men would write poetry about; not him, though, because he didn't write poetry. But if he
were
that sort of man, her breasts would certainly inspire a sonnet.

He glanced at her face. Her sassy expression did nothing to hide her surprise to find him heading in her direction. She turned to the tall, attractive woman next to her and attempted to say something, but her eyes were drawn back to him. When he finally reached her, she smiled tentatively.

“Miss Prattley, what a pleasure to find you here,” he said.

“Thank you, sir. Please meet my dearest friend, Lady Penelope Livingston. But everyone calls her Poppy.”

“A pleasure.” He nodded over Lady Penelope's hand and then brought Claudia's to his mouth for a kiss. Her eyes grew round and a blush colored prettily in her cheeks. She was not a beautiful woman, not in the classic sense, not like her friend, but something about her drew the eye to her face. It was her smile; honest, real, and full of actual joy—not one of the manufactured smiles that most women wore. She was more cute than pretty, in the way that children or puppies were
cute. Only those ruffles hinted at a not-so-childlike body beneath. Cute or no, Claudia Prattley was all woman.

“I thought perhaps we might share a dance this evening. That is, if you still have room on your card.”