Amy Lake (9 page)

My love?
  And had Lord Tremayne just
winked
at her?  Claire could see Lady Gastonby opening her mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by the earl.

“Dear Aunt Penelope doesn’t stand on ceremony, you know, but I’m sure you would like to be formally introduced. Lady Gastonby, this is Mademoiselle Claire de Lancie. We are to be married tomorrow.”

Edward paused to take a breath, which was all the encouragement his aunt needed. “And without as much as a by-your-leave to your family!” said Lady Gastonby. Claire cringed as she saw the woman reach for her cane. “I declare, Edward, something is wrong here!  The de Lancies–who are they?  Where are the chit’s parents?  I know of no–”

“Aunt Penelope,” said Edward, taking the seat at Claire’s side,  “I’m sure you could not have heard me correctly just now. Miss de Lancie is my
fiancée
. By tomorrow afternoon she will be the Countess of Ketrick.”

“Pish-posh,” said Lady Gastonby. “What does that signify?   Any whore can play the countess, and this bosomy little miss of yours–”

Claire rose and turned to leave, but the earl caught her hand in his and would not let go.

“That is quite enough,” he told Lady Gastonby. “Your ill temper grows tiresome. I will see Miss de Lancie to her room, and you, Aunt, may use this opportunity to decide whether or not you choose to remain under my roof.”

To Claire’s amazement, Lady Gastonby didn’t seem the least discomfited. “Oh, very well,” she told the earl. “She’s tolerably pretty, I suppose. Good teeth.”  She waved her hand vaguely in their direction and went back to her soup.  The earl tucked Claire’s hand under his arm and ushered her out of the room.

“I’m sorry,” he said as soon as the door had closed behind them. Claire had not yet found her tongue, and the earl stopped to take both her hands in his. “Unfortunately, Lady Gastonby never married, and so she had no husband to–to smooth the rough edges, I suppose. Her relations have always affected to be amused by her blunt speech and I suppose we must have encouraged her. It was a mistake, I can see now.”

“Whoever’s fault it may be, my lord,” said Claire, “I will not be treated in such a manner, even though she is your aunt.”  She was trembling with anger. Her family might not compare in importance to that of the earl of Ketrick, but it was no excuse for incivility.

“Miss de Lancie.”

She looked up at the earl’s almost gentle tone and her heart slammed into the wall of her chest. His jacket seemed to be molded to his broad shoulders–how ever had he managed to get into it?  And she could see the muscles of his legs through the smooth fabric of his trousers. She would be marrying this man tomorrow. The incredibly handsome and virile man standing right in front of her. Claire took a deep breath. “Ah, yes?” she managed.

“Please do not trouble yourself over my aunt. She will treat you with all courtesy, as will the rest of my family.”        He smiled, and Claire’s hand on his arm tightened involuntarily. The earl’s smile transfigured his face. He looked suddenly younger and . . . approachable

They had reached the bottom of the staircase. “Your family, my lord?” she asked, forcing herself to speak lightly. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“Only a brother, Frederick. He died several years ago.” 

Claire could hear the pain in his voice. “I’m sorry,” she murmured,

At the door to her bedroom Lord Tremayne took her hand out of the crook of his elbow and raised it slowly to his lips. Time stopped as he leaned down and touched his lips gently to hers. She shivered, and then her hands went around his neck. The earl’s shoulder muscles tensed under the fine cloth of his coat as his hands went to her waist, and she was crushed against him in a deepening kiss. She thought she heard him moan softly.

She could have stood there forever. But he released her abruptly and stepped back.

“You must still be hungry,” he said. “Let me send Flora down to fetch your dinner.”

“Hungry?  Yes . . . um, that is, no,” stammered Claire. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, I am,” said Lord Tremayne. “Hungry, I mean. Let me send for something for both of us and we will have supper together in your room.”

“Oh, my lord, but–”

“Don’t worry,” he said, giving her a roguish grin. “I won’t tell my aunt.”

* * * *

And so they dined together in front of the fire in Claire’s bedchamber. Flora served them, clucking at Lord Tremayne as if she were Claire’s chaperon and not mere days out of the scullery.

“My young miss needs her rest,” she muttered under her breath. “And married tomorrow t’ain’t the same as married today, to my way of thinkin’.” 

Claire smiled down at her plate and hoped Lord Tremayne hadn’t heard.

  “Flora,” said the earl as they finished eating, “thank you. You may go.”

The girl looked so scandalized that Claire was tempted to laugh. “It’s all right, Flora,” she tried to reassure her.  “Lord Tremayne and I just have a few matters to discuss before the wedding tomorrow.”

“Oh, but, miss–”

“Flora,” said Lord Tremayne firmly, “your concern for Miss de Lancie is appreciated. I will take good care of her, you may be sure. Now go.”

And so Flora went, muttering under her breath the whole while.

When the bedroom door had finally closed behind her, the earl abruptly stood and started to pace the length of the room. Claire kept her attention focused on the fire and hoped that he couldn’t tell how nervous she was. Every time she was alone with Lord Tremayne, a tension seemed to appear from nowhere and grow and grow until she felt like a rope pulled to its breaking point. Would it always be like this?  How could she be married to someone who created such disquiet within her?

Of course, Claire reminded herself, he wasn’t planning that they would spend much time together. Perhaps that would be best, after all.

The earl was now standing directly in front of her, and, she realized, holding a small rectangular box.      

“The Countess of Ketrick’s jewels will be yours, of course. There are a number of things–I don’t remember every item, I’m afraid. They’ve been with the lawyers for safekeeping for quite some time.”

“Oh,” said Claire, faintly. She hadn’t thought of that, but of course there would be jewelry. Why would Lord Tremayne even bother to mention it?  She would have little reason to wear a countess’s jewels, dining alone at Wrensmoor Park.

“You could pick out something for our wedding if you wish–I could send for them immediately, even tonight–but . . . ”  The earl hesitated. “This is my wedding gift to you. I would be honored if you would wear these tomorrow.”

A wedding gift?  Dear heavens, she hadn’t even thought of a wedding gift!

“Oh, Lord Tremayne,” Claire said, with a sinking heart, “I’d not thought to . . . to get you anything, and– ”

“We are to be married tomorrow,” said the earl. “Could you not call me by my Christian name?”

“Yes, of course, but . . . ”

“I shall begin to think you dislike my gift,” he said. “Do you not wish to open it?”  He handed her a slim case of burgundy leather.

She fumbled with the clasp and then–   “Oh, my lord,” breathed Claire, “they are beautiful.”

“They are beautiful,
Edward
,” said the earl.

She was looking at a necklace of square-cut diamonds, alternating with emeralds, and set in gold. A pair of matching diamond earrings completed the set, and, in their elegance and exquisite workmanship, they were beyond anything Claire had seen on even the noblest ladies of the
ton
.

All this, for Claire Juliette de Lancie?  The charity miss he was to leave immured at his country estate?  She couldn’t make any sense of it, but she chose to ignore the tiny prickles of doubt.         The earl took the necklace from its satin-lined box and carefully fastened it around her neck.  The stones were cool against her skin, but when his fingers touched her it seemed to burn.

“They become you well,” he said. Then, touching her gently, he asked, “Does your shoulder trouble you?  I can see only a small part of the wound. It seems to be healing well.”

“Oh,” said Claire,  “there is very little pain anymore. But, my lord–” she said,  “–Edward. I have nothing to give you in return.”  Still bewildered by the extravagance of the gift, she felt Lord Tremayne pick up the necklace, the tips of his fingers brushing her collarbone.  Slowly he lowered it back to her neck. The prickles of doubt gave way to alarm as Claire felt his hands move lower, his fingertips lingering on her skin.

“Nothing to give?  Oh, but I think you do,” said the earl, his voice rough. Claire looked up at him, and even in her naiveté and lack of experience she could not mistake the look in his eyes. He leaned over and picked her up out of the chair as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow.

“My lord, I–”

“
Edward
,” he said. He carried her to the bed and sat down on it, cradling her in his lap.

“My–Edward, please–”

His kiss stopped her protest. He leaned back, gently toppling them into the mounds of bedding. His lips on hers became urgent, demanding, and she wondered what she had been planning to say. Please, stop?  Please do not bed me until we are married?

Theirs was no match of mutual love and respect, Claire reminded herself. It was a marriage arranged for practical reasons, for the both of us. If her sole purpose as the Countess of Ketrick was to provide Lord Tremayne with an heir, what did it matter if they began the transaction today rather than tomorrow?  Had she forgotten something?  Was some piece of logic missing?  But the earl was caressing her breasts through the thin fabric of her bodice, and her thoughts scattered under the onslaught of new feelings.

“Claire,” murmured the earl, nuzzling her neck, his hands moving insistently over her. He began to unfasten the tiny pearl buttons of her bodice.

Insistent. Claire felt she was melting into the pillows. The earl’s breath was hot in her ear and his fingers were setting her skin on fire. The “marital duties” that she had often heard whispered about seemed more pleasant than she had been led to believe, and she suspected she might enjoy the experience of lovemaking. 

But - insistent?  Tomorrow the Earl of Ketrick would own her, body and soul, and he could insist. Not today.

“No,” said Claire, scrambling out of Lord Tremayne’s grasp.

At that moment,
no
was not a word Lord Tremayne wanted to hear. “A pox on virgins,” he muttered and grabbing for her, he tossed Claire back onto the bed. “Don’t try to play the prim little miss with me. You wanted a husband?  You have one.”

“This is nothing to do with . . . virgins, my lord,” exclaimed Claire, trying to sit up even as the earl tried to push her back onto the bedcovers. “It is a matter of courtesy.”

“Courtesy?  Courtesy is exactly what I want from you,” he said, with a grin that made her shiver. 

His hands were strong and warm, his body so close to her–she could hardly think. “I do not like your definition of the word, my lord.”

“Edward,” said Lord Tremayne, seemingly oblivious to her protest. “You are delicious,  Mademoiselle de Lancie.”  His lips were tracing a line down her neck to the farthest extent of her
décolletage
.

“No,” she said again, her voice flat. “Stop this.”  Claire knew that he might be beyond reason or simply not care what she wanted, or what she said; nevertheless, she felt perfectly calm. If he chose to force her, she could not prevent him, but she would not willingly give in.

Lord Tremayne stilled, then rose from the bed. He strode to fireplace, and stood there for several minutes, breathing heavily.

“Your pardon, Miss de Lancie,” he finally said, still not looking in her direction. “We will continue this . . . argument . . . after our wedding. But from tomorrow, mademoiselle, it is an argument that I will win.” ?

Chapter Six

Lady Pamela Sinclair pulled back the velvet carriage drape with one elegantly gloved hand. She hadn’t attended the wedding, of course. Most improper for a former mistress. But she couldn’t resist seeking a glimpse of Edward Tremayne and his new bride as they left St. Alban’s. She felt some responsibility for the event, after all.

It would be a small, quiet wedding; attended by Claire’s brother, naturally, and–alas–Lady Gastonby.  According to Amanda Detweiler, the earl’s dreadful aunt had shown up on the doorstep of Tremayne House yesterday afternoon, and Boggs had nearly refused her admittance. The butler and the dragon!  How Pam wished she could have seen
that
encounter.

Even with Lady Gastonby present, she imagined that Edward’s wedding would be far pleasanter than his brother’s. Pam still remembered her dismay–all those years ago–at the ostentation of the ceremony and the sight of Frederick Tremayne giving his hand to Melissa. The sainted Melissa Bourne-Sumner, daughter of . . . oh, what did it matter?  Some ancient family with an equally ancient heritage of debt.

Lady Pamela’s memory could recreate Frederick’s wedding in detail, and even some of the events leading up to it. The temper tantrums she had heard!   Nothing was ever right for Melissa– not the wedding dress, not the veil, not the flowers. Even the spectacular jeweled collar Frederick had given her, a Tremayne family heirloom, was the subject of bitter complaint.

“Dreadful, old-fashioned thing,” the silly chit had cried, refusing to wear it. Frederick had just shrugged.

She could still see Melissa–tiny and delicate, the image of innocence–in a dress of blinding white silk, walking up the long aisle at St. Alban’s.  Frederick waiting before the altar with his careless, easy grin, and Edward–

Naive, eighteen-year-old Edward, the perfect younger brother and adoring brother-in-law. How Melissa had twisted both men around her finger.

In Edward the cool Tremayne exterior hid a heart that cared and could be hurt; in the older brother, on the other hand, it hid nothing much at all. Frederick–the eleventh earl, by the time of his wedding–had been the perfect social creature, delighting in his beautiful young wife and the balls and soirees, the routs and musical evenings that made up the most of their lives. Any part of him not taken up with parties was devoted to horses or to making absurd wagers with his rowdy friends.