Secret Hearts (30 page)

      
“Oh,
that.” Tom chuckled. “I was thinking about the delicate females
my mother used to throw in my face back home, that’s all, and thanking
my lucky stars I don’t have to put up with that nonsense anymore.”

      
Jedediah
followed the path of Tom’s gaze. “I notice you’re looking at our
Claire as you have these thoughts,” he said, sacrificing slyness with
a wink.

      
Tom
sighed eloquently. “Do you think she cares for me at all, Jed?”
He caught himself up short and stared at Jedediah in amazement. He’d
never asked such a ridiculous question of another man in his life. What
in God’s name was the matter with him?

      
Jedediah
evidently didn’t mind. In fact, he laughed. “Tom Partington, I think
Claire is madly in love with you.”

      
“You
what?”

      
“Well,”
Jedediah equivocated, embarrassed about having spoken so boldly, “I
actually don’t think that. Dianthe’s the one who thinks that.”

      
“Does
she really?” Tom was vastly intrigued. “They’re best friends aren’t
they? If she thinks so, there must be a reason.”

      
Jedediah
went moony-eyed for a second, apparently having gone into a trance at
the mention of his beloved. Tom grabbed his shoulder and shook him.
“Don’t you think so, Jed?”

      
“Hm?
Oh, Claire.” The accountant frowned, as if trying to recall the topic
of their conversation. “Oh, yes. Claire! Well, I suppose so. I guess
Dianthe should know if anybody does.”

      
“Yes.
Yes, I guess she should.”

      
The
notion pleased Tom inordinately. Could Claire really be in love with
him? If so, that would solve all his problems since he was about to
die from wanting her in his bed. If she loved him, then she must feel
some carnal desire. He wasn’t altogether sure how these things worked,
but it seemed to him that if two people—one being female and the other
male—desired one another, then there should be nothing to stand in
the way of kisses. Lots of kisses. And more.

      
The
thought of more almost made Tom salivate.

      
“You
think a lot of Claire, too, don’t you, Tom?”

      
Tom
had forgotten all about Jedediah. He jumped to hear the accountant’s
voice so close to his ear. “Of course. Of course, I do. I’m very—very
fond of her. Yes, indeed.”

      
“Do
you think you’ll ask her to marry you?”

      
“Marry
her?”

      
“Sure.”

      
Good
Lord. Tom had conveniently skipped over that step in his lurid fantasies
about Claire.

      
He
said, “Er—um—well . . .”

      
“I’m
thinking about asking Dianthe to marry me,” Jedediah confided softly.

      
“You
are?”

      
With
an enormous, happy sigh, Jedediah said, “I certainly am. To have that
treasure to myself for all eternity is just about the finest thing I
can imagine. Permanence. A family. Until I met Dianthe, I never thought
about marriage or a family. But if a fellow meets the woman of his dreams,
I reckon he begins thinking about establishing something for himself.
And his heirs. I’ve actually been thinking about heirs.” He laughed
as if he couldn’t believe it of himself. “Yes, indeed. Marriage
is the answer in such a case, I reckon.”

      
Tom
nodded. Of course. He’d conveniently forgotten about marriage. Marriage
had always looked like such a dreadful, deadly trap to him. He’d forgotten
that any proper female would expect marriage before she’d even consider
the part that came after kisses. What an appalling thought.

      
He
reminded himself that Claire Montague and his mother were entirely different
women. As were he and his father. Why, the two sets of them—Claire-and-Tom
and his-mother-and-father—might as well belong to different species
entirely.

      
“She’d
be a wonderful wife for the master of Partington Place, you know,”
Jedediah continued. “She seems to belong here. Sometimes I used to
think Gordon might marry her, but he either didn’t want to or never
got around to asking her.” Jedediah didn’t notice the look of shock
on Tom’s face. “I wonder if she’d have married him if he’d asked.”

      
“Of
course she wouldn’t!”

      
Now
it was Jedediah who looked shocked. Then he grinned. “Why, Tom, I
do believe you’re jealous.”

      
“I
am not!”

      
“Well,
if it’s any comfort, I’m sure Claire had no feelings of that nature
for Gordon.”

      
“Of
course, she didn’t. She says he was like a father to her.”

      
“So
do you think you’ll ask her to marry you?”

      
“No.
I mean, I’m not sure.” Tom swallowed and made himself say, “I—I
don’t know.”

      
“You
don’t know?”

      
Jedediah
roared with laughter. Tom was miffed. “Well, I’m not used to this
living-in-civilization nonsense, you know, Jed. Marriage is a pretty
stiff penalty to exact from a fellow.”

      
“Ah,
but it’s worth it.”

      
“How
do you know?”

      
Jedediah
frowned. “I just know. The thought of making Dianthe, the lady I love,
my wife—why, it would be wonderful. To love and cherish and protect
her. To have all the rights and privileges of a husband . . .” His
voice trailed off and he was apparently too moved to speak of those
rights and privileges.

      
“Yeah.
That’s right.” Tom looked at Claire again. Yes, indeed. All the
rights and privileges. Still, there were other ways of achieving those
rights and privileges—ways not as irrevocable and frightening as marriage.
Shoot. The very word sent shivers up his spine. Of course, if a body
was married, he wouldn’t have to worry about consequences. If little
baby Partingtons were to result, for example.

      
God,
what a thought! It made Tom cringe. As he thought about Jedediah’s
words, Tom tried to envision having children, but his imagination wasn’t
quite up to it.

      
What
was he doing, thinking about children anyway? He’d never thought about
children in his life.

      
Dianthe
momentarily blocked his view of Claire and he frowned. Then he looked
at Jedediah and shook his head. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure
out how a smart cookie like Jed could prefer the silly, ode-writing
Dianthe St. Sauvre to the stable, practical, delightfully useful Claire
Montague. Then he grinned again. To each his own.

      
And
Claire’s practicality of nature might work to Tom’s advantage, too.
Why, certainly she’d understand that a body didn’t just rush into
marriage. No. A sensible person would understand the merit of practicing
first, to make sure the fit was right. Yeah. That’s what she’d do.

      
Anyway,
if Jedediah was right and Claire was already in love with him, half
the battle was won. He’d take her outside where he could ravish her
sweetly with intoxicating words, kisses and caresses. Maybe even ask
her tonight to be his mistress. Why not? She already lived in his house;
it would be a perfect arrangement. Perfect. By the time Jedediah meandered
off, Tom was primed and ready to sweep Claire off her feet.

      
Unfortunately,
Claire was not on her feet. She was solidly planted on the piano bench
with at least a dozen melodious guests warbling Christmas carols as
she played. Tom sighed, resigned.
Patience
, he cautioned himself.
Patience was an art he’d learned well and thoroughly.

      
He
did, however, plan to put a stop to that lecherous Alphonse Gilbert
leering at Claire’s cleavage. He stalked to the piano and stepped
in front of Gilbert.

      
Smiling
sweetly, he said to the startled mayor, “Miss Montague and I have
a pact, Mr. Gilbert. She plays and I turn the pages.”

      
The
mayor was not the only one startled. Claire looked up in astonishment
and could have sworn she detected a hint of jealousy in Tom’s eyes.

      
Quickly
returning her attention to “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen,” Claire
told herself not to be stupid.

      
She
felt a heady mixture of exhilaration and sorrow when she and Tom waved
all but the last two guests away a couple of hours later. She’d had
such a good time. For a while she’d even allowed herself to pretend
that she was the mistress of Partington Place and Tom her husband. Silly
Claire. Still, it was Christmas. If she were ever to allow herself to
dream, she guessed Christmas was the best time to do it.

      
The
only guests remaining were Jedediah and Dianthe, and they were chatting
cozily in front of the fire. Claire sighed as she gazed at them. She
had removed her spectacles, deciding to let them dangle on their satin
ribbon, and the two lovers looked like little fuzzy lumps. She wondered
if their obvious affection for each other was breaking Tom’s heart.
She hoped not.

      
“Would
you like to stroll in the garden for a moment, Claire?” Tom asked
softly at her elbow. “It’s cold, but the night’s beautiful.”

      
She
turned to find him beside her, holding a beautifully fringed and flowered
shawl. “How lovely,” she exclaimed, forgetting all about Tom’s
question.

      
“It’s
my Christmas present to you, Claire. I was going to have it wrapped
up, but decided to give it to you this evening so you’d feel obliged
to humor me by wearing it as we stroll in the garden.”

      
Claire
could no more resist his beautiful, sparkling blue eyes than she could
stop the world from turning. With a warm smile, she said, “Thank you
very much, Mr. Partington. You’re absolutely right, of course. No
woman could resist such a temptation.”

      
“The
shawl or me?”

      
Tom
settled the shawl over her shoulders, and she breathed in the masculine
scent of him—a potent combination of bay rum and something uniquely
his own. Her knees trembled and she wanted to tell the truth. Instead
she laughed softly and didn’t answer at all.

      
They
strolled along the neatly raked paths through the bare garden for a
few moments, Claire’s hand resting comfortably on Tom’s arm, her
new silk shawl feeling like heaven on her bare flesh. She’d never
owned anything so grand.

      
Tom
drew them to a stop at a little stone bench. He covered her hand with
his and Claire felt a tiny jitter of alarm. She quelled it, reminding
herself that she had not misbehaved once tonight; that there was nothing
in her present behavior or dress that in any way reflected her past,
and that Tom could not possibly misinterpret her actions. The night
of the Artistic Evening, she’d obviously been sending out lures. Since
then, she’d guarded her behavior meticulously. Nobody could possibly
mistake her for a former medicine-show shill.

      
“Claire,”
Tom said softly, looking down into her eyes in a way that made her spine
turn to jelly, “that night when I kissed you, I realize I blundered
badly.”

      
She
couldn’t maintain his gaze. “Please, speak no more about it, Mr.
Partington. We both blundered that evening. I assure you, I’ve completely
put it out of my mind.”
Liar, liar,
her conscience taunted.

      
“Well,
that’s more than I’ve been able to do.”

      
Claire
looked up at him again, surprised.

      
“I
haven’t been able to think about much else, in fact.”

      
Oh,
dear. He hadn’t come to the conclusion she did that sort of thing
all the time, had he? She’d been so circumspect recently, so extremely
proper. She swallowed and didn’t know what to say.

      
“In
fact, I’ve been wanting to do it again ever since then, but haven’t
wanted to scare you.”

      
Thought
fled. Claire could only gape at him, stunned. He cupped her chin in
his hand and she gasped.

      
Then,
in the absolute certainty that she couldn’t escape her past if she
lived to be a thousand, Claire burst into tears.

Chapter 15
 

      
“Claire!
Claire, for God’s sake, what did I say?”

      
Tom
felt helpless as he watched big, fat tears course down Claire’s cheeks.
Good God, he hadn’t meant to upset her. She groped in her pocket,
looking for a handkerchief, Tom supposed, so he snatched his out and
shoved it at her.

      
“Here,
use this. Claire, please, speak to me. Tell me what’s wrong? Are you
upset because I want to kiss you?”

      
To
his consternation, she nodded.

      
“You
are?” Oh, Lord. “But—but why, Claire? Didn’t you enjoy our kiss?”

      
She
nodded. Then she shook her head. Then she wailed, “Oh, no!” and
sobbed harder.

      
At
last he gave up trying to reason with her and hugged her tight, hoping
at least to give her some measure of comfort until she calmed down enough
to tell him what was wrong. She struggled against his hold for an instant,
then collapsed in his arms and wept onto his coat. He angled his head
to see where her tears were falling and sighed when he saw they were,
of course, landing directly on the polished silk of his lapel. What
the hell. He was rich; he guessed he could afford another evening jacket.