Two Corinthians (9 page)

“Now this is serious, Winterborne, and I must trust you keep it in strictest confidence, especially considering your involvement in poor Bertram’s loss. He must find a wife, soon, and I have persuaded him to pay his addresses to Miss Sutton. You will not wish to rob him of another bride! Not that I suspect you of casting out lures to the dear girl, for though I am very fond of her I am aware that in general she does not appeal to gentlemen.”

“Then what makes you think Pomeroy means to court her?”

“Well, I am not certain, but he is looking for a quiet, conformable wife who is beyond her first youth. He does not expect, after Amaryllis, to fall in love again. Besides, he dreads going on the Marriage Mart. You will not cast a rub in his way?”

“What a low opinion you have of me, ma’am,” George drawled.

Lizzie was itching with curiosity and excitement. Who was Amaryllis, and what did George have to do with Lord Pomeroy losing her? Easy going as George was, she did not think she would dare ask him.

Did Lord Pomeroy really mean to offer for Claire? She could not guess. Was he good enough for her? That was for Claire to decide. Should she warn her sister of his possible intentions?

Sighing, Lizzie realised that she must keep the secret, for if Claire knew and then he did not ask for her hand, how horridly humiliating it would be!

Chapter VII—Claire

Claire was bewildered to find herself on the way to Lady Caroline’s book-room with Lord Pomeroy. Her confusion was compounded by her inability to read his feelings.

“What exactly is this
Herball?”
he asked in his offhand way as they crossed the hall. “Caroline seems to think it something special.”

“It is a botanical encyclopedia first published at the end of the sixteenth century. I shall be glad to see it, but you cannot be interested, my lord. I am sorry that you were dragooned into escorting me, for I am sure I can find it on my own. Pray do not feel obliged to stay.”

He ushered her into a room lined with bookshelves, leaving the door open for propriety’s sake.

“There is no obligation involved,” he said politely. “Any man of sense must be interested in seeing a tome of such venerable age, especially in such charming company.”

“Then if I were to persist in urging you to return to the drawing room, I should be insulting you by suggesting that you are not a man of sense.” Claire smiled at him, and to her relief he grinned. Lizzie was right, he had a sense of humour.

“I should call for pistols at dawn, ma’am, so I advise you to be seated while I hunt down our object. My brother-in-law keeps the place in good order, so all I have to do is find the section on agriculture. Here we are—subsection, horticulture. I have it.” He lifted down a huge, heavy book. “And I see why Caroline sent me with you. Lord, it weighs a hundredweight.”

“You know your way about the library, sir.”

“I do not spend all my time rescuing fair damsels from fire-breathing dragons. From time to time I open a book just to prove to myself that I can still read.” Lord Pomeroy sat down on a sofa and balanced the volume on his knee. “Do join me, Miss Sutton. It is by far too heavy for you to hold comfortably.”

Claire moved to sit beside him, uneasily aware of his closeness. As if he sensed her disquiet, he rattled on.

“In fact, I have been known to read an entire book upon occasion. At present, agriculture is particularly familiar to me. I left the diplomatic service some months since to take over running Tatenhill. I had a great deal to learn for I have never bothered before to concern myself with estate management. Do you enjoy country life, Miss Sutton, or do you long for the gaiety of London?”

“I have spent little time in London, my lord, but from what I have seen I prefer the country.” Claire had the impression that he was slightly disappointed with her answer, though how her preference could concern him she had no notion.

“Of course, you are a horticulturist, and the gardens of

London are for the most part scarce worthy of the name. Roses are your speciality, I collect? Let us see what John Gerard has to say about the rose.”

He opened the great book and turned to the index. The print was clear, amazingly little faded with age, and as he turned the pages Claire saw that nearly every page bore beautiful woodcuts of the plants described. He found the rose, the first item listed in the Third Booke.

“‘The Plant of Roses,’” read Lord Pomeroy, “‘though it be a shrub full of prickles, yet it had bin more fit and convenient to have placed it with the most glorious floures of the world, than to insert the same here among base and thorny shrubs.’ Very true. Ah, but see here his reason. ‘Because it is the honour and ornament of our English Scepter. The Mahumetans say that it sprang from the sweat of Mahumet.’ Charming notion!” He skimmed through several more paragraphs, picking out lines which caught his eye.

Claire would have liked to read it more thoroughly, but he was already flipping backwards through the book.

“Wolfe’s-bane, Crow-feet, Beares-eares, Fox-gloves and Oxe-lips. What wonderful imaginations our ancestors possessed.”

“There is a modern rose called Seven Sisters,” Claire said, “but many new ones are named after a person or place, like Fanny Bias and White Bath. I suppose they are rather dull.” She did not tell him of her own rose.

Sometimes she regretted having given it such a ridiculously romantic name, for it turned a worldly success into a personal matter which she was loath to discuss. Lord Winterborne had appreciated it, but she was not sure that Lord Pomeroy would even be interested, though he would make a polite show.

He was reading again, something about a marsh weed known variously as Serapia’s Turbith, Blue Daisies, or Hogs Beans.

“From elegant to commonplace to downright vulgar,” he commented, and Claire had to laugh at the truth of it.

“Miss Sutton!” came a voice from the doorway. “I should know that enchanting laugh anywhere, I vow. What a delightful surprise.” Mr Harrison minced in, balancing with difficulty on heels some two inches high, encrusted with glittering stones. “May I beg your opinion on my footwear, ma’am? I think to revive the elegant fashion of the last century.”

“From elegant to commonplace to downright vulgar,” Lord Pomeroy whispered in Claire’s ear.

Not wanting to hurt Mr Harrison’s feelings, she stifled a giggle before replying with tolerable composure, “Most unusual, sir. Our forebears wore such shoes for evening entertainments, did they not?”

“Very wise, Miss Sutton,” his lordship murmured. “They might even go unnoticed if the crush were sufficiently great, though I fear that is too much to hope for.”

“Yes, but one must not follow slavishly. Think how much more they will sparkle in sunlight,” the fop declared.

“I wish I may see the riot in Bond Street when the horses catch sight of all that paste.” This time Lord Pomeroy’s voice, though soft, was all too audible to his victim, who glared daggers at him.

Claire wished she carried a fan with which to rap his knuckles. She had never before appreciated the value of that oddment of ladies’ apparel.

“I expect they may become all the crack,” she said, diplomatic if untruthful.

She wished she had not when Mr Harrison, beaming, seized her hand and planted thereon a moist kiss. “Most kind, ma’am,” he crowed, and sat down in a nearby chair.

Lord Pomeroy stood up, shelved the
Herball,
and began to wander restlessly about the room, while his cousin embarked on a long-winded and altogether inappropriate series of compliments. Claire soon lost her desire to laugh at his blatant disregard for truth. After all, if he was so lacking in taste as to wear those shockingly vulgar shoes, perhaps he genuinely admired her. She was vastly relieved when his lordship interrupted.

“Miss Sutton, I daresay you will wish to return to your mother. Allow me to escort you.”

Gratefully she took his arm, and Mr Harrison followed them out of the room. Somehow, the right moment to mention Alfie’s gloves had not arisen.

Shortly after their return to the drawing room, Lord Carfax came in to ask his brother-in-law’s advice on some matter concerning his stables. The two went off, accompanied by Lord Winterborne. Mr Harrison seemed glued to Claire’s side, though she paid him little attention. He was not only ridiculous but also a bore.

Fortunately, Lady Sutton decided within five minutes of the gentlemen’s departure that it was time to take their leave. The carriage was called for, and they set off for home.

No sooner had the carriage turned out into the lane beyond the gates than her ladyship opened fire.

“Claire Sutton, I declare you are the most provoking wretch alive! Here I come all this way to give your sister a chance to attach Lord Pomeroy, and what must you do but drag him off to bore him with your tedious herbs. And then, when Mr Harrison singles you out, the prettiest young gentleman I have seen in a month of Sundays, you sit sullen and mute as a...as a...”

While she was searching for a suitable metaphor, Claire knocked on the carriage roof. When the coachman brought the team to a standstill, she opened the door and jumped down.

“It is a pleasant day,” she said with outward calm. “I believe I shall walk home. Drive on, Johnson.”

“…As a toadstool!”

Walking away, she heard Lizzie’s angry voice raised above the sound of the hooves.

By road it was a distance of some seven miles to Sutton’s Stables. Claire knew a shortcut across the fields which would cut it to little more than four. A mellow wind was blustering from the west, bringing a breath of spring. Once she had left the lane, she took off her hat and enjoyed the feel of it blowing through her hair, blowing away her megrims with her hairpins.

For a couple of miles she followed a track across the hills, through flocks of sheep cropping the short, crisp grass. The Cotswold limestone made for dry footing and she walked swiftly, swinging her hat by the ribbons. She abandoned herself to the pleasures of the moment, tracing monstrous beasts in the racing clouds, watching a lapwing flap away with a mournful “peewit, peewit.”

The going was more difficult when she descended into the valley. She had not put on walking boots for a morning call, and the fields were muddy. Her mood changed, and she could no longer forget her mother’s scolding.

Every word stung, however hard she tried to ignore it.

Was she really tedious and sullen? Silent tears began to slip down her cheeks.

She had thought she was too old to cry. For Lizzie’s sake she had hidden her unhappiness these many years, as best she could, though she knew that her sister guessed at it. Despising her weakness she wiped away the tears, but more took their place. She trudged on, a cold desolation in her heart.

“Miss Sutton!” Orpheus cantered up beside her, and Lord Winterborne swung down from the saddle. “I though I recognised you.”

“I decided to walk,” she mumbled, steadfastly gazing at the ground.

He put a finger beneath her chin and turned her face up to him. “Weeping,” he said softly. “You are one of those lucky souls whose eyes grow more beautiful when they weep. They are like mountain lakes in the rain.”

She felt her lips trembling and would not try to speak lest she break down.

He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “Come, let us walk together. I have been working Orpheus hard, and he will be glad of the respite. Not that I would insult him by suggesting that he needs it! He is a magnificent beast, worth every penny your father extorted for him. Spirited, yet docile too. See how willingly he follows behind us? But you must be used to the best mounts. Perhaps you and Lizzie will ride out with me one day?”

“We do not ride, my lord.”

“Not ride? When your father owns the Sutton Stables? I beg your pardon, I daresay you do not care for horses.”

“We have never had a chance to find out.” Claire was glad to find that her voice was steady. “Papa considers the stables no place for a woman, and we have never been allowed near them.”

Lord Winterborne fell silent. When he spoke again it was to change the subject. “I believe I felt a drop of rain.”

“I have felt several,” Claire admitted. “I expect I ought to  put my hat on, though it will probably be ruined. I have already destroyed a perfectly good pair of shoes with my stupid whim.”

“What a pity that you are not wearing Horrid Horace’s shoes. A mud bath could only improve them.”

“I wish you will not encourage Lizzie to call him so, my lord!” she reproved, trying not to laugh. “It is all very well for you to do so, but she is all too likely to let it slip in his presence.”

“You are right,” he said meekly, “and I live in fear of her calling me George in company. That would never do. Unless, of course, I can persuade you to do likewise. Then instead of thinking her a forward chit, everyone will suppose that I am an old friend of the family.”

“My lord!”

“George,” he corrected.

“George, then.” She laughed. “You are a wretched tease.”

“That is better,” he said approvingly. He took her hat from her, dropping Orpheus’s reins, set it on her head, and again tipped her chin to tie the ribbons beneath.

Looking up into his dark eyes, she felt as if she were drowning. Then a large raindrop hit her nose, and she gasped in surprise.

“Hat or no, you are going to get very wet, Claire. I have no intention of enduring an unnecessary soaking, so I mean to ride. It would be unforgivably ungentlemanly in me to leave you walking while I ride, and you are too kind to force me to act so against my nature. Therefore you shall ride, too.”

Before she could protest he lifted her onto Orpheus’s withers, and before she had a chance to feel nervous he had swung up into the saddle behind her. His strong arm went around her waist.

“Remember, Orpheus and I are both gentlemen, you have nothing to fear. But I mean to canter, and you will be safer if you lean back against me.”

With a little sigh she relaxed against his chest. Her hat was knocked askew, and her cheek was pressed against the fabric of his riding coat. Once again she felt the beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his breathing.