The Captain's Courtship. Regina Scott
Читать онлайн книгу.
she? He’d thought of little else on the long ride from Cumberland. What did you say to the woman who’d jilted you, now that you needed her help? He’d hoped to apply to her husband first, even if he had to clench his fists at his sides to keep from planting the fellow a facer. But the few discreet questions he’d asked to locate Claire had yielded surprising news.
Lord Colton Winthrop was dead and in the ground nearly a year. And that fact made any conversation harder still.
“I came here to seek your help,” he told her. “I’ve a cousin set to make her debut, and she needs a sponsor.”
“I see.” She tilted her chin and gazed up at him. Time had been kind, but he thought she was one of those women who would only grow more beautiful with each passing year. Though how she’d tamed her soft curls into that stern bun was beyond him. The style narrowed her face, called out the line of cheekbone and chin. But her lips were as pink and appealing as they’d been when he’d first longed to steal a kiss.
“You will forgive me, sir,” she said. “I’ve been in mourning, so I am not completely au courant on the social scene. But I don’t recall your having a cousin the proper age, and certainly not a female.”
Trust her to know. She’d always been fascinated with the lineage of every one of the ten thousand individuals said to make up the bon ton. No doubt her late viscount had a title dating to the conquest. Richard’s family title was far more tenuous. He had to go carefully. His cousin Samantha could ill afford the gossip. “My uncle, Arthur, Lord Everard, has a daughter. She’s sixteen.”
“Indeed,” she replied.
He’d forgotten how she could stop conversation with a single word. If he’d had any doubts as to her feelings on the matter, the narrowing of her crystal gaze would have convinced him of her skepticism.
“But I believe I heard your uncle passed on recently,” she continued. “Surely his daughter must be in mourning.”
She would understand that as well. Her slender figure was swathed in black, from the high lace collar to the ruffled hem of her graceful skirts. And she hadn’t worn a single piece of jewelry, not even a wedding ring. He remembered a time when she’d refused to go out in anything less than pearls. She must have loved her husband a great deal to give up so much to mourn him. The thought brought less comfort than it should have.
“My uncle instructed that she forgo mourning,” he explained. “He believed in living to the fullest.”
“Yes, so I recall.” She refused to take her hand off the brass pull of the door, as if she’d throw it open and order him from the house at any moment.
Her attitude grated on his nerves, already too high for his liking. In fact, his cravat seemed to have tightened since he’d arrived in the house, and he tugged at it now. “Perhaps we could sit down.”
That oh-so-proper smile did not waver. “I fear I’ve nothing to offer you, Captain Everard, by way of seating or assistance. I’m sure you’ll find another lady far more suited to your purpose. You should go.”
So she was throwing him out. Why had he even considered asking her for help? She was more high-handed now than she’d been as a girl. Nothing he’d said back then had mattered. Why should today be any different? If I needed a lesson in humility, Lord, this is it.
“No doubt you’re right, Lady Winthrop,” he said with a bow. “As I recall, you had the annoying habit of always being right. I bid you good-day, madam.” He took the handle from her grip and swung open the door.
She sighed. It was the smallest of sounds, hardly audible, because of her own good breeding and through the noise from the busy street. But the dejected breath cut through his frustration—awakened something inside him he’d thought long dead. His foot on the step, he turned to gaze back at her.
“Are you all right, Claire?”
An emotion flickered across her oval face. Was it because he’d used her given name, or was she truly in trouble? Still, that infuriating smile remained pleasant. “Certainly, Captain Everard. I have all I need. I am quite content.”
Content? The Lady Claire he remembered had never been content. The latest fashion, the fastest carriage—she had to have them all and much sooner than half of London. She had ridden with more skill and danced with more enthusiasm than any other woman he’d ever met. He truly hadn’t been surprised when she’d chosen a wealthy, titled peer over a second son of a second son of a newly minted baron. Just crushed.
She shifted as if eager to have him leave, and he caught a clear view into the entryway. For the first time, he noticed the darker rectangles on the papered walls where paintings must have been removed, the scuffs on the parquet floor where large pieces of furniture had no doubt been scraped as they’d been carried out. A house this size ought to boast a half dozen servants at least, but no maid had attended her during her conversation with the tradesman, and no butler came hurrying to see him out now.
“You don’t have a sofa to sit on, do you?” he asked.
Her smile slipped at last. “That, sir, is none of your concern.”
He put a hand flat on the door, shoved it wide and strode back into the house. “It may not be my concern, madam, but it is to my advantage. I have a proposal for you, and I advise you to listen.”
Chapter Two
A proposal? Claire stared at him, mouth dry. No, he couldn’t mean a proposal of marriage. She’d destroyed any tender feelings he’d had for her. And her own feelings had been folded away like a favorite gown, tucked between sheets of tissue for safety. Some might say that a marriage would solve her problems, but she couldn’t believe that. And marriage to Richard Everard? Never.
But he didn’t wait for her response. He strode to the sitting room door, the slap of his brown boot heels echoing against the wood floor, and glanced inside. Apparently disliking what he saw, he stalked across the space to glare into what had been her husband’s library.
“You really don’t have a sofa,” he declared, as if that was somehow a moral deficiency.
Claire tugged down on her sleeves, careful to keep him from seeing the edge she’d so carefully patched. Her mother would never have imagined the ends to which Claire would have to put the embroidery skills she’d been taught.
“The sofas in this house were shabby pieces,” she told him. “I am well rid of them.”
He returned to her side, dark eyes narrowing. “So you’d have me believe you merely tired of all your furnishings.”
It was close to the truth; she’d tired of any number of things. Claire waved a hand. “I’ve grown weary of the whole, tedious social whirl. The town house has been sold, and I plan to leave London before Easter. I thought perhaps Bath, or Italy. I have yet to decide.”
She had hoped her tone was as breezy as her wave, but he shook his head. “The Claire I knew would have crawled to London over broken glass rather than miss the Season.”
“Then perhaps, sir, I am not the Claire you knew.”
He laughed as if she’d said something remarkably clever. He had no idea how difficult the last ten years had been, how much she’d changed, how much she’d had to mature. At least that much good has come of it, Father.
“We’ll see about that,” he said. “But I can’t keep you standing about like this. Is there nowhere in this house we can sit down?”
She thought about turning him away more forcefully, but truly, did it matter? He would say his piece, she would decline, and he would be gone. If he told anyone about her constrained circumstances, she’d be miles away before the gossip grew to any magnitude.
“We still have a table and chairs in the kitchen,” she told him. “This way.”
She led him down the corridor beside the stairs toward