Leslie LaFoy (35 page)

Fortifying himself with a deep breath, he stepped into the parlor. His mother and Aunt Elsbeth sat on the far settee. Darice stood at the mantel, a glass of sherry in her hand, and a smile on her face that said she'd seen him ride up and had been waiting for him. Claire was nowhere in sight and he barely kept himself from sagging in relief. It was only then that he realized he'd trapped himself, that he'd stepped into the den of lionesses for no reason and without a plan for saving himself.

“Good afternoon, Mother, ladies,” he said tersely, speaking over Elsbeth's continued prattling.

His mother started, casting a nervous glance from him to Darice. Elsbeth went instantly silent, a satisfied smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

“Devon, darling,” Darice all but purred, gliding toward him, her arms extended. “How I've missed you.”

His stomach went cold and he deliberately stepped back, pointedly keeping his arms pinned at his sides. “Darice,” he said tightly, sparing her only the briefest of glances before asking, “Mother, where's Claire?”

“You could at least attempt to offer a civil welcome to Lady Lytton,” Elsbeth admonished sharply.

“Do not presume to lecture me on manners, Aunt Elsbeth,” he snapped, never having wanted to strangle the woman as much as he did in that moment.

“You needn't look so dark and stormy,” Darice said as she came to stand in front of him. Her smile was the pure seduction of old as she whispered, “A temporary wife needn't stand in our way,” and reached up to touch his cheek.
He took another step back, deliberately turning his head so that he was beyond her reach. “There's your way and my way, Darice,” he said coolly. “They're distinctly separate roads. I thought I'd made that abundantly clear several months ago.”

“But I know that you didn't truly mean it,” she corrected sweetly. “Any more than you meant the promises you gave Claire at the altar,” she added, reaching for him again.

His pulse racing with fearful certainty, he caught her wrist and stayed her, saying only, “Don't.”

Tears welled in her eyes and her lower lip quivered as she whispered his name. He'd seen the performance before. Several times. It moved him no more this time than it had the last.

“Darice says we're having pheasant breasts in Madeira sauce for luncheon,” his mother blurted. “Doesn't that sound delicious?”

“Where is Claire, Mother?”

“Out in the kitchen?” she guessed.

“Thank you.” He released Darice abruptly, bowed crisply to his mother, then turned on his heel and walked away. His only thought as he strode toward the rear of the house was that of finding Claire and putting things as right as he could. God, he was such an idiot. He should have foreseen that Darice and Claire would someday meet. He should have prepared Claire for it. He should have armed her with the truth.

C
LAIRE STOOD AT THE COUNTER
in the butler's pantry, arranging the tulips with trembling hands and listening to Devon's purposeful footfalls as he made his way across the foyer and into the dining room. Her stomach roiling, she took a deep breath and desperately tried to decide what she was going to do. Throw herself into his arms and tearfully apologize for being a virgin? Stamp
her foot and demand that he choose between her and Darice Lytton? Dissolve into tears and beg him for an annulment—an escape—by sundown? Pretend that she didn't see or hear him? That she wasn't a mass of tangled feelings and jangled nerves?

He came to a sudden stop just inside the little room, and her gaze leapt to meet his. So much for pretending that she wasn't aware of his presence.

“What did she tell you?” he asked, his chest rising and falling, shadows of worry dulling the normal brilliance of his eyes. No sooner had the words left his mouth than he grimaced, threw his hands up in the air, and exclaimed, “Oh hell, you don't have to answer. I know what she said.”

Claire stared at him in amazement, her nerves settling with the realization that he was genuinely concerned about how she felt. He was, in fact, just as worried, uncertain, and frightened as she was. A warmth gently, serenely bloomed in the center of her chest. “You don't owe me an explanation, Devon.”

“Yes, I do,” he countered, stepping closer. “She's come into your home and hurt your feelings.” He gently placed his hands on her shoulders and looked deeply into her upturned eyes. “I didn't tell you about her because, for one thing, it was an extremely brief affair. For another, it was purely physical. And thirdly, because it was over well before I met you.”

The earnestness of his assurance touched a chord deep inside her and drew her hands to his waist. “You aren't hoping to marry her?” she asked softly, already knowing the answer.

“God, no.”

Her pulse skittered wildly. “Does she know how you feel?”

“I was honest to the point of being brutal. Several times. Yes, she knows.”

The impulse was strong and she made no effort to
resist it. Stretching up on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his cheek with a murmured “Thank you, Devon.”

Never had such a simple expression of gratitude so arrowed into his heart. Words failed him; all he could do was smile down at her and hope she knew how much he appreciated all the goodness that she'd brought to his world. The smile she gave back to him was understanding, but tinged with sadness.

“What is it, Claire?” he asked, tracing the soft curve of her cheek with the back of his hand. “What's troubling you?”

“I feel sorry for Darice in a way. How embarrassed she must be to have made such a strident claim to your affections, only to have—”

“No pity for Darice,” he interrupted gently, pressing his fingertips to her lips. “Not only would it be wasted on her, but she'd shred you to ribbons for your efforts at compassion. Stay away from her, please. Plead a headache or exhaustion or something of the like so you can take your midday meal in your room. I'll handle her.”

She drew her face back from his touch just enough to quietly say, “I'm not going to hide from her, Devon. I promise that I won't do anything that might create a scene.”

“It's not that at all,” he protested, placing his hand back on her shoulder. “I don't want your feelings hurt.”

A slim brow arched upward as mischief sparkled in her eyes. “You don't think that I can hold my own against her, do you?”

“I know Darice,” he explained, admiring her spirit but wanting to protect her at the same time. “You're a much nicer person than she is, Claire. No, you can't hope to match her. And you wouldn't want to.”

She considered him, her brows knitted and her lips pursed.

“Claire?” he said warily.

The corners of her mouth edged upward and the impish light in her eyes brightened. His heartbeat accelerated and she rewarded him by deliberately sliding her hands down his hips and then back to slowly caress his backside. He stopped breathing, stopped caring about anything beyond her touch, beyond the wild hope of being seduced.

As though in answer to his unspoken plea, she rose up onto her toes and feathered a kiss across his lips. His eyes drifted closed and she gifted him with another kiss, this one achingly sweeter, deliciously longer than the first.

He gathered her against him, reveling in the feel of her body pressed to his own, wanting more of her, wanting whatever she was willing to give him. His limbs weakened by burgeoning hunger, he twined his fingers in the golden strands of her hair, gently inviting her to possess him more deeply still, silently begging her to feed the desire she'd stirred to life.

She obliged, catching his lower lip between her own, holding it gently captive as she leisurely, boldly stroked it with the tip of her tongue. An exquisite jolt of pleasure shot through him, shattering his reserve. Timeless, primal instincts swept into the void, demanding that he ease her down and lose himself in loving her. God, he'd never wanted anything so desperately in all his life. Right here. Right now. Forever.

“Claire,” he gasped between greedy gulps of air as he drew away. “What are you thinking, sweetheart?” he asked, gazing down at her, his senses reeling, his head light. “What do you want?”

“I…”she began, her voice quavering as she released her hold and let her arms fall to her sides. She paused, searching his face and trying to steady her breathing before saying softly, “I don't want to match her, Devon. I want to go her one better.”

One? Sweet Jesus, she'd just easily managed a half
dozen. And then his heart cringed as the whole of her admission sank into his brain. “You're jealous?” he asked, incredulous. “Of Darice?”

She looked away, but not before he saw tears shimmering in her eyes. Tenderly taking her chin in hand, he brought her gaze back to meet his own. “You don't have any reason to be,” he assured her with a smile. “Is that what just happened—between us—all about? Jealousy?”

“No,” she answered on a ragged breath, mustering a tremulous smile for him. “It was in the beginning, but I forgot about it somewhere along the way.”

God, she was so beautiful, so honest. And he wanted so badly for her to want him just for himself. “Do you remember when you forgot to be jealous?”

“When I moved my hands and your eyes got big. You stopped breathing and I stopped thinking.”

Relief and hope washed over him in an exhilarating, intoxicating wave. Laughing, he pulled her to him, hugging her close and rubbing his cheek into the golden warmth of her hair. She wrapped her arms around his waist and burrowed her face into the linen of his shirt, making him feel oddly, wonderfully complete. And to think he owed this moment and all the possibilities within it to George Seaton-Smythe's nefarious little heart.

“Darice isn't the only woman in my past, you know,” he offered casually, grinning.

She eased back in his embrace to look up at him, her brow arched daintily, her smile easy and accepting. “I assumed as much. You're a handsome man. You can even be charming when you put your mind to it.”

“If I was willing to make a rough count,” he offered, “would you be willing to do them all one better?”

She laughed outright and he watched her, thinking that there had to be a way he could overcome her objections to colonial rebellion, a way of making her forget her home in England. And while she'd never said a word
on the subject, he knew that she opposed the institution of slavery. He could see it in her eyes when she looked at Ephram and Hannah. So many obstacles to surmount, to move past… How to go about it? He could—

A strangled sound came from behind him, interrupting his thoughts. He frowned, recognizing the voice and resenting the intrusion. Claire sobered and looked up at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth and a shadow of guilt shading her eyes. He winked in reassurance, tightened his embrace, and without giving the woman behind him so much as a glance, tautly asked, “Is there something you need in here, Aunt Elsbeth?”

A low hissing sound was the only response. Claire winced and, with an apologetic smile, leaned around him. He felt her start, felt her heart jump and begin to race. Drawing her back in front of him, shielding her with his body, he looked over his shoulder. And found Darice standing there, her eyes blazing and her hands fisted at her sides.

“Forgive me,” he said wryly. “You and Aunt Elsbeth sound remarkably alike when in the throes of pique. Is there something
you
need in here, Darice?”

She glared at him and, through clenched, bared teeth, managed to say, “The Lee brothers have returned from their tour of your fields.” Before he could respond, she turned and stomped off.

Devon shrugged and brought his attention back to Claire. “I'd much rather stay here with you than go entertain the Lees.”

“But the requirements of hospitality being what they are, you must go anyway,” she answered, bringing her arms from around him to place the palms of her hands against his chest. “And I have duties of my own to perform.”

Cautiously, he asked, “Perhaps later we could find some time to be alone again?”

She nodded nervously and eased from his embrace.

“If you'd take this to the library with you when you go,” she said, taking the vase of flowers from the counter and handing it to him, “I'd be most appreciative.”

He considered the bouquet, his lips pursed as he tried to recall the last time anyone had thought to bring the beauty of flowers into Rosewind. “As am I, Claire,” he said, his voice uncomfortably tight. With a brief bow, he turned and walked away before he could make an utter and complete fool of himself.

Claire watched him go, her hands pressed hard against her fluttering stomach and knowing that in surrendering to temptation, she'd committed herself to exploring a very dangerous path. And—God help her—the thought of venturing along it thrilled her every bit as much as it frightened her.

I
T WAS, WITHOUT DOUBT
, the most strained dining affair Claire had ever endured. Wyndom had hobbled in, his limp more pronounced than the day he'd arrived home and the swelling of his face reduced enough that his perpetual scowling was quite evident. He sat at the table between Elsbeth and Darice, each of whom not only shared his unhappy expression but also seemed inclined to wallow in the pool of his glowering silence.

Henrietta and the Lee brothers—bless them—resolutely tried to keep the conversation lively. It centered around trivial matters, mostly upcoming social events planned for the convening of the House of Burgesses. Having nothing to contribute to the discourse, Claire listened attentively, nodding and offering the most general observations and comments when called upon to do so.

And Devon… As Mother Rivard waxed poetic over the ballroom of the Governor's Mansion, Claire slid another quick glance in Devon's direction, finding him as he'd been throughout the course of the meal—casually leaning back in his chair, a secretive smile playing at the
corners of his mouth as he watched her. His smile broadened as her gaze skimmed over it, and she looked away, her heart racing.

“And who,” Francis Lightfoot asked, “will be squiring you to the Governor's Ball, Lady Lytton?”

“Having so recently returned from Philadelphia,” she answered with amazing breeziness, “I have no idea who among the bachelors remains eligible. Devon's courtship and marriage may not be the only one to have happened so hastily.”