Secret Hearts (37 page)

      
By
this time, of course, he’d told her about all his childhood, and Claire
understood why he valued her practical nature. His parents had kept
up an illusion of Old Southern wealth long after they’d lost everything—even
before the war. Tom had learned to despise prevarications and pretense
almost as much as he despised fecklessness. He told her over and over
again that her honesty and her pragmatic character were what he admired
most about her.

      
Which,
she kept telling herself, was the reason she hadn’t yet found the
courage to tell him she was Clarence McTeague. She knew she’d have
to tell him. Sooner or later he was going to find out anyway. Once again
he’d mentioned writing her publisher to discover where his uncle had
directed his proceeds from the novels.

      
Claire
had even spent an entire evening mulling over various ways in which
to persuade her publisher to lie to Tom. Mr. Oliphant admired her; perhaps
he could be made to set up a false account or something.

      
She
was ashamed of herself the following morning and visited Dianthe to
confess and to beg advice. Her agitation was so great, she didn’t
pay attention when she rounded the hedge leading into the Pyrite Arms’
yard, and she nearly collided with Sergei.

      
“Arrrrgh!”
Sergei followed up his bellow with a leap backwards, ending in a crouch,
his paintbrush lifted, brush end pointed like a knife at Claire’s
chest.

      
“Good
heavens!” Claire leapt backwards herself, and pressed a hand to her
thundering heart. “Oh, Sergei, I’m so sorry. I should have announced
my presence.”

      
The
Russian was so relieved, his legs gave out and he collapsed onto the
snow. His head dropped to his chest and his paintbrush fell to the ground.

      
“What
are you doing outside painting in this weather?” Claire glanced at
the canvas set up on an easel. Long ago, she’d learned to sneak up
on Sergei’s work and squint at it carefully. His paintings could be
startling when approached directly. She saw at once that this painting
wasn’t too ghastly. Yet. “Whose soul are you painting today, Sergei?”

      
Heaving
himself up and brushing snow off his rear end, Sergei said, “Mr. Partington.”

      
Pleased,
Claire exclaimed, “Sergei, how wonderful! I see you’ve discovered
his soul to be—ah—not as tainted as those of most of the other people
in town.”

      
His
brow furrowing, Sergei muttered, “It is a blue soul. The first blue
soul in my experience. I know not if it bodes good or ill.”

      
Claire
patted his arm. “I’m sure it bodes good, Sergei. Mr. Partington
is a fine man. A fine man.”

      
She
heard Sergei mutter darkly in Russian as she walked away, but didn’t
bother to try to convince him. Not only was the weather entirely too
chilly for outdoor chats, but Claire had never yet known Sergei to be
influenced by anything anybody told him. He was convinced that he alone
could see into the souls of his subjects. Claire could only be grateful
he hadn’t yet perceived anything demonic about Tom’s soul.

      
“How
could he, indeed?” she asked herself with joy in her heart.

      
Her
joy faltered when she took her problems to Dianthe.

      
“You
mean to tell me you haven’t told him yet?”

      
There
was something about the way Dianthe asked her question that made Claire
feel especially evil. Dianthe’s was not a voice appropriate for censure;
yet censure vibrated from every syllable. If Dianthe believed her to
be at fault, Claire knew she was at fault.

      
“Oh,
Dianthe,” she whispered unhappily, “I just haven’t found an appropriate
moment.”

      
“An
appropriate moment?” Dianthe’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve made love,
Claire! In spite of what he says, he’s trembling on the brink of a
marriage proposal!”

      
“No,
no. Certainly—”

      
“Certainly
he is!”

      
Dianthe’s
vehemence made Claire blink.

      
“You
must tell him, Claire. To do otherwise is wrong. Not to mention excessively
foolish. It will certainly be worse if you wait.”

      
“I
know,” Claire muttered, wringing her hands.

      
“You
should have told him at the very beginning,” Dianthe declared, making
Claire stare. Dianthe was not given to bold declarations.

      
“I
know. I know.”

      
“The
longer you put it off, the worse you’re making it. You know he’ll
be upset that you didn’t trust him enough to tell him sooner.”

      
“But
I do trust him!”

      
Dianthe
looked skeptical, quite a feat for her. “Do you?”

      
“Of
course, I do!”

      
“If
you trust him, then there’s no reason not to tell him. Are you afraid
of his reaction?”

      
Claire
stared at Dianthe for several seconds as she tested her feelings. At
last she whispered, “Yes.”

      
“Well,
then, it doesn’t sound to me as though you trust him very much.”

      
Claire
felt defeated as she trudged down the lane leading from the Pyrite Arms
to town. Dianthe was right about one thing. The longer she kept her
dirty little secret to herself, the harder it would be to tell Tom the
truth.

      
She
was right about another thing, too. Claire was afraid of Tom’s reaction
to the news she’d kept from him for so long. He was sure to be angry,
and she wouldn’t blame him. Right now, he trusted her and admired
her. She wasn’t sure she could bear to see his trust in her wither
and die.

      
Halfway
to town, a dreadful plan began to form in her mind. It was so dreadful
that Claire threw it out, only to have it bounce back again and take
root.

      
But
it would be evil, she told herself.

      
But
it might work, herself answered back perfidiously.

      
It
was still evil.

      
It
still might work.

      
Swallowing
her scruples, knowing she was an arrant coward, vilifying herself as
a wretched cheat, Claire hurried into the telegraph office. Powered
by panic, she willed herself to think clearly and compose a message.
Then, using all the artifice her father had taught her in her blighted
youth, she smiled sweetly and bade Mr. Carter to send the message to
Mr. Oliphant in New York.

      
Her
heart beat so hard it hurt, and Claire knew she was a fool. No, she
was worse than a fool. She was trying to keep the truth from the only
man in the world she would ever love, a man who respected and valued
her, who believed in her. She hated herself. Even as she hurried away
from the telegraph office, she was phrasing her confession to Tom in
her mind. She’d tell him as soon as she got back home; before she
could lose her nerve again.

      
She
was thwarted in her purpose that night because Tom and Jedediah had
made a trip into Marysville and their return home had been delayed by
the washing out of a bridge. A telegraph message arrived at Partington
Place advising Claire to expect Tom home as soon as the bridge had been
repaired.

      
“The
day after tomorrow,” she murmured, staring at the wire. “Bother.”
She’d wanted to get the matter over with; to lay her sins bare before
Tom and beg for his understanding. It was way past time she told him
everything; he deserved to know.

      
With
a deep sigh, she folded up the wire and smiled at a dour Scruggs. “Why
don’t we take supper in the breakfast room, Scruggs.”

      
“Very
good, ma’am.” Scruggs stalked away from her as if Claire herself
had been responsible for the collapsed bridge.

      
She
had to content herself with continuing the very last novel in the
Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee
series that evening and the next. She missed
Tom in her bed and slept poorly.

# # #

      
Tom
was ecstatic to be back in his parlor at Partington Place and was only
sorry Claire was out and couldn’t rush into his arms and welcome him
home. Truly, he couldn’t recall another single time in his life when
everything seemed to go his way as it was doing now. Life was grand.
Life was good. He had his house; he had his horses; he had his Claire.
Who could ask for any more than this?

      
Claire
was growing into an stylish horsewoman. Once she felt secure on the
sluggish bay mare upon which he’d schooled her and he’d broken the
prettiest Appaloosa mare to saddle, he’d presented it to her with
a flourish. She’d been ecstatic. He’d even talked her into ordering
another riding habit from Miss Thelma’s.

      
Every
now and then he wondered if Claire minded being his mistress. She was
an extremely straight-laced sort of woman, and he sometimes got the
feeling she didn’t approve of herself for having succumbed to his
seduction. Indeed, he even got the feeling she still thought she had
somehow seduced him. It might have been amusing if she didn’t seem
so troubled by the misconception.

      
He
didn’t like the idea of her feeling ashamed of herself. As if she
had anything to be ashamed of!

      
That
afternoon as he waited for Claire to return from Pyrite Springs, Tom
traipsed up to the ballroom balcony. Gazing out over his kingdom, he
tested the name Claire Partington very carefully to see how it sat on
his tongue. And if it affected his digestion.

      
“Claire
Partington.” He blew out a cloud of cigar smoke and donned one of
his society smiles—the ones he’d been practicing on the mayor of
Pyrite Springs, Mr. Humphrey Albright, and their ilk. “Gentleman,
please allow me to introduce my wife, Claire Partington.”

      
He
swallowed some smoke and choked. Then he scowled. He was being ridiculous;
he knew it. There was absolutely nothing intrinsically wrong with the
institution of marriage. Just because his own parents were idiots, it
didn’t naturally follow that all married couples had to be idiots.

      
In
his heart he knew that Claire felt she had somehow fulfilled her destiny
by becoming his mistress. He was sure she thought being his mistress
was all she deserved out of life. He knew her to be dead wrong on the
issue, too. Still, the very word “Marriage” sent shivers up his
spine.

      
He
was being grossly unfair to Claire, and he knew it.

      
So
he sucked in a breath of fresh air and tried again. “How do you do,
General Lee. And may I introduce my wife, Claire Partington.” Shaking
hands with the invisible general, he continued, “Mrs. Partington is
the one whom you have to thank for the evening’s entertainment, General.
My w-w-wife—” Tom had to pause and wipe his sweaty brow with his
handkerchief— “is a lover of the arts.”

      
She
was a lover of Tom Partington, too, Tom acknowledged with a hardening
in his nether regions. Without half trying, she could set his body aflame.
He’d never had such a satisfying carnal relationship. The straight-laced,
prim-looking young woman who passed as the housekeeper Claire Montague
during the day, turned into a tigress at night in his arms. Her passion
nearly consumed him.

      
As
he gazed out over the frosty winter landscape, Tom did not feel cold.
Just thinking about Claire in his bed was enough to heat him through
and through. She was fire. She set him to burning with desire. She was
every damned thing he’d ever wanted in his life.

      
But
marriage? Tom shook his head, and suddenly felt chilly.

# # #

      
“I
know it’s none of my business, Tom,” Jedediah said later that afternoon,
“but I thought you should know there’s a good deal of gossip about
you and Claire in Pyrite Springs.”

      
Jerking
his head up from his newspaper and staring at his friend hard, Tom barked,
“Gossip? What the hell are you talking about, Jed?”

      
Jedediah
looked tense. “I guess the servants are spreading tales, Tom. They
say she spends her nights in your room.”

      
Tom’s
brows dipped and he slitted his eyes in irritation. He’d always heard
servants gossiped, but he’d never considered they might sling dirt
about him. And Claire. For God’s sake, they’d known Claire for years.

      
He
said, “Well, hell,” which he recognized as being inadequate.

      
Pulling
his collar away from his neck, which had turned red, Jedediah said,
“Er, um, you know, Claire is well-liked in town, Tom. Dianthe—er,
Miss St. Sauvre, that is—said that she hates to hear her spoken of
as though she were a—a fallen woman.” He looked at Tom nervously.
“Er, do you know what I mean?”

      
Scowling,
Tom grumped, “Yes. I know what you mean.”

      
Damn.
They were gossiping about Claire! His Claire! Good God. Everything she’d
ever feared about having a relationship with a man seemed to be coming
true. And it was all his fault. All his damnable fault because he was
afraid of marriage. Him! The hero Tom Partington was afraid of a few
lines on a legal document and the words, “I do.” Not very noble
of him. Clarence McTeague would be dismayed. Except that his uncle was
dead.