Truth Within Dreams (5 page)

Claudia let out a nervous laugh. She stepped to her vanity and plucked at a ribbon on the table. “Doesn’t he see this sort of thing quite a bit?” She imagined June, in particular, must be a busy month for the surgeon, calling on new brides the morning after the wedding.

“I should hope not!”

“Well, I wouldn’t think an examination necessary. I don’t suppose I’m a special case.” She flashed a smile, as though to prove her health. “The pertinent thing is that my wedding cannot take place,” she pointed out, since no one had bothered to arrive at this conclusion.

Her mother let a long breath through her nostrils. “You needn’t fret about that, dear. Your father and Sir Saint are still in the study.” A worried frown deepened the pleats between her brows. “Your father will set it all to rights, love, I promise. He will make sure your wedding proceeds as planned.”

The thought of Sir Saint—whose mother must have been the most optimistic woman in Christendom when she dubbed her progeny thusly—doing anything other than demanding to be released of the betrothal set Claudia’s nerves aflame. “No!” she insisted. “I cannot marry Sir Saint now, not for all the world. Henry ruined me.”

There was a knock at the door, three firm raps. When she opened it, Henry stood on the other side. The eyes that met hers had a haunted look about them. His green irises had darkened to the color of damp moss. Fine lines creased the skin around them. He was in pain, Claudia realized with a start. It rolled off of him and into her, until her fingers trembled and her heart squeezed so hard she feared it would turn inside out. What on earth?

Over her shoulder, Lady Baxter clucked her tongue, breaking their silent connection. “Shoo, Henry! You cannot be in Claudia’s bedchamber.”

“Forgive my intrusion, but I wondered if I might beg a few moments of Miss Baxter’s time?” He spoke carefully, formally, in a manner at odds with his place in the household. He fretted with his left sleeve; Claudia noticed it was not closed with a cufflink, as the other sleeve was.

“Of course,” Claudia said, at the same instant Lady Baxter squawked, “Absolutely not!”

Henry’s lips drew into a line, straight as a blade. “Lady Baxter, I know I’ve no right to request privacy with Claudia, but I must insist. I
cannot
leave this house without speaking to her.” He took a single, small step; his toes crossed the threshold.

Warmth touched Claudia’s cheek—his warmth. A scant foot of space separated them. She had to resist the compulsion to retreat. Heavens, when had he grown so large? Her physical awareness of the man had taken on a keener edge. His wide shoulders quite filled the doorway. It would take a battering ram to budge past him, if he put his mind to staying there.

The sight of him, so grim and determined, cast Henry in a new light. It was as though she’d never seen him before. Even last night, when she’d encountered him without clothes, he was the same Henry she’d always known—relaxed, approachable … albeit slightly more prone to taking a chill. But this man, dressed in the same buckskin riding breeches and maroon cutaway coat he’d worn yesterday, was an unknown. If she didn’t know he had no twin, she might think she stood in the presence of Henry’s identical sibling.

“Perhaps a walk?” she suggested.

“Out of the question!” Lady Baxter’s fierce scowl showed she was not impressed by Henry’s persistence. “I wouldn’t leave you alone with a dog, to say nothing of Claudia. If it weren’t for my friendship with your dear mother, I would have you before the magistrate.” The ruffle of her white cap quivered with the force of her maternal ire. “It still may happen, if Sir Saint will not have Claudia. Such a scandal it would cause, to say nothing of poor Judith’s nerves. If your mother succumbs from the indignity of this, Henry, it shall be on your head.”

Henry snorted as he shouldered his way past Claudia and Lady Baxter. “If scandal is inevitable, then a conversation with my intended can’t make it any worse. And if you’ve decided to hush this all up, then no harm will be done.”

Claudia gasped. “I’m not your intended,” she protested.

Hands planted on hips, Henry leveled a stern look at her. “We need to talk, Claudia.”

With a huff, she relented. Obviously, they did need to talk, since he was carrying on with this charade of proposing to her. “I think he’s right, Mama,” she said. “We’ll just step onto the terrace. You can watch us from the door.”

“Fine,” snapped Lady Baxter. “Just see if I don’t.”

She herded the young people through the house to a parlor. Lady Baxter wove through sofas and chairs numerous enough to seat the Baxter hordes, then flung wide the French window opening onto the terrace overlooking the garden. The beds and rows of plantings carried the same thready, overused air as the house. A gloomy morning threatened to resume the prior night’s rain.

“Against my better judgment,” Lady Baxter said, casting a disapproving look first at Henry, and then Claudia, “you may have ten minutes. Dear, I shall let you know if Mr. Whombleby arrives.”

The window closed and Henry rounded on Claudia. The haunted look in his eyes was back. The planes of his cheekbones underscored his anxiety. “Why Mr. Whombleby? Claudia, are you …? God, did I truly hurt you?”

As threatened, Lady Baxter stood at the door, the tip of her nose touching the glass, her wide eyes trained on Claudia and Henry. It was rather unnerving.

Claudia’s tongue swept over her lips. Prickly sweat erupted on her palms. “Of course you didn’t hurt me, Henry,” she said sotto voce.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. A wave of dark gold hair flopped onto his forehead. “Don’t lie to me, please. Spare me nothing.”

She was truly befuddled by this performance. If anyone knew the truth, it was Henry! Why was he attempting to keep his part of the ruse going? He didn’t seem to be going about it in a very convincing manner. Claudia thought bedding women was something of a hobby for much of the male population, but poor Henry was going on as though it was tragic.

Maybe …
A thought began to take shape. Maybe Henry didn’t know how to act because he lacked experience, too. She laid a reassuring hand on his arm. A sharp rap on the glass had her jerking her hand back to her side.

Henry turned to the balustrade. His long fingers curled, claw-like, around the stone. The fine summer wool of his coat strained across the back as his shoulders hunched.

“It’s the normal visit from the surgeon,” she assured him, careful of her words. She knew from experience that sound carried through the glass of the French windows. She couldn’t speak too plainly, for fear of revealing the deception to her mother.

His silence took on an angry pulse.

“Normal for this situation,” she continued, wary now. He was furious at her. In the past, he’d never treated her with anything more negative than occasional indifference. Over the years, he’d humored her playroom dictates, laughed at her hoydenish antics, smiled fondly when they danced at her debut ball. She’d always been so sure of his regard, her dear, reliable Henry. She’d taken him for granted, assumed he’d be happy in his willingness to go along with The Plan, failed to imagine him capable of hating her. “Mother says it’s necessary,” she finished miserably.

Shudders wracked Henry’s body. How he must despise her now! Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “So sorry. I wish you wouldn’t be angry with me, Henry. I understand, but I hate it. If only I could take it back!”

He whipped around. “Angry at you? Oh, my God, how could I—?” Hands shaking, he reached for her shoulders. Another warning tap on the glass. Henry ignored it. His fingers curled around her arms with exquisite care, handling her as though she were as fragile as a moth’s wing. “How could I ever be angry at you?” His hooded eyes swam with sorrow. “I hate myself for what I’ve done to you, Claudia. If you’d rather marry Sir Saint, I wouldn’t blame you. But I’m responsible, and so …” On the inside, Claudia was flattened by the raw anguish she saw in his face. “I swear, I will spend the rest of my life trying to make this right.”

Rough fingertips skimmed down her arms. He took her hands and, with delicate tenderness, raised them to his lips. Each was anointed with a reverent kiss. A pleasurable ache settled in the pit of her stomach. Lady Baxter’s rapping at the door threatened to shatter the glass.

“Please,” Henry said. “Please say you’ll marry me.”

Henry had never been any good during the annual Baxter family Christmas play. But he was game for just about anything and always allowed Claudia to rope him into her productions. She once gave him the coveted part of the angel speaking to the shepherds. Rather than Good Tidings of Great Joy, Henry delivered his lines like a particularly menacing rendition of the Riot Act. After that, she’d relegated him to the role of Rapt Bystander, a nonspeaking character she’d devised just for him. He’d never managed to carry off a convincing version of rapt, either.

Suffice it to say, Henry wasn’t pretending anything. He was sincerely proposing marriage to her, and he was so sad about it. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and comfort him. She wanted to burst into tears. This was wrong. All wrong.

The French window slammed open. “Hands off!” Lady Baxter barked. “Claudia, return to your room at once. Mr. Whombleby will be here any moment.”

Henry’s eyes never left hers. His pleading, anguished eyes.

She couldn’t let him do this. There was no need for him to throw himself onto the sacrificial altar of matrimony for the sake of her ruse. “No,” she said, her voice pitched low. “You’ve misunderstood everything. It’s all right, Henry, you don’t have to marry me. You … we won’t. We won’t.”

His face went strangely blank as Lady Baxter grabbed Claudia’s wrist and tugged her into the house.

• • •

Well.

That was horrible.

A fresh wave of guilt ripped through Henry. He braced his arms against the balustrade and took deep breaths, pushing down the competing urges to rage and weep and vomit. The lush scent of honeysuckle, blanketing a nearby arched trellis, helped calm him.

Two decades of friendship with Claudia, gone, thanks to the machinations of his sleeping mind. In another life, they could have made a go of it. If circumstance had somehow drafted them into marriage, Henry believed they would have found happiness. Claudia would have made a face at him while they stood at the altar. He’d have struggled to retain composure in front of their families, but probably would have laughed anyway, right in the face of God and the vicar. And together, smiling, they’d have found a way to turn their friendship into something more.

Deep breaths became shallow pants as he stared blindly over the garden. All he could see was Claudia, beautiful and hurting as she refused him. He should be grateful she’d spoken to him at all, and not slammed the door in his face. And now she had to be attended by the surgeon—the surgeon! His mouth tasted of ashes.

Behind him, there was a clearing of a throat.

The butler, Ferguson, stood just inside the parlor. “Your horse has been saddled and brought around, Mr. De Vere.” Agitated fingers twitched at his sides. The old retainer was clearly distressed by having to evict a family friend of long-standing.

He might not have been a military man, but Henry knew a strategic retreat was in order. He straightened, noting how unbalanced his arms felt. When he’d hastily dressed, he’d been unable to locate both of his cufflinks. Odd how the weight of such a small thing could make a difference in his equanimity. Mustering his composure, he acknowledged the butler with a detached smile. “Thank you, Ferguson.”

The Baxters could kick him out of Rudley Court, but they couldn’t keep him away from Claudia forever. Whatever it took, he had to earn her forgiveness and convince her to marry him. And with Claudia due to marry Tuggle in less than a week, he couldn’t afford to stay away from her for even a day.

As he swung up onto his horse, Henry plotted.

An hour ago, hauling a ladder from Fairbrook’s gardening shed through the woods to Rudley Court in the dead of night had seemed a good idea. But that had been two miles, one turned ankle, and three slivers in his palm ago.

The weak light of a quarter moon did not penetrate the early summer canopy topping the coombe marking the border between the estates, and so there was a great deal of stumbling and cursing involved in Henry’s quest. Maneuvering the tall ladder across the ancient-wooded inclines had been a painstaking task. When, at last, he topped the ravine between Rudley Court and Fairbrook, Henry dropped the ladder to catch his breath.

It was at that moment he realized he almost certainly could have found a ladder somewhere about Rudley Court, and saved himself the strain of lugging this one all over Creation. “Curse me for a dim-witted ass.”

Hands braced on knees, back aching, and shoulders burning, Henry reflected on the events that had brought him to this juncture in time. Other than thinking to burgle Sir John’s gardening equipment instead of his own, he wasn’t sure if changing any part of his past would have averted the current crisis. Henry couldn’t help his sleepwalking any more than he could stop himself from being attracted to Claudia.

That knowledge didn’t prevent another pang of guilt from thudding painfully through his chest. If he’d been more cautious, if he hadn’t allowed himself to be lulled into thinking his sleepwalking days were behind him, this wouldn’t have happened. But why
had
it happened? After years of remaining in his bed at night, why had Henry suddenly done something far worse than he ever had back in university, when his somnambulism had been most trying?

When he went to Oxford, he’d thought
surely
his condition was behind him, as though somnambulism itself was an entity who had received notice of Henry’s completion of studies at Harrow and took that as his cue to enjoy his pension in a little cottage in the country, perhaps spending his days puttering about the garden, or raising goats. But no, the bastard followed Henry to university. And though his bouts of sleepwalking became less frequent as he entered young manhood, the degree of horror to which he was subjected upon waking increased. To this day, Henry couldn’t think the name Kitty Newman without fleetingly wishing for a swift, merciful death.