The Bride Insists (20 page)

“I'm surprised it took you so long to attend to it,” Clare added. She thought that hit might have gotten through, but she was vastly relieved when Selina came to join them. She couldn't keep up this pretense much longer.

Something in Clare's stance, evident from across the room, had caused Selina to ask about the identity of her companion. When she was told the man was Simon Greenough, she moved at once to join them. Clare had told her a bit of the history with her cousin, certainly enough to know that his appearance would not be at all welcome.

Clare introduced them and was relieved when Selina said, “I hope you will excuse us, sir. Our hostess, Mrs. Howland, wishes to present Clare to an old friend.”

Simon Greenough could do nothing but bow at this. “Of course.”

Everything Clare might have wished to say was impossible. She silently vowed to avoid her cousin in future.

As if he could read her expression, he added, “I shall look forward to seeing you again soon, Clare.”

Clare made herself smile. Head held high, she walked away with Selina. But she murmured, “I don't really feel like meeting anyone new just now.”

“It was a lie, I fear. An excuse to get you away. But we'd best join Martha for a bit.”

“Thank you, Selina.” They headed toward the group that included Mrs. Howland. “If I'd known Simon would be in London, I don't think I would have come.”

“Perhaps it's time to go back to Cornwall.” Maybe this was a goad to send them back? Selina felt a rush of hope.

“Perhaps.”
Which
was
worse?
Clare wondered. To encounter her wretched cousin in crowded rooms and endure his gibes, or to return to her new home and face Jamie? Clare wished it wasn't so complicated. Was Jamie angry? Hurt? Despite his silence, she couldn't believe he was simply indifferent.

***

At that particular moment, her husband was wildly frustrated. All his faculties concentrated on a meeting with Clare, Jamie had knocked on the door of Martha Howland's fashionable town house and been told no one was at home. The doorkeeper had looked down his nose at a visitor who knew no better than to call at a quite inappropriate hour, and informed him that the “ladies” had gone out for the evening. When Jamie had asked where they'd gone, the fellow had told him he really couldn't say and tried to shut the door in his face. It had been the last straw. Jamie put his shoulder to the door and shoved inside, demanding, “Do you know who I am?” Giving the young footman no time to answer, he said, “I am Lord Trehearth, the husband of one of your houseguests. Tell me where she is right now.”

The footman, perhaps not so long at his job, was not up to thwarting an enraged nobleman. He edged away from Jamie until his back hit the wall. Trapped, he stammered out the ladies' destination and then sagged with relief when the gentleman turned and stalked out.

In the street, Jamie searched for a cab. Here was what Clare had reduced him to: he'd bullied a servant. And this after carping at his best friends in the world and abandoning a host of responsibilities at home. He had to get hold of himself, and this idiocy had to end, tonight.

No one questioned him when he presented himself at the mansion where the Condons' ball was taking place. In his evening dress, he looked as if he belonged, and the hostess had long since left her post at the top of the stair. He moved swiftly into the ballroom and began to scan the chattering, dancing crowd.

It seemed an interminable time before he spotted Clare. She was dancing—dancing!—with some chinless town blade, and she looked—astonishing. Jamie stood quite still and stared. He'd always thought his wife beautiful. Hadn't he told her so? Of course he had. But here, amongst the
ton
, in a silken gown he'd never seen before, she looked… radiant, polished, sophisticated. He didn't understand how she could have changed so much in so short a time. It made her seem even more distant from him, and lowered his mood even further, if that was possible. The music ended; he made his way through the crowd to her side.

“Jamie!” Clare felt a surge of joy to find him suddenly standing beside her.

“What do you think you're doing?” he muttered. He wanted to sweep her into his arms. But there were people all around them, beady-eyed scandalmongers, most of them.

Clare's euphoria collapsed. “Attending a ball,” she replied. “I didn't know you had come up to…”

This was unbearable. The musicians struck up again. Jamie pulled his wife into the dance. The feel of her body was intoxicating and tantalizingly forbidden, here with all these eyes upon them.

“Jamie, it's a waltz.” Martha had said something about waltzing. One was supposed to be approved before… or was that just for debs? Had she been speaking to Lily? Clare's thoughts spun, and then she could think of nothing but Jamie's nearness. His arm encircled her waist. His hand held hers as if he would never let go.

Clare's magnificent eyes were inches from his. It was all he could do not to crush her to him. He turned her in the dance, trying to edge closer to the door with each step. “This… tantrum of yours is over,” he said. “You're coming home with me tomorrow.”

Clare stiffened in his embrace. She'd wanted him to ask her to come home. She'd hoped that he missed her, longed for her, as she did him. She'd dared to imagine that he regretted the things he'd said and done. But he spoke to her now in that same hateful tone, as if she were an errant child who required discipline. “I'm enjoying the season,” she replied.

Jamie was afraid she was enjoying it all too much. “You belong at Trehearth.”

“Were your meals not being served on time?” Clare taunted. Hurt and disappointment lent her voice a bitter edge.

“You are my wife, and I command you to come home.” His voice had risen. Heads turned nearby.

“Command? I'm not your horse or… or Randolph, that you can order me about.”

Jamie jerked her closer. Her lips were so close now that it killed him not to kiss her. The ballroom doorway was just a few steps away.

People were definitely noticing their exchange. Clare was aware of an increasing number of avid stares. “We cannot talk about this here…”

Jamie whirled Clare in a dizzying turn and whisked her through an archway and out into the corridor. It was blessedly, momentarily, empty. There was a line of recessed windows across the hall. He swept her into one of the niches, yanked its draperies closed, and captured her lips with his. This was what he needed. This would show her the way things were meant to be.

Clare stiffened only briefly, then she couldn't help it: she melted at his touch. The kiss ran through her like a raging fever. She'd missed him so much. Her arms curled around his neck, and she yearned toward him.

Jamie drew her closer still. Her tantalizing curves fit his body as if they'd been molded for it. She had to see that they were designed for each other. He pulled back slightly; he needed to get her out of here, to somewhere private, and then home.

The curtains twitched, then parted slightly. Martha Howland stood in the narrow opening. “Lord Trehearth, I presume?” They jumped apart. “Indeed, I sincerely hope so.” The older woman's tone was prim, but curiosity danced in her eyes. “Whatever do you think you're doing?”

Jamie took a further step back, clenching his fists at his sides to control a flood of thwarted desire.

“Yes,” stammered Clare, crimson with embarrassment. “That is, this is my husband. Jamie, this is Mrs. Howland, my kind hostess in London.”

Somehow, he managed a bow, though he longed to throttle her for the interruption. “Mrs. Howland.”

“Come out of there at once. Before someone else sees you.” Martha's sharp eyes had followed the young man's maneuver, as had Selina's. She'd left her other guest dithering in the ballroom, assigned the task of making excuses, should they prove necessary. Martha eyed the couple like a stern schoolmistress. They responded to the look, and her tone, by stepping briskly out of their hiding place.

His automatic obedience annoyed Jamie further. “Thank you for your hospitality to my wife. We are returning to Cornwall immediately.”

“Really? I had no notion.”

“I am not!” cried Clare. How dared he speak for her as if she had no say in the matter?

Oh, la
, Martha thought. Under other circumstances, she might have nudged this pair toward each other, but it was clear to her that Lord Trehearth needed a small lesson. And she was just the person to administer it. “You're most welcome to stay as long as you like, Clare. So many handsome men have come calling at my house because of you. I haven't seen the like in twenty years.” The wild spark in
this
handsome young man's eyes told her that she'd hit her mark.

Jamie eyed the stout, rouged older woman—a busybody and a slave to fashion from her crimped gray hair to her ridiculous evening slippers. Her meddling in his affairs was unconscionable, and he longed to say so. But he restrained himself. “Perhaps we might have some privacy, so that I can discuss this matter with my
wife
?” he said tightly.

“Well, I don't think we dare risk that.” He really was amusing. Martha couldn't resist goading him a bit further. “It doesn't seem as if I can leave you two alone, even in the midst of a crowded ball, without provoking a scandal.”

Clare put her hands to her flaming cheeks. “It's not necessary.” She slipped past Martha and rushed back to the ballroom, searching the crowd for Selina.

Her friend had been watching for her. She came up at once and stood so as to shield Clare from the battery of prying eyes. There was no need to ask if all was well; obviously, it wasn't.

Back in the corridor, Martha Howland savored Lord Trehearth's thunderous expression. Clearly this was a young man who needed curbing. What she must determine was: did he really care for Clare, or was he simply a possessive young idiot? “You're making a hash of things, you know,” Martha said to him. “If you want my advice—”

Jamie ground his teeth. “I do not!” He stalked down the hallway toward the stair. He had just enough control left to realize that he couldn't go back into the ballroom. If he did, he would seize Clare in full view of the dancers, and damn the consequences. Society would never forget it.

“Very well then,” Martha murmured to his departing back. “I shan't offer again.” She put a placid smile on her face and made her stately way back to the ballroom. Clare most likely required some… encouragement in order to act as if nothing had happened.

***

Jamie walked back to Andrew's rooms. It was a goodly distance, and the streets were dark, but he relished the physical activity. Let a footpad accost him, he thought; he would be only too glad to hit something. No obliging target appeared, however. His boots pounded the cobbles; his arms swung like scythes; he muttered and fumed and reached his destination safely. Upstairs, he headed straight for the array of bottles on the sideboard.

“What luck?” asked Andrew, lounging in the armchair before the fire.

Jamie poured a large brandy.

“Bad, apparently.” Andrew sipped his own drink and wondered what to say.

“Clare has fallen into the clutches of an insufferable… this Howland woman. She intends to keep her here in town against my express wishes.” Jamie silently acknowledged that this wasn't quite the whole story, but he couldn't admit to his friend that Clare had refused to listen to him. “We will see about that!”

“Ah, you… met Mrs. Howland?”

“Clare was at a ball! Dancing with some damn fool.” Jamie glowered. “I didn't get his name. When I tried to speak to her, this Howland creature sent me packing.”

Andrew suspected it wasn't quite as simple as that, but this was clearly not the time to ask. Nor did he inquire how Jamie had gotten himself to the Condons' ball, or whether he had seen Harry there.

“She cannot keep me from her forever,” Jamie growled. “The next time I get my hands on Clare, we're off to Cornwall, and the rest of them can go straight to perdition!”

Andrew observed the scowl on his face. He liked what he'd seen of the new Lady Trehearth. And he had a great affection for his boyhood friend Jamie. He would have liked to see amity between them. This plan did not seem likely to promote it. Andrew watched Jamie raise the glass. Though he didn't take Jamie's mutterings as gospel, he was concerned about what he might do. Especially if he continued drinking as he had since he arrived. “You know, you might try wooing her a bit. Get her to understand…”

“What?” Jamie gave him a confused glare. “She's already my wife, for God's sake!”

“Yes. But you never wooed her properly.”

The brandy was hitting. “Don't know what you're talking about. Didn't have to.”

Andrew nodded. “Because the marriage was arranged. I know that. But you see, she might feel she's missed out. Alice always said…”

“Oh, God, no!” Jamie dropped into the second armchair, spilling a drop of brandy on his shirtfront. “Don't begin on your dalliance with that milksop. I don't need to ‘woo' Clare. We…” Jamie realized he'd been about to say that they could scarcely keep their hands off each other. He snapped his mouth shut.

Andrew had stiffened. “Of course, what you're doing is working so very well.” He rose to head for bed. “But as you say, I'm no expert.”

Left alone, Jamie glared at the dying fire and brooded. His life had been going so well—splendidly, even—and then, seemingly in an instant, it had crashed like a felled ox. And he could not for the life of him figure out why. Was one ridiculous argument enough to topple a marriage? Could Clare be that shallow and silly? He knew she wasn't. And yet, she'd run away and was refusing to return.

Tonight, when he'd held her again, she'd responded to his touch just as she had in their blissful nights together. She wanted him, as he so urgently wanted her. He was certain of it. So why didn't she simply come home? The brandy dulled but didn't dissipate his bewilderment and pain. It took another glass, and then another, before he finally fell asleep in the chair.