The Rusticated Duchess (19 page)

Gloria’s breath caught in her throat. “Take a walk with me,” he said, standing. “I have something to show you.”

Abandoning the tome as it dried, Clare went to the door and summoned a footman, whose only task appeared to be to sit in an alcove near his door and await his orders. Gloria flushed, realising the servant would have seen her hesitating outside Clare’s door. She listened as he gave orders to fetch her pelisse and his outer garments.

Finally he came to her and did what he’d done upstairs. Clare kissed her, but not intimately. He pressed his lips against hers and stroked her lower back to reassure her. Tugging her against him, he nipped her lower lip, then pulled back.

“I’m glad you came down,” Clare said. He strode to the window and looked out. “The weather is holding and the breeze calm, so you shouldn’t be terribly uncomfortable.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Outside,” he said, taking her arm through his and leading her to the open study door. Gloria’s mind blanked for a minute—
he kissed me in full view of anyone who might pass by
—but the corridor was empty.

They met the servant with her pelisse near the main stairs. Clare assisted her himself, sending the footman scurrying away, then turned and opened a shadowed door in the corridor.

Inside was a circular staircase headed both up and down—Gloria looked up and breathed deeply, for the steps clearly went into one of the castle towers. She let Clare take her hand and they went upward. One, two, three more flights of stairs. They narrowed again and Clare tightened his grip on her arm and they ascended a long, final set of stairs and faced a door.

“We’re at the top,” she said, hearing those words echo inside the proud stone construction.

“Yes,” Clare said and pushed open the door.

Gloria followed him through, her breath catching. They were in a small room above the keep’s highest tower. A crenellated parapet surrounded them on each side of the room, protecting residents from stepping out into certain death. Gloria stepped into the guardroom itself, peering through the openings that functioned as windows. They had no coverings but were open to the weather, and an open doorway to the battlement tempted her.

Gloria walked, wide-eyed, in the circle that was the tower, around the outside of the guardroom. The breeze was stiff and cold, and Gloria knew a moment of gratitude that Clare had insisted she have her pelisse. The views were breathtaking in its most fundamental definition. She was faint from the sheer height, and finally paused in one of the crenellations to stare in fascination at the sea.

She faced east. As high as the castle walls were, they seemed short from this perspective, with a still farther drop to sea level on the sheer rock cliffs. Battered by the sea for centuries, that foundation nevertheless seemed to hold tightly. The walls, sitting at the top edge of the cliffs, were worn, the parapet and walkway showing the clear effects of age and weather on the east facing. But beyond that the sea stretched.

To the west, the sun set on the far side of the lough, past the town and in the distance. Here, facing east, the sky was already darkening and the last remnants of the sun were glinting pink and red in the surf. Farther out, they could see the clouds and sea meeting at the horizon, and the sight of it reminded Gloria how far England and all she knew truly was.

Homesickness struck. She didn’t know for what—Lennox House had never been perfectly safe. Blessing Cottage was lonely. Winchester House? Perhaps her childhood? Hanover House or her uncle’s estate? Or was home somewhere she’d never been? Would she ever know?

Behind her, Clare stopped and slid his arms about her waist, drawing her back to lean against him. They were silent as they watched the play of light on the salty water. “Tell me what’s wrong, Glory,” he murmured against her hair.

Gloria blinked at the nickname and admitted, “I was just wondering when I would be home again. What would be home, when I find it.”

Clare was quiet for a long while. “This place was my home. I knew every view, every field, every person who worked in the castle and the fields. The place is filled with memories, Sarah is buried here, my son Arwyn was born here. But as my son grew and went off to Eton and my father aged and stayed in London, I realised how lonely it was here without them. Since then I’ve spent most of my time in England, and now I’d say that Norham Castle on the northern English border is home. It is our English home anyway. But it feels like home when Arwyn is there. When he’s not, it’s just another empty house, devoid of companionship and family.”

“Is that it? I do miss my sisters, but we’re scattered now. You said Devon took Genevieve to Scotland. Abigail is in the country. Mother is in London. Fiona is any of those places or others, wherever she’s visiting. I can’t gather them up for afternoon tea as a restorative, or take them shopping for books and gloves and little bits of lace anymore.”

“No,” he murmured against her hair. “No, you have to make your own life now.” Tenderly, his lips found the velvet skin at her temple and offered her wordless comfort.
Affection.

Chapter Thirteen

The realisation went directly to her heart. Her chest ached, the pain spread to her head and she had to resist the urge to cry as pain throbbed in her temples.

Clare’s
affection
for her had disturbed her earlier. Gloria had even less experience with affection than she had with lovers.

“I don’t know,” she began, then paused and licked her lips. “I don’t know what I want for my own life.” She waved a hand at his arm, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know what to do,” she eventually managed.

“About what?” he asked, kissing the top of her head.

Gloria felt the tears form in her eyes before she shook her head. “About
that
,” she said, then turned to face him, pushing his arms away. “About
you
.”

Clare considered her. “About me?” he finally asked.

“Clare, I’ve never had a-a-a relationship with a man. Winchester hardly ever spoke to us, the closest I ever remembering being to him is when he danced with me at my come-out ball, and he left immediately thereafter. And M-M-M—” She stuttered to a stop, unable to say his name.

“March.” Clare nodded.

“That was more like a nightmare than a relationship. He’s, he’s this black hole in my life. I can’t even say his name!”

Clare smiled against her hair. “Father wrote about his death—what happened. You didn’t tell me that part.”

“Do you know he couldn’t be buried in the family graveyard because it’s blessed by the Church? They had to inter him in a private mausoleum at Eynon Castle in Wales. Not that I want to see it,” she went on bitterly. “But it was that or an unmarked grave.”

“And that means—”

“Nothing,” she sighed, acquiescing when he pulled her against him again and positioned her back to his chest. They stared at the sea, until she said, “It means that I don’t know how to act, how to behave… I mean, of course in polite society, I’ve danced with them and eaten banquet dinners with them and before my marriage I flirted with men and walked in Hyde Park.”

A noise from Clare’s chest stopped her. After a moment, he grunted, “Go on.”

“I mean, walking with you was not disturbing. That’s something
normal
for me, or at least within my understanding. But. When we had lunch the other day? That was the first time I’ve ever dined alone with a man. You are the first man—not a servant—to pour me a glass of wine. The first peer who has asked me to call me by his Christian name, and I can’t even do it. The first man to k-k-kiss me without seeming to want more. Talking about-about-about intimacy instead of hiding it in a dark room as a shameful secret? It feels scandalous and yet so very strangely domestic. And, heaven help me, you held my head back while I lost the contents of my stomach into a necessary pot in my dressing room. I can’t even
imagine
that happening. I just feel somewhat l-l-lost.”

“I see.” Clare turned her and cupped her cheek, as he’d done that day of their first kiss, down at the shore. “No one has ever shown you affection, how to be with a man beyond sharing a bed or mingling in society.”

Gloria thought for a moment, raising her head to meet his eyes, then nodded.

“Well, my dear,” he said, “that is going to change. Starting now.”

She laughed nervously. “You’re already changing it,” she objected.

“Come, Glory, allow me the pleasure of walking with you this evening,” he invited her, offering his arm.

She took it, shivering now, and didn’t resist when he drew her close. They paced twice around the battlements before he spoke. “Let me assure you, angel, that I am as most other men. If I thought you wished it, I would whisk you off to my bed in a heartbeat. And if you came to my bed I would not hesitate to put you in it. On your back.”

Gloria laughed.

“But you have stated clearly to me that you do not wish it,” he added. “And I value my promises highly. I will never force you. There is much that can be between a man and a woman that is well beyond the simple exchange of physical pleasure, and those bonds only make more
carnal
moments more meaningful. We did not take the time to build those bonds before, but I suppose I am doing so now. It is much easier to do so, when you are here, with me.”

“Alone,” Gloria sighed. She paused, drawing Clare to a stop beside her. They looked out to the west, where the sun glinted brilliantly, almost blindly.

“Yes,” Clare agreed, but his voice was distracted. Gloria glanced up, saw his face and intense concentration and looked down again, sharply.

She saw what Clare saw, then. A black carriage rolled rapidly along Shore Road just this side of Kilchet, where no carriage needed to be. Only Blessing Cottage and Killard Castle stood on this road, and neither expected visitors.

Fear ripped through Gloria’s heart, sharpened by her concern for the man beside her. Losing him would make Winchester even less bearable.

Clare pulled her close in front of him, her back to his chest. Shielding her from the wind and chill, he enclosed her in the protection of his embrace. “Hush,” he whispered. “Just watch.”

So Gloria waited. The carriage pulled to a stop in front of Blessing Cottage. Mr Pitcher was not there to greet them, but Gloria was certain Matthew did. The men hurried into the house, with none but Mrs Sinclair to open the door to them.

Clare’s voice in her ear brought Gloria to her terrified senses. “Matthew would have tried to stop them from entering if they were not friends,” he murmured, and Gloria knew it was the truth. “Look there,” Clare said, satisfaction in his voice. Gloria narrowed her eyes curiously. Matthew was raising a small emerald-coloured triangular flag on a pole beyond the small stable. “Green for friends. Red for enemies,” he explained. “Good thing there is still a bit of sun,” he added. “I should have expected that—we’ll have to work out night-time signals.” He squeezed Gloria’s shoulders, then turned and waved at the watchtower, letting them know he’d seen the message. “Let’s go down to the drawing room. You’re cold, and I expect we’ll have company. Imminently.”

The appearance of anyone, friend or foe, boded ill for Clare. Clare knew it. All of his wits would be required to manage the situation and keep Gloria under his supervision, where it was necessary for her to be. He didn’t wonder why, he didn’t have time to worry about it—but he grasped the necessity. 

Hearing her brother-in-law Lord Meriden and her uncle Colby Bentley announced did little for his equilibrium. He didn’t have to be told that these two were more than simple messengers. No, these men were authority figures in Gloria’s life. Still, he waited in the shadows while Gloria greeted them, worry etched in her face, but with a comfort and confidence he hadn’t foreseen. True respect lined her greeting with Meriden, and affection coloured her greeting with her uncle. Colby tucked her arm within his and turned to Clare, who finally stepped forwards.

There was no question that Colby knew of the link between the Bentleys and the Blessings. Colby watched him carefully, so Clare took his hand respectfully as Gloria introduced them, letting awareness and caution show in his eyes. Meriden was more of a challenge, for the man didn’t honestly know of any connection between the Blessings and his own wife.

Even so, Meriden was polite. Clare was, after all, nearly a peer and would likely follow his father to Lords in a title that was senior to Meriden’s.

When Gloria looked to him questioningly, he realised. She was not his hostess, she was his guest, and he could hardly follow his usual pattern with male guests and invite them to his study for ale or whisky. “Shall I order tea?” he inquired, including all three of them in his question. “Or something stronger?”

Meriden chuckled, answering with, “Ale,” even as Gloria asked for tea.

He smiled and stepped into the foyer, stopping Whitaker. When he returned, silently, Meriden was already quizzing her. “How do you know he’s not in league with Winchester? He could have sent for the man—”

“I’ve known him for a while, Meriden, certainly long enough for Winchester’s men to receive a message and have arrived,” Gloria said coolly, her mask firmly in place.

Colby Bentley said nothing, but glanced up and sent Clare a piercing look. Older now, he would have been Alex Blessing’s age or close to it. Lauderdale was a few years Colby’s senior, but this man was much healthier and vibrant, whereas Lauderdale had become more sedentary and exceedingly hermit-like in the last decade.

“There is a longstanding relationship between the Bentleys and the Blessings,” Clare said, setting a heavier foot down and coming up behind Meriden. “And that relationship precludes any conspiring with the Earl of Winchester, by the very nature of the connection. I’m sure both Mr Bentley and Hanover would tell you that my father would cut off his right arm before allowing any harm to come to Johna Bentley’s children or grandchildren—the matter of Lennox’s heir notwithstanding. I find myself of the same opinion.”