Amy Lake (21 page)

Edward stirred and rolled over onto his back. The planes of his face–the high cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw–were sharply defined even in sleep, and Claire thought he looked tense. They had engaged in very little . . . talk during the night, and she was no closer than she had been before to finding out what was troubling her husband.

The bedding had been rumpled, tangled, and finally tossed aside during the night’s activities, until it now shielded very little of her husband from Claire’s sight. Edward Tremayne would never really look vulnerable, but this was as close as he came, and she indulged herself in a long and careful scrutiny of the body that had recently pleasured her so well. The skill of the earl’s tailor had never obscured the muscles of his shoulders and back, but she was still enthralled by the sight of the strength and hardness of his naked form. Claire felt a prickly warmth begin to coil inside her.  She reached out her hand–then hesitated, thinking that he looked too exhausted to wake. But it mattered not. Before she had risked even the softest touch, Edward’s eyes opened.

In all the nights of loneliness to come, she would never forget the look he gave her at that moment of first waking. The mixture of anger and desire, bitterness and . . . and something else. Despair?  Claire was unsure. For a fraction of a second an elusive truth blazed from her husband’s blue eyes, and just as quickly it was gone. Edward’s features resumed their usual cast, with the cool detachment she had begun to dread seeing.

“Well, my lady,” he said, his voice soft,  “I see you’re still here.”

The gall of the man!  But Claire had come too far to be intimidated by his manner, and besides, she knew one important fact: the Earl of Ketrick still wanted her. Let him pretend indifference all he wished; she knew better.

“Aye, my lord,” she told him, running a light finger down his chest. “I’m still here.”

He grabbed her wrist in one strong hand and held it still. “Don’t do that,” he told her, and then, “It’s time you should go.”

“Certainly, my lord.”  She pushed herself up in the bed. “Can you help me find my nightgown?”

Edward muttered something in a strangled tone as Claire leaned over him to root around in the bedding for her gown. She sensed that her husband was once again very aroused. Why was he so determined to torment himself with hunger? she wondered, and decided that she wasn’t about to make things any easier for him.

“Oh, never mind,” she said, and swung her legs over the side of the bed to stand. “Edward, I can barely see–”

Events after that seemed to happen very quickly. Edward lit a candle for her, and, still unclothed, she began to make her way back to the door behind the tapestry. Halfway across the room she heard a sudden rustle of bedding and quick footsteps, and Edward’s strong arm grabbed her around the waist. The candle fell, guttering, and Edward kicked it into the fireplace. Then he took her on the carpet, moaning in his need, as ravenous as if he’d bedded no woman for months.

* * * *

Claire slept deeply after that and was finally awakened by another family argument among the geese.  She sat up in bed and experienced the disorientation she used to feel during her first days at Wrensmoor. Where was she?  How had she gotten into this strange bed?

The night’s events rushed back into memory, and she looked around for her husband, not really surprised that he wasn’t in her bed. He had carried her back to her room afterwards, but from the way light was streaming into her window, she had slept much later than usual. Edward had probably breakfasted by now. Still, Claire experienced a brief rush of hope. Perhaps if she hurried, she could catch up with him, and they could ride together this morning.

There was a scratch at the door, and Flora came in with tea.

“Oh, milady, I’m sorry. I didn’t know if you were awake.”

“That’s all right, Flora,” said Claire. “I just woke up this minute. Do you know–has Lord Tremayne breakfasted already?”

Flora looked up from preparing the tea, and from her glance Claire somehow knew what had happened. No! she wanted to cry. No!  I didn’t ask that question–don’t answer!  Give me another few minutes of peace–

But it was too late.

“Lord Tremayne?” asked Flora, clearly confused. “But–milady–he left for London this morning. ’Afore the birds, ’e was.”

“Oh,” said Claire weakly. “Oh, yes. I’d forgotten he intended to leave today.”  She smiled brightly at the girl. “Thank you, Flora. I’ll dress myself this morning.”

“’Is lordship told us how we was t’ give you every consideration whilst he was gone,” said Flora, clearly impressed by the mandate. “I’ll stay t’ help you dress.”

There was nobody more dogged in her position than a Kentish-born lady’s maid, but Claire had a sudden, urgent need to be alone. “No, thank you,” she told Flora. “I’ll call you if I need you.”  She almost pushed the poor girl out the door, and leaned against it for a moment after it closed.

Gone. To London. Early this morning.

Claire closed her eyes against the shaft of pure pain that stabbed through her. What did you expect? a voice cried from deep inside. What did you expect?  Lovemaking changes
nothing
for a man, nothing!  He can get
that
from his mistress!

“Oh, shut up,” said Claire to the voice. She straightened and, taking a deep breath, went to drink her tea.      

Chapter Thirteen

Claire slid down from Athene and looked back towards the castle. She never tired of the view from this spot. The hall seemed to rise from the middle of the river itself, the water sparkling in the early morning sun, and the sheep were fuzzy white spots on the green sward below. Through some happy circumstance of the land’s incline, you could usually hear their soft bleating from this hill but never the raucous cackle of the castle geese. She peered in the direction of the road leading to Wrensmoor, telling herself that she, as the castle’s mistress, was merely observing the activities below, that she had no special interest in
who
might be riding up to the drawbridge.

Or who might not be. The road was empty of travelers, as usual.

“Hallo-o!” she heard and saw her brother flying up the hill on Artemis. Jody possessed a remarkable ability to find his sister whether or not she was in the mood to be found, and recently he seemed to think she couldn’t be left alone for a minute. Claire sighed. She had never been one to court pity, and solicitude from a fifteen-year-old boy was no easier to take when the boy in question was one’s own brother.

Quit fussing, she reminded herself, as she did every time her thoughts threatened to head in this direction. You can be happy in the present situation, or you can be unhappy. It is
your
choice, and the Earl of Ketrick has no power over you in this matter. She waved at Jody and led Athene down to meet him.

* * * *

Her brother had arrived at Wrensmoor almost two months ago, a week after the departure of Lord Tremayne. Jody had not written her of his plans to leave London but had simply showed up at dinner one night, as rested as if it were no more than an hour’s journey between town and the castle. She knew she would be glad of his company.

Patience wasn’t a virtue to a fifteen-year-old boy, so after a quick hug her brother had come immediately to the point.

“What happened?  Why did Lord Tremayne leave Wrensmoor?  He didn’t say anything to me about it. He hardly talked to me at all! ”

The words came out in a rush and Claire smiled. She’d missed her brother. But as to answering his questions–well, she didn’t understand Lord Tremayne’s actions herself.

“I don’t know why he left,” she’d said.

“How can you not know?  Claire, what did he say?  Didn’t you talk to him?  Didn’t he tell you when he was coming back?”

Claire sensed that her brother was half-minded to believe that
she
was the cause of the earl’s change of address, and she could tell, too, that Edward’s brusque replies had hurt Jody. Well, it couldn’t be helped.

“He didn’t give me a definite time that he would be back at Wrensmoor,” she told Jody. That was true enough.

“But, Claire–!”

“Jodrel, I really don’t know. He didn’t ask for my sentiments when he left.”

“Are you . . . ?”  Her brother hesitated and turned red, and–despite the depressing subject of this conversation–Claire nearly laughed. She knew what Jody was trying to ask.

“No, I’m not increasing,” she told him, fairly sure that this was the case.

“Then, why–?”

Claire sighed in exasperation, afraid that she would not hear the end of this inquisition for days. What could she tell her brother?  That during the last few weeks Edward had been at the castle he had generally shunned her company, had bedded her like a man starved for one tempestuous, feverish night, and then left before dawn the very next morning?

No. She could hardly tell him that.

* * * *

Her brother had been nothing if not persistent.

“Jody, I just don’t know–”  It seemed she had answered him with those words a thousand times before he finally gave up asking about Lord Tremayne. A fortnight’s argument, at least. Then, gradually, they went back to old, familiar ways, Jody frequenting the kitchen, and–when he wasn’t eating cinnamon rolls–helping Finn McLeevy with repairs. They played game after game of piquet and bézique in the library after supper, and on most mornings she and her brother rode in the warmth of the waning English summer. Jody was as charmed as she by the Kentish countryside, and Claire was glad of it. Whatever pain her marriage might have brought her, their situation at Wrensmoor was so much better than their life at Cheltdown Manor that she could have no real regrets.

This was, after all, what Edward had intended all along, thought Claire. The imprint of the first weeks of her marriage was fading, and the more she tried to cling to her memories, the faster they seemed to slip away.  Already, it seemed almost ordinary to wake up alone. To sleep alone.

She wondered what Edward was doing and if he was with his new mistress. He must be, she decided. She would not think about it. She refused to think about it.

* * * *

Jody had finally caught up to her, and his mare greeted Athene with a friendly nicker. They let the horses graze and  walked through the tall grass for a while, picking wild flowers, while Jody treated her to a description of the newest tiff between Flora and Constance. The two girls had managed to keep up with their duties during the past few weeks, but just barely, as Constance vied with Flora to capture Jody’s attention. Claire, who knew full well where a flirtation between a pretty lady’s maid and “the young master” was likely to lead, had kept an eye on the proceedings, but so far neither girl had made much headway with her brother.

Apparently Jody was a bit too young to really enter into the spirit of the thing, although that–as Claire knew–could all change in the course of even a few more months. Sixteen wasn’t just fifteen plus a year. What if Flora and Connie were still making doe eyes at Jody when he discovered girls?  Then what would she do? 

It would certainly help to have a man’s advice in this, she thought, sighing. Lord Tremayne would know how to guide her brother through the trials of late adolescence.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jody, alert as always for any change in his sister’s state of mind.

Claire laughed. “Nothing easily helped, I’m afraid.”

“Claire–”

“Let’s race,” she told him, and they ran back to Artemis and Athene.

 * * * *

Lady Pamela watched the Earl of Ketrick as he danced past her, and she frowned in dismay. Danilla Hansfort!  It could hardly be worse.

“Is she his mistress yet, do you think?” asked Lady Detweiler, accurately gauging the direction of Pamela’s interest. “I believe there’s a wager going at White’s about whom he’ll finally choose.”

Lady Pam shook her head. “Danilla?  She’s only been out of mourning a fortnight.”  

“A fortnight!  That’s as good as a year for her,” said Amanda. “The lovely Danilla isn’t going to waste time when it comes to the Earl of Ketrick.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Pam. “Damn!  Why does she keep getting invited everywhere?” 

“Entertainment value, I should think,” was Amanda’s comment.

Pam snorted. Danilla Hansfort wasn’t good
ton–
not very good
ton
, anyway–but she was a widow, and widows were subject to fewer constraints in society than either wives or unmarried girls. Especially rich widows, which Lady Hansfort most assuredly was. Danilla had made no secret, from the earliest days of her mourning, that she would be in the market for a special . . . relationship  as soon as she was out of her greys.

With a rich man, of course–but money wasn’t everything Lady Hansfort was in the market for. Pamela remembered the sound of the woman’s husky contralto as they had chatted in Lady Jersey’s salon
.
“Darling, it’s been almost a year!  Who cares about boring old jewelry?  What I need is a man in my
bed
.”  And Danilla had laughed, as if daring Lady Pam to be shocked. They didn’t know each other very well, of course. After years spent among the
ton
, Lady Pam didn’t think anything could shock her.

True love, she thought suddenly, smiling wryly to herself. True love might just do the trick.

Danilla’s crop of red hair was hard to miss, so Pamela and Lady Detweiler caught frequent glimpses of the earl and his partner as they continued around the ballroom, with the unmistakable sound of Lady Hansfort’s laugh floating across the parquet from time to time.

* * * *

“She’ll play the slut well, will she not?” asked Amanda.

Pam snorted again. It was hard to miss Danilla pressing herself hotly against Edward as they waltzed. Lady Pamela was not a prude, but the amount of bosom displayed by that particular gown was alarming. She made a sudden decision. Edward had sought out her hand in dance repeatedly during the last two months. She had refused him every time, but tonight– 

Tonight she would make an exception.

“Amanda?”

“Hmm?” said Lady Detweiler, still craning her neck in the direction of the waltzing pair.