The Bride Insists (21 page)

“Good morning,” said Andrew Tate to his errant houseguest. Then he said it again, louder. He wasn't particularly penitent when his old friend woke with a start. Perhaps it was the deep, gurgling snort that influenced him.

“Ow!” Jamie had a savage crick in his neck from the night spent in the armchair. He couldn't turn his head without a slash of pain. He also had a brainpan that felt like it was stuffed with hot coals and a queasy stomach. He was grumpy as a bear. “Coffee?” he growled.

“Coming,
my
lord
,” Andrew replied. “Perhaps you'd like to change first? And even wash?”

Jamie looked down at his crumpled evening dress. His shirtfront showed dried spatters of brandy. His mouth tasted like stable sweepings. “After coffee,” he croaked. “Please?” He winced as the door banged and Harry Simpson swept in, resplendent in his Guards uniform and disgustingly chipper.

“There you are,” Harry said to him. “Missed you last night.”

Behind Jamie's slumped form, Andrew shook his head and waved his hands, but he failed to snag Harry's attention.

“Saw you at the ball, but you left before I caught up with you.”

Jamie jerked upright. “Ow! You were there?”

By this time, Harry had noticed Andrew's gestures and grimaces. “Right. Ah, watching out for Lily, you know.”

“Lily?”

“My sister?” Harry looked at Andrew, who shrugged.

“Right. Of course. Sorry.” Jamie's mind was moving at the speed of cold molasses. “How is Lily?”

“Blooming like a dashed rose,” grumbled Harry.

This was a bit beyond Jamie's current mental capacity. “Did you see Clare? She was there.”

In fact, he'd danced with her. But Harry didn't think this was the moment to say so. “Believe I may have, as a matter of fact.”

Jamie turned his head too fast. Lancing pain ran down into his shoulder. “Ow!”

“Something wrong, old man?” asked Harry.

“Jamie slept in my armchair,” replied Andrew dryly.

“Ah, dipped a bit deep last night?” Harry nodded sympathetically. “Got just the remedy. Drop a raw egg into—”

“Don't!” Jamie held up a hand. “Don't speak to me of raw eggs.”

Andrew's man arrived with a tray and poured coffee. Andrew took his own cup before offering one to Jamie.

Jamie gulped the hot liquid, burning his throat. In the harsh light of day, he felt more depressed than belligerent. He had to see Clare again, but he couldn't face her in this condition. “Tell me what's happened to my wife,” he requested, chastened.

“Happened?” Harry looked to Andrew again; once more, he shrugged. “Well, she's staying with Mrs. Howland.”

Jamie groaned. “That much I know. How did she end up there?”

“I believe her hostess is an old friend of Mrs. Newton's,” Andrew said.

“Ah.” Jamie got a second cup of coffee and drank. His wits were slowly emerging from the remains of his alcoholic haze. “Look, you wrote me and said I should come up to town. You must have meant something by it.”

The thing was, they hadn't expected this erratic version of their friend, Andrew thought. He wondered now if it had been a mistake to interfere.

Harry felt compelled to fill the silence. “It's like Lily,” he said. “Lady Trehearth's just been going about a bit, enjoying herself. But I thought she should have someone to look after her.”

Jamie slowly sorted through the pronouns. “You think Clare needs looking after?”

“Well, she's new to town, surrounded by all sorts of fellows. Some of them aren't quite the—”

In an instant, Jamie was on his feet. He ignored the lancing pain in his head. “Has some blackguard been making up to her?” Oddly, Andrew found his friend's murderous look quite gratifying.

“No, no,” said Harry. “Nothing like that. It's just… You can't be too careful, eh?” He looked to Andrew for help.

“What aren't you telling me?' Jamie demanded. He very nearly grabbed the front of Harry's fine uniform and shook him.

“Nothing, Jamie,” Andrew answered. It was time to step in. “My word on that. It's just… your wife might like you by her side.”

“And isn't that where I want her? At home, in Cornwall! But how am I supposed to get her there if she won't listen to me?” Jamie sank back into the chair and cradled his throbbing head.

Uncomfortable at the near wail in his friend's voice, Andrew turned to pour a bit more coffee.

“Andrew thinks I should ‘woo' her,” Jamie informed Harry.

“That's not a bad notion,” replied Harry.

Jamie rubbed his hands through his hair. Even the dark strands seemed to hurt. He ordered his mind to clear. “So, you think a bit of flattery and attention—a few flowery compliments—and she'll come to her senses?” He hadn't seen Clare as so vain, but she was a woman, after all. They were susceptible to all kinds of flummery.

It was not what Andrew thought, but he chose to say no more. It didn't seem the moment.

***

As Jamie began to plot his siege on his own wife, a windfall fell in his lap. An old school friend was being sent on an extended mission to India and needed someone to take over his rooms, furnishings and all. Jamie jumped at the chance to feel more his own man and less like the impoverished hanger-on he used to be. The digs weren't as elegant as Andrew's, but there was a decent parlor and bedchamber and a pleasant landlady who provided breakfasts and the odd cup of tea. Andrew seemed pleased at the change as well—perhaps a bit too pleased. Jamie wondered if the years of offering him a bed in town had worn thin. It was a lowering thought to add to his surfeit of such ideas.

He called at Mrs. Howland's formidable house and saw Clare again. But somehow, he could never get her alone. Her hostess seemed to delight in interrupting private conversations. Selina Newton was equally omnipresent. And Harry's little sister, often there as well, exhibited an innocent delight in talking to him, one of her few prior acquaintances in London. All in all, it was soon apparent that he would have to catch Clare elsewhere in order to say anything important.

The fact that Jamie had no invitations to
ton
parties was a problem that Harry and Andrew easily solved. As attractive, eligible males they were much in demand, and a request to bring along a presentable friend, even though married, was never denied.

Jamie attended several such events—dead bores—before he hit upon one where Clare was present. Finally, at a musical evening, with threats of an operatic performance later on, he saw her walk in with her two dragons. She looked so lovely his breath caught. This was the night. He felt it in his bones. Of course he knew how to make up to a female. He'd had his share of successes in the past. He'd bowl her over, and then sweep her off home.

Jamie started across the room, threading his way through the chattering crowd, resisting the impulse to shove a few of the more insipid out of his way, only to see Clare snatched up by some coxcomb in a striped waistcoat. He had no idea who the fellow was, but he did know that he hated the way he bent over Clare and offered his arm. Jamie covered the rest of the distance between them in five long steps. “Clare!” It came out too strong. He knew the tone was a mistake as soon as she turned and blinked at him.

“Oh, Jamie. Hello.” Her heart lifted and beat faster every time she saw him. But the expression on his face told her nothing had changed.

“I need to speak to you.” Less heat and more flattery, he told himself. But he had to get Clare's hand off this idiot's coat sleeve.

“This is Mr. Travers. Mr. Travers, my husband, Lord Trehearth.”

“How d'you do?” The man made an elegant bow.

“We're just going for some lemonade,” Clare began.

“I fear you will have to excuse us, sir.” Jamie moved forward to detach him.

Travers seemed to take it as a joke. “Can't keep your wife in your pocket, old man. Not at all the thing.”

“I don't care a whit about the ‘thing.'” He reached out to pull her away.

Did
loving
someone
make
you
more
susceptible
to
annoyance?
Clare wondered. She was an even-tempered person, but Jamie continually made her want to shake him these days. Or give him a blistering setdown. She settled for stepping out of range. “We'll speak later,” she said coolly.

She actually walked off with this Travers. As they went, Jamie heard him say, “Have you heard Orsini yet? Divine voice.” How could she prefer such drivel to being with him? He stood there, oblivious to the crush of people, staring after her and struggling with a desire to throttle the man whose arm she held instead of his. He had to get control of himself. She was driving him mad.

Becoming aware of sidelong glances, Jamie retreated from the center of the large reception room to lean on one of the walls. He'd recover, lie in wait, and try again. Like a cat crouched over a mouse hole, he watched the archway through which Clare had disappeared. Snagging a glass of champagne from a passing servitor, he didn't notice a gentleman stroll over to join him until the newcomer cleared his throat.

“I beg your pardon,” the man said when Jamie turned. “Forgive my forwardness in introducing myself, but as we are family now…”

“Family?” The man was tall and blond, with a hawk nose and a lanky frame.

“I'm Clare's cousin, Simon Greenough.”

He seemed to watch Jamie rather closely as he said this. Jamie met shrewd blue eyes and reluctantly shifted his attention from the arch. “Indeed. I didn't realize Clare had family in town.” On the contrary, he'd had the impression that she hadn't any family to speak of. Certainly none had been invited to their wedding.

“I only arrived recently.”

Had she mentioned cousins? Maybe there'd been something, back at the beginning of their acquaintance… he'd forgotten. She wouldn't like that. He'd be expected to know the fellow existed, to make an effort. “Ah, enjoying the season?” Jamie asked.

Greenough seemed to relax. “Very much. You?”

“Oh, yes,” Jamie lied.

“I hope we'll have the opportunity to get better acquainted.”

Clare appeared in the archway, without Travers, thankfully. All other thoughts went out of Jamie's mind. He abandoned his champagne glass on the chair rail. “We must certainly do so. I fear you must excuse me now, however.” He bowed, and Greenough had hardly responded when he was away.

Simon watched him move across the room and examined the couple's expressions when he accosted Clare. Something odd going on there. They didn't look like blissful newlyweds; yet they certainly weren't indifferent partners in a marital arrangement either. One glance at their faces showed that. Perhaps the situation offered possibilities. Simon hadn't gotten over the fact that his cousin had snatched their great-uncle's money from under his nose. It ate at him, soured his triumph at winning the entail game. He couldn't get his hands on the money; she'd finessed him there. But there might be other ways to make her sorry. This marriage that no one seemed to know anything about, for example. He sensed a lever.

“I was rather short with your friend,” Jamie said when he reached Clare. “Forgive me.” Now that Travers wasn't in evidence, he could wish he'd been more polite to him. And he was determined to keep his temper in check. Clare mustn't walk away from him again—as it was all too easy for her to do in this blasted mob.

Clare actually found Mr. Travers extremely tedious. She'd slipped away from him as soon as possible. But Jamie didn't deserve to know that. “I was going back to Selina,” she replied.

“Allow me to escort you.” He offered an arm. “Perhaps we could take a turn about the room first?”

He was being suspiciously punctilious. Still, Clare couldn't resist tucking her hand through his elbow, and she couldn't suppress a slight shiver at his nearness. How could it be so different—one man's touch over another's? Mr. Travers, and all the other fashionable men she'd met in London so far, left her unmoved. Their compliments and attentions were pleasant, flattering of course, but they meant nothing to her. Then, a mere brush of Jamie's coat sleeve raised her pulse and jumbled her thoughts.

“You look lovely,” he said. Indeed, now that she was close to him, it was impossible to notice any other woman in the room.

“Thank you.”

He ransacked his brain for something more to say. But he seemed to have forgotten the pretty nothings that he'd used on females in the past. She wasn't a random female; she was Clare. “I've missed you,” came out of his mouth. “Trehearth isn't the same with you gone.” When her pale green eyes met his, and her expression softened, something stuttered deep in Jamie's chest.

“I've missed you, too,” Clare admitted. The conversational roar of the party receded, as if they walked in a bubble separate from the din. “How are the twins?”

“Constantly asking when you're coming home,” he answered, and saw at once that it was a misstep. Her nearness was driving him mad—the scent she used, the delicate line of her jaw, the light pressure of her fingers on his arm. He couldn't watch every word when his senses were starting to swim. “Clare, can't we go somewhere and talk? I've hardly been able to get near you since I arrived in town.”

Martha had advised her to keep him at arm's length, to wait until he cracked and came crawling. But Clare had no wish to humiliate Jamie. She simply wanted him to understand and to keep the promises he'd made to her. “Where would we…?”

“I have rooms in Duke Street. A friend lent them to me.” As he spoke he was steering her toward the doorway. “Just for a bit, Clare. So we can hear ourselves speak.”