Secret Hearts (22 page)

      
“Claire,
Claire,” he murmured as his lips blazed a trail across her shoulder,
kissing and nipping. He tongued the pulse at the base of her throat.
Her head fell back and Tom saw the twin small perfect swells of her
bosom and dared to kiss lower, until his lips pressed one of those delightful
swells. He heard her gasp again and hoped she wasn’t shocked.

      
He
realized he’d overstepped propriety when, with a mighty effort, Claire
pushed herself out of his embrace.

      
Her
hand flew to her swollen lips and she cried, “Oh! Oh, no!”

      
She
looked utterly aghast, and Tom’s conscience smote him mightily even
as he held out his arms and ached to have her in them again. “Claire,
come back. Please.”

      
She
cried, “Oh, no!” again. Then she cried, “Oh, my God!”

      
Tom
saw tears pooling in her eyes and began to worry. Certainly she couldn’t
be afraid of him. Could she? “Claire, please, listen to me. I’m
sorry, Claire.”

      
“How
in the name of mercy could I have done such a thing?”

      
Tom
took a step toward her and she backed up. Then he realized what she’d
said. How could she have done such a thing?

      
“Claire,
you haven’t done anything. It was I who was at fault.” If it was
a fault; it didn’t feel like it.

      
She
began shaking her head, and she looked almost wild. Tom was afraid she
was becoming hysterical and could hardly believe it of his staid, dignified
Claire. He said, “Claire,” again, only to have her back up another
step.

      
“Good
heavens, what have I done?” she whispered, as if mortified beyond
endurance.

      
“You
haven’t done a thing, Claire. Please, listen to me.” She backed
up yet again, and Tom was afraid she’d bolt. He’d seen frightened
horses look like that. “Don’t run away, Claire. Please. Listen to
me!”

      
His
words were for naught. With one more horrified, “Oh, my land!” Claire
spun around and dashed through the open window into the ballroom as
though pursued by demons.

      
“Damn!”

      
Tom
raced to the flapping curtain, hoping to grab her, to make her listen
to reason. He stopped abruptly as the bright lights of the ballroom
struck his eyes like a blow. Clinging to the curtain and squinting hard,
he perceived a sea of milling people and looked quickly to his right
and then to his left. With a sigh, he saw a swatch of golden yellow
fabric disappear as the hall door closed, and knew he was too late to
catch her. He tried anyway, sidling along the curtained wall, only to
find himself hailed from the ballroom floor.

      
He
muttered another bitter, “Damn,” and turned to see who had called
him. He wasn’t sure what he’d have said or done even if he’d managed
to catch up with Claire, but he knew he had to talk to her. It would
have to be later, though, because he’d never escape now. Mr. and Mrs.
Humphrey Albright bore down upon him almost immediately. Gritting his
teeth, he resigned himself to another hour or two of social insipidity.

      
Even
as he mouthed the vapid nothings required of a gentleman of wealth and
stature, his brain seethed with worry over Claire. He escaped outside
again as soon as he could, and stared up at the bedroom windows on the
third floor, wondering which one was Claire’s.

Chapter 11
 

      
Claire
clattered up the stairs, flew down the hall, and rushed into her room,
pushing her door so hard the knob slammed against the wall. She yanked
it shut, locked it as if all the devils of hell pursued her, and only
then realized that the doorknob had knocked a hole in the plaster.

      
Covering
her mouth with her hands, she gaped at the plaster dust on the floor
and her mind registered the appropriateness of this latest dismal reflection
of her nature. She stood there for a full minute or more, quivering
like an aspen leaf and staring at the damage, before she flung herself
onto her bed and burst into tears.

      
“Good
heavens,” she sobbed into her pillow. “How could I have done such
a thing?”

      
Everything
she’d ever feared about herself was true: She did have a genetic weakness
in her constitution. There was a flaw in her makeup; a crack in her
character; a blight on the family tree. Dress her up in frills, fix
her hair into anything but prudish braids, and her virtue flew right
out the window. Blood will tell; it had told tonight in no uncertain
terms.

      
And
Mr. Partington had fallen right into her wicked snare. The poor soul,
primed by Dianthe’s beauty, had found Claire flaunting herself on
the balcony and succumbed, just as her father used to tell her a man
would do.

      
“But
I’m not pretty, Father,” she used to wail, hoping he’d not force
her to dress in the awful, indecorous costumes she used to wear.

      
“Don’t
matter,” he’d answer with a wink. “Gents don’t think with their
heads, Claire. Their brains are in their britches.”

      
His
disgusting assessment of the masculine gender had been correct. Claire
used to think her father was wrong, that “gents” must be different
from the types of men her father lured into his medicine show, but she
guessed they weren’t.

      
Tom
Partington was as much a gentleman as Claire had ever known, and he’d
been willing to sacrifice his honor with her this evening; she knew
it. Given the lure of a strumpet, even a gentleman could be tempted.
She hated knowing it.

      
After
her flood of tears subsided, Claire rose from her bed and looked at
herself in her mirror. She despised what she saw, a woman with no moral
backbone. A plain woman who’d had her hair cut and frizzed and forced
into fashion. A dull woman in a gay dress, trying to be something she
was not, a person of merit.

      
She
had no merit. She was a vile schemer. A hussy, a strumpet, a carnival
attraction who would think nothing of throwing herself at an honorable
man in a mad moment of frailty.

      
Well,
she acknowledged with scathing contempt, perhaps that was not entirely
true. She was thinking of it now; no mistake.

      
What
had she done? How could she ever face Tom Partington in the morning?
How could she have deserted her post this evening, leaving him to fend
for himself among that throng of people downstairs? But she couldn’t
possibly return to the ballroom. She simply couldn’t. What would they
think of her?

      
A
little bitterly, she decided they undoubtedly wouldn’t think of her
at all. Unless she was throwing herself into some man’s arms, nobody
ever seemed to notice her.

      
Would
Tom fire her? Had she sunk so far beneath his reproach that he would
turn her out of his home? The thought didn’t bear thinking about,
yet she couldn’t stop thinking about it. How could she stand to leave
Partington Place and Pyrite Springs?

      
This
was the first place in the world she’d ever felt at home or had friends.
She’d never stayed in one place long enough to form friendships when
she was a little girl. It hadn’t taken her long to realize no decent
parent would allow his or her child to befriend her, anyway.

      
Who
could blame them? Who would want to play with her? Her! Claire Montague,
daughter of a devious, double-dealing medicine-show quack! Claire Montague,
whom her father used to dress in seductive costumes to tempt the customers!

      
Turning
away from the mirror in despair, Claire went to her window and flung
it open. Sadly, she dug her handkerchief out of her pocket, wiped her
eyes, blew her nose and stared into the same sky she’d observed moments
before with Tom Partington. Only now the heavens no longer looked beautiful.
They looked merely beyond Claire’s reach. As was Tom Partington. And
happiness.

# # #

      
Tom
knew a gentleman wouldn’t stand in the middle of his lawn and stare
up at Claire’s window. Nor would he debate the propriety of rushing
up there and falling on his knees at her feet. Or trying to shake some
sense into her. But then, he’d never pretended to be a gentleman.

      
Watching
her stand there clutching her handkerchief and occasionally blotting
her eyes almost broke his heart. What had he done? How could he have
been so infernally clumsy?

      
It
had been easy, he thought glumly as he flung his cheroot down and ground
it into the cold earth beneath his feet. Years earlier he’d lost the
knack of performing according to society’s dictates. His mother would
be appalled at him for this evening’s work, and for once he wouldn’t
blame her.

      
He
watched Claire until she slowly shut the window, her every movement
an affirmation of her despondency. Then he knew he had to return to
his stupid party and his stupid guests in his stupid ballroom, so he
did.

      
Not
too long later, giving every appearance of affability, he shook hands
and bade his guests a friendly farewell, promising more than once to
hold another party soon. He didn’t voice the worry in his heart, that
he had driven Claire to leave him, thereby not merely precluding another
Artistic Evening, but withering his happiness forever.

      
Dianthe
St. Sauvre, carefully overseen by Jedediah Silver, Tom noted wryly,
shook his hand and asked, “Wherever did Claire go, Mr. Partington?
I wanted to thank her again for suggesting you continue with these delightful
entertainments.”

      
Tom
thought that was an interesting way of putting it, considering she had
been the main entertainment of the evening. If you could call an insipid
poem and a ludicrous dance to some decidedly odd music entertaining.
Before he could think up an answer that didn’t reveal the truth, Sylvester
Addison-Addison spoke.

      
“You
know Claire, Dianthe. She probably thought she had to rush to the kitchen
and see to the___ washing-up or something.”

      
Sylvester’s
tone was supercilious, but Tom decided not to punch him as he’d replied
to a question Tom didn’t know how to answer. He said, glaring at Sylvester,
“Yes, Miss Montague is exceptionally efficient and competent. She
is truly a treasure.”

      
Dianthe
smiled winningly and purred, “Oh, yes. She is a treasure, Mr. Partington.”

      
Tom
thought he detected sincere appreciation in Dianthe’s voice and demeanor
and guessed she wasn’t entirely witless. Anybody who admired Claire
must have some redeeming virtues.

      
He
deliberately squeezed Sylvester Addison-Addison’s hand too hard because
Sylvester was a weakling and had been rude to Claire twice tonight.
Although he knew his display of strength to be childish, he was mildly
gratified when Sylvester winced. He was flapping his hand in the air
when he exited the house with Priscilla Pringle hanging on his arm.
Tom watched with satisfaction and hoped the widow would smother him.

      
When
the last of his guests left, he walked slowly upstairs, trying to think
of something appropriate to say to Claire. Stopping at her door, he
paused and drew in a deep breath before he knocked, very softly.

      
Claire,
huddled in her bed with her quilt pulled up to her chin, had heard his
soft footsteps. She knew who it was in the hall; nobody but she and
Tom slept upstairs. When she heard his knock, her heart almost stopped
and she held her breath even though she knew he couldn’t hear her
breathing from behind the locked door.

      
Everything
was silent for what seemed like forever, and Claire had just begun to
relax when she heard his soft, “Claire?”

      
She
stiffened up again and sat as still as she could, considering her heart
was thundering so hard she was afraid she’d swoon. She comforted herself
with the knowledge that even if she fainted into a dead heap, her soft
bedclothes would muffle the plop.

      
Surely
he would wait until tomorrow to fire her, wouldn’t he? She hadn’t
known him very long, but she knew him full well enough to be sure he
possessed a kind heart. He wouldn’t even throw a miserable specimen
like her out into a cold December night, would he? He would give her
notice, wouldn’t he?

      
Claire
had thought her tears were all spent, but as she sat in her bed, frightened
and miserable, they came again. They coursed down her cheeks when she
heard another whispered, “Claire?” She wanted to fling herself out
of bed, race to her door and throw herself into his arms. She wanted
to beg him to kiss her again, to teach her the joys of his touch, to
have his way with her.

      
Truly,
Claire Montague was a fallen woman.

# # #

      
Tom
knew what he had to do when he awoke the next morning. Overnight inspiration
had, quite literally, stricken him almost dumb. In fact, when the first
fingers of daylight dared creep into his room and flicker across his
eyelids, he sat up, stunned.

      
He,
Tom Partington, heir to Partington Place, frontier scout, boy general
of the lost Southern Cause, had fallen head over heels in lust with
his housekeeper. Not only that, but he honestly l-l-liked her a whole
lot, too. Why, Claire Montague was the most splendid female he’d ever
encountered.