Sharon Sobel (8 page)

She may have fallen asleep, for she had no idea how long she sat this way. And yet, when she heard him come towards her, first on the crackling leaves and then nearly noiselessly on the soft moss, and when she felt his weight on her tree trunk, she was not at all surprised. She was, indeed, learning to be more like Camille, a lady who could sense the movement of a hare five yards off.

“Do you not have a guest to entertain?” she asked, her face still uplifted.

“And have you not learned that strangers still walk these woods and might take advantage of innocent young things?”

Claire opened her eyes. “I am a widow, my lord, and hardly innocent. And you and I have spoken before.”

Wentworth laughed. “So we had, albeit very briefly. But I recall I was very rude to you, a lady whose friends wanted nothing more than to see partnered on the dance floor.”

“I have never had to beg for partners, my lord, and certainly not with a man who does not appreciate the honor he is offered.”

“I suppose it is also an honor that a fine widow of quality should decide to take my sister under her wing?” he asked.

“You do not sound convinced of it, but I assure you I do not offer my assistance to everyone.”

“Oh, certainly not, my lady. In fact, it is quite the opposite. When confronted with a poor wanderer in the woods, you purposely sent him in the wrong direction.”

“Would you prefer that I direct the man to your sister’s door? Why, he might be a beggar, a robber, even a mur—”

“Yes?” he asked softly.

“One who would do her harm.”

“I see. But I am neither a beggar nor a thief. And I knew very well that you and I met before. I recognized you in a moment, though I had no idea how you came to be on my land.”

“But I did not recognize you.” Claire finally opened her eyes, and turned towards him. He sat very close to her, though he faced the opposite direction. “I thought you said you were to remove your beard today.”

He fingered it and nodded. “The day is not yet over, and I have been busy with many things. Besides, do you not think it makes me look rather heroic?”

“It makes you look like a pirate. Or a blacksmith. Certainly not a gentleman,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“It is an excellent disguise, then.”

“Aside from frightening poor widows in the woods, of what use is your disguise?” Claire regretted her question at once. It was not for her to ask what he did in Portugal, or how he made his way back to England.

“A disguise could hide many things, my lady. Sometimes it is a pleasant thing to pass through society without anyone knowing who you are or what you have done.”

The conversation had taken a queer turn, but perhaps she asked for it. Claire remembered Cheviot’s words about Wentworth’s considerable scars, and the evidence of them she had seen for herself. Beneath his dreadful beard and fine clothes, he hid the features that would mark him forever. For the second time in their short acquaintance, she allowed her eyes to run down the length of his long body, until she spied his bare feet dangling in the brook.

“Oh!” she said. “You have taken off your boots!”

She was both surprised because she had not heard him do so, and unnerved because the scene had become appallingly intimate.

“Would I ruin a perfectly good pair of Hessians just to enjoy a few stolen moments with you in the woods?” he asked, wistfully. And then, with somewhat more conviction: “No, do not answer that. I think I would risk a good deal more.”

Claire twisted in her seat, so her left shoulder nearly touched his right. Here was a man who rebuffed her once, frightened her only last night, and made it clear he did not want her in his home. And yet here was also a man who adored his sister and gave her constant companionship and the easy joy of familiarity. Not for the first time, Claire envied her blind friend.

She looked into Wentworth’s dark eyes, seeing the reflections of the sunlit leaves around them, and put out her hand to his odious beard, just as Camille did that morning.

It was thick and curly, not at all as tangled as she guessed it would be. She ran her fingers to his hairline, where she knew his scars marked his skin, and dared to wind a soft tendril around her thumb. Throughout, he said nothing, but sat quietly under her examination, his eyes never leaving her face. Emboldened, her hand moved to his aquiline nose and to his eyelids and forehead, before good sense returned and she started to pull her hand away.

But when he finally parted his lips to speak, she quickly put her finger there, silencing him.

“There. Now I see you as your sister sees you,” she said.

“But you are not my sister,” Wentworth reminded her, pulled her hand away and held it over their heads. He closed the very small distance between their lips, and kissed her.

Chapter 4

There had been other women in his life, of course, but his experience neither so vast nor his partners so accommodating that he could consider himself a master in the arts of lovemaking. And yet here was a lady, once married and still very popular in society, who made him feel absolutely sure of himself, in command of his impulses and desires. She was sweet and pliable against him, open to new sensation and pleasure. Sitting on a rough log in the woods, their bare feet brushing against each other while they remained otherwise fully clothed, they might have been children again, exploring simple sensuous joys about which they had heard but had not hitherto known.

Claire sighed and parted her lips, allowing him access. Her free hand moved up his jacket sleeve to his cravat, and then to the slim sliver of exposed flesh between the stiff linen and his beard. One finger lingered on the raised scar that still delivered him prickly pain when he rubbed it or when he thought too hard about its cause.

He pulled away, leaving her lovely hands in the air, like hovering birds.

“This is a mistake, Lady Glastonbury,” he said, clearing his throat. “It should not have happened, and it must not happen again.”

She seduced him, of course. He realized that now. She wanted her way in his household, and she resorted to the tactics used by all women to get precisely what they wished. And yet, the look of surprise and even pain on her face gave her the look of an innocent, a lady completely without guile.

“Why?” she asked, simply.

“Because you are a guest in my house and I am responsible for your welfare,” he said, knowing he sounded like a pompous ass.

“I am here at your sister’s invitation, and had no expectation of meeting you during my sojourn at Brookside Cottage. And you had no idea I was here. Are you responsible for that of which you are ignorant?” Her argument was so sensible, he again wondered if he was being trapped into doing something he did not wish.

“I cannot afford to be ignorant of anything that happens to my family and in my household,” he said. “It is a lesson I have learned at an early age and by sad experience.”

There it was, as always. This realization of his fate, obscured by growing passion only a moment ago, remained as worrisome a scar as the one Lady Glastonbury trifled with at his neckline. It might fade for a brief period but it would always return to give him the most acute pain. Like all dreadful scars, it would be his burden for the rest of his life.

“None of us remain unscarred,” she said, once again surprising him. How did she know what he thought and what he felt?

He reached for her hand before it dropped into her lap and spread her fingers between his. Her skin was soft and warm, and he already knew its sweet scent was akin to lilacs, but he looked for other things.

“I am not speaking of the little nicks and bruises that reveal how we have weathered.” He traced a little white line along her middle finger. “I speak of great, irrevocable damage from which one could never recover. One who is marked by such scars can never be wholly a part of society, for that is his punishment.”

“You speak like some ancient, vengeful deity, who makes broad pronouncements for mortal men to follow and obey, no matter how little sense they make. But you cannot scare me, my lord. Even if I were to allow that you somehow did something for which you should be forever punished, your sister did nothing to deserve such isolation. Why must she remain your hostage?”

“She is not my hostage,” he said, frustrated. “She can come and go as she pleases.”

“Indeed, I think she can. She has demonstrated remarkable capability and skills for making her way through each day’s business, expected and otherwise. Why, then, will you not allow her freedom?”

He pushed his way off the damned log, onto the damned moss, and picked up his damned boots. He quickly stifled his retort to the meddling temptress watching him with mild interest from her seat over the meandering brook. His damned meandering brook, in fact. As it was his tree trunk, his woods, his home and his sister.

“So you can offer her your version of freedom, to mingle among the censorious, cruel and downright insensitive members of London society? My sister needs a protector, Lady Glastonbury, and not one who has shared a few ladies’ novels with her, or who has helped pick out some new dresses. She requires someone who understands her needs and frailties, and will not laugh when she walks right into a closed door.”

“I have never laughed at Lady Camille, my lord.”

“But your friends will. Or can you guarantee that they will be utterly kind and helpful, and introduce her to their noble sons with the greatest hope that a blind lady will become a new daughter? The mother of a future earl or duke? You cannot, Lady Glastonbury. Nor can you guarantee that they will not whisper about the blind lady’s brother, who killed their parents and forever harmed his sister.”

He watched, horrified, as Lady Glastonbury curled her legs beneath her so she could rise to her feet, standing in the hollow of the tree trunk where she had been seated moments before. Beneath her, the brook bubbled along at a shallow depth of ten inches or so. Above her was a single frail branch that was the only thing she might grasp if she lost her balance. If she fell, she would surely break an arm or leg, or both. And this also would be on his head.

“Come to me,” he said, holding out his arms, barely able to watch.

It was the wrong thing to say. She stood where she was, perfectly poised, and crossed her arms.

“I will not. You need not fear that I will ever impose myself on you again, my lord. You have made it clear that you have burdens enough, truly more than anyone can bear. Your sister is blind, but you suffer a worse fate. Your parents are dead, but you . . .”

“You have said enough, madam,” Max said, dropping his arms. Let the harpy fall off her branch and drown in ten inches of water, for all he cared. She was quite right; his cup of guilt overflowed and could hold no more.

“I have not,” she insisted. “And you will listen to what I have to say.”

“I will not,” he said, and picked up his boots. It was wrong for him to leave her here, and certainly ungentlemanly. But he would not allow her to dictate his behavior or remind him of his obligations. She scarcely knew him or Camille, and she certainly did not know what happened that night. He turned his back on her, pausing just long enough to brace himself should she throw a rock at his head, and then stomped off through the woods, cursing every pebble and thistle that pressed into his flesh.

“You must think of Camille,” she called out to him. Here, at least, they agreed, for he rarely thought of anyone else.

***

Claire watched Maxwell Brooks stomp off into the woods and wished she had something to throw at his stupid head, so that she might knock some sense into it. Was there ever a man so selfish that he insisted upon nursing his cold glass of tea forever and ever, without letting anyone warm it or take it from him? Did he truly imagine all of London society had nothing more to divert it than to whisper about a tragedy of long ago, about people they scarcely remembered? Lady Camille would be all the rage, a bit of a novelty, perhaps at first, but someone who would demonstrate her capabilities so quickly that people would need to be reminded of her limitations. She would win them over, and no one would care the least bit about her ill-tempered brother.

Claire carefully balanced herself until she reached the mossy embankment, and sighed with relief; how had she managed to prevent a tumble into the brook? Righteous indignation might provide the fuel for any number of challenges, she supposed. And Maxwell Brooks could provide her with power for many weeks to come.

At least, she hoped so.

What made her so bold, so uncommonly rude, that she would dare to touch him intimately on so short and indifferent an acquaintance? Where did she find the invitation to do what she did, and welcome the kiss that inevitably followed? She did not learn the arts of seduction from her late husband, for she doubted he was a skilled practitioner even with someone other than herself. But how and why did it come upon her now, and with this man?

So long as she searched for lessons in truth, she might as well begin with this riddle. Did she not learn the art of touching from Camille, whom she witnessed exploring her brother’s face and strange new beard? There was nothing inappropriate with what the brother and sister did, and Claire could only envy them their simple pleasure in each other, and happy reunion. But while she watched them she yearned to go even further, to touch Maxwell Brooks as did Camille, but to also put her fingers on his lips and feel them on hers.

She wanted him; that much was certain. She felt the fire ignite when she first spied him amongst the columns in the ballroom, and when it burst into flames here, in the woods. But there was no sense to it, for she could have had any number of eligible gentlemen—and some not so eligible—in all the years since Glastonbury’s death. And yet no one tempted her.

Maxwell Brooks was all delicious temptation, even with his ridiculous beard, and his gruff changes of mood. And now she had already tasted him, and hungered for more.

She left off her stockings, for they would only sag and wrinkle along her damp legs, and struggled to put on her slippers. There was something very tempting about dancing through the woods in her bare feet, but she would make last night’s injuries worse if she followed Maxwell Brooks’s example by trampling over the rough terrain. She imagined him showing up at his own door, bleeding and bruised, due to nothing more than his own stubbornness, and imagined it served him very right.

Still, she hoped he would see to it, lest his cuts fester. If she was not too late, perhaps she would ask the servants to bring him a basin of warm water and some clean linens. Not that it was her business to do so, of course.

She started up the hill towards the cottage, knowing she was far-gone when she found herself worrying about a man’s feet. But such was the state of her distraction, for never had someone so thoroughly irrational and irritating intrigued her more. She wondered about the other women in his life and if he ever thought to marry. She wondered about his business in Portugal. And, as she crested the hill, and walked past an ancient chestnut tree, she wondered why he sat on the far side, surely waiting for her to pass.

She stopped and shook out her loose curls, using her fingers as a comb. She lifted her skirts and examined her damp slippers, thinking they would need to be stuffed with cotton wool to retain their shape. In short, she did everything she might imagine to get him to reveal himself or, at the very least, make him perfectly uncomfortable sitting still for so long, spying on her.

***

Several hours later, having bathed and dressed in her very favorite emerald gown, Claire descended the staircase to the parlour, rehearsing the speech she was now obliged to deliver to her new friend.

“Claire!” Camille said. “You must be dressed very fine tonight for I believe you are wearing something special. Your gown is silk, is it not? And what is its color? Is it an occasion?”

Claire paused with but a few steps to go and studied Camille’s upturned face. From this angle, one could see the slits of reflection of her damaged eyes, but from any angle one would see her radiant smile. She wondered what she knew about the incident in the woods, but then reflected that Lord Wentworth was not likely to share any conversation about his intimacies with women, no matter how close he was to his sister. And yet Camille looked as if she knew something happened.

“I suppose it is, my dear, though not the happiest of ones,” Claire said. “I fear this is my last night at Brookside Cottage, for I must return to London on the morrow.” She descended the last few steps and reached out to grasp Camille’s gloved hand. Through the linen, Camille’s flesh felt like ice.

“But why? Why must you leave? We have only just begun to have fun. And now Maxwell is here to escort us about the countryside,” Camille said. For the first time in their acquaintance, she sounded like a little girl, pouting because she could not get her way.

“I have enjoyed every moment of our time together,” Claire said reassuringly, “but my friend Lady Fayreweather is ill and needs me.”

“Lady Fayreweather? Is she not Aunt Adelaide’s friend as well? I will write my aunt at once and ask for her assistance,” Camille said. “But you must not leave me.”

“Who is leaving?” said Lord Wentworth, just above them.

Claire caught her breath, surprised because she did not hear him approach. And judging by the expression on Camille’s face, she did not hear him, either.

Neither of them answered him. Claire did not know why Camille was silent but for herself, she had quite forgotten how to breathe.

Lord Wentworth had divested himself of his absurd beard, and the pale skin along his jaw, contrasting with the rest of his face, suggested he spent long hours in the sun in Portugal. He looked now as he did when she first met him in London, but with a subtle difference. Whereas he had been studiously indifferent to the company in the Armadale ballroom, something in his expression suggested he was not so indifferent now. Claire would have guessed that the presence of his sister brought him pleasure, but he was not looking at Camille. He was looking at her.

“What is the problem?” Camille asked. “Why will neither of you speak?”

“Your brother has surprised me, that is all. I scarcely recognized him without his great, dark beard.”

Camille smiled. “I am glad it is gone, for all you liked it, Maxwell. You must have looked like Great-uncle Wickersham while you wore it.”

“And he always was a handsome devil,” answered her brother. “I could scarcely compete, nor would I want to. In fact, I am much happier without that burden. Far too many people were interested in it.”

“I cannot imagine anyone would be interested except for myself and your valet,” Camille pointed out, sensibly enough.

“Perhaps even one more person would qualify for your brother as ‘far too many,’” Claire suggested, still studying him. The faint scar she had fingered near his ear was only visible if one looked for it.