The Wastrel. Margaret Moore
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to her own.
“I meant your servants.”
Clara bit her lip and blushed. “We don’t have any servants.”
“Who keeps your household organized?” he asked. “Your aunt, worthy woman though she may be, hardly seems the type. And your uncle—I cannot see him shopping in a market.”
“We are not of your class, my lord,” Clara pointedly observed.
“I daresay there are plenty of people who would say I’m not worthy to belong to any class,” he replied flippantly. “I suspect, Miss Wells, that it is you who sees to the orderly running of your household, the cat included.”
“Someone has to, and since I am not a gifted painter, nor can I write, much to my uncle’s chagrin, those tasks fall to me,” she admitted.
His expression softened and his blue eyes were full of sympathy. “That must be very difficult.”
“No more than trying to keep a large dog under control,” she replied, attempting to sound matter-of-fact. She was determined not to let herself get weak and silly in his presence. “I must say, my lord, I would have expected you to have a purebred hunting dog. I would not have thought a mongrel elegant enough for a man of your distinction.”
Then something happened that Clara would not have expected in a hundred years. Lord Paris Mulholland blushed. “I caught a fellow trying to drown a bag of puppies. Jupe was one of them,” he explained.
Clara took a step back. She should get away from this man at once. She was proof against his foolish-wastrel persona; against this sincere and handsome man who had saved drowning puppies, she had fewer defenses.
His gaze met hers and he paused, then straightened his shoulders as if attempting to resume his usual languid attitude—with some success, Clara noted regretfully. “I tried to give him away once he was recovered, but the poor chap looks upon me as his savior apparently. If I give him away, he keeps coming back. Foolish, isn’t it, but there it is.”
“I don’t consider loyalty a foolish characteristic, my lord,” she replied. “I hope you will forgive Zeus. And me.”
“Since the destruction of the kitchen was also the fault of my dog, I could hardly hold you responsible, could I?” He stepped in front of her, so that she had to look at his face. “Quite frankly, I’m relieved to be spared the social necessity of teatime. Besides, I detest the beverage, and Mrs. Macurdy, while a dear old soul and the maker of the finest pies in Christendom, is utterly defeated when it comes to sandwiches.”
There was something so winning in the way he said this that Clara had to smile.
“I’m delighted to know I can make the iron maiden laugh,” he remarked, with a truly warm smile that, had Clara known him better, she would have realized was very rare indeed.
Unfortunately, she did not know him better, and it did not please her to be called “the iron maiden” by anyone.
“Clara, my dear!” Aunt Aurora called out from upstairs, just as if they were at home. This time, her aunt’s lack of social polish didn’t trouble Clara. She was far too glad of an excuse to get away.
“If you will excuse me, my lord,” she said coldly. “I must see if my aunt requires assistance.”
This time, his smile was charming and completely devoid of meaning. “Of course, Miss Wells.”
With her slim back as straight as Witherspoon’s, and her chin high, she walked past him and up the stairs.
She marched along the upper corridor. She could tell from her aunt’s rather loud tones which room had been given to her, and headed toward it.
Iron maiden, indeed! Was she supposed to be flattered by his attention? Did Lord Paris Mulholland think, in his smug, bold way, that he could make her laugh?
If she seemed hard or cold, it was because somebody in her family had to be, or her poor aunt and uncle would be at the mercy of every tradesman, merchant, landlord and swindler in London.
What would this lazy, selfish man know of her troubles? What gave him the right to call her names?
She suddenly realized a short, thin man stood at the other end of the corridor staring at her. He had thick, dark, wavy hair brushed back and oiled, a thin mustache, well-tailored clothes in the latest fashion and a very shrewd expression in his beady black eyes. “Greetings, mademoiselle, ” he said in a French accent as he came toward her. He stopped and made a gentlemanly bow. “Permit me to introduce myself. Jean Claude Beaumaris, valet de chambre to Lord Mulholland.”
“Enchanté de faire votre connaissance, Monsieur Beaumaris, ” Clara replied in French.
“Ah, mademoiselle!” he cried with pleasure. “Votre accent est excellent.”
“Merci, monsieur. Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît. Ma tante a besoin de ma présence.”
“Certainement, ” he replied with another bow as he backed away, a wide grin on his face that made him resemble the mask of comedy.
She rapped once on Aunt Aurora’s door. What a strange fellow, she thought as she heard Aunt Aurora respond. Almost as strange, she supposed, as one would consider her guardians.
She entered the bedroom. Aunt Aurora was sitting in front of a large gilt mirror wearing her brightly patterned dressing gown and attempting to arrange her heavy, hennaed hair. The furniture was Oriental in design, with beautiful gold inlays in the dark lacquer. The bed had an ornately scrolled, gilded partial canopy. The bed curtains, of a light chintz pattern, matched the embroidered satin coverlet and the Oriental wallpaper.
Clara could think of no room in the world that would appeal to Aunt Aurora more, because of her love of all things exotic, except perhaps one in a sultan’s palace.
The moment she saw Clara, Aunt Aurora swiveled on the chair and looked at her niece worriedly. “What on earth happened below?” she asked. “I hope his lordship isn’t too upset!”
“No, he didn’t seem to be,” Clara replied. “I was letting Zeus out of his basket when the kitchen maid dropped a pot. Zeus was frightened, so he ran. Then Lord Mulholland’s dog gave chase.”
“Oh, dear, I knew bringing Zeus was not a wise idea.”
“It was the dog’s fault, too.”
Aunt Aurora continued to look concerned. “I don’t want to anger Lord Mulholland and have to leave,” she said. “I didn’t want to alarm you before, Clara, but we have not the funds we should and this commission is rather important.”
Clara was surprised that Aunt Aurora suspected the perilous nature of their financial situation; nevertheless, she hastened to reassure her. “He wasn’t so very angry,” she said placatingly. “More annoyed, I believe, and he was soon over that.”
“I should have known you would make things right,” Aunt Aurora said with satisfaction as she turned back to regard her reflection. “He is a most delightful young man. Just think, my dear, if your foolish grandfather was not so stubborn, you would be enjoying such society as a matter of course.”
Clara said nothing as she began to unpack her aunt’s gowns. What was there to say?
“Lord Mulholland is perfectly charming,” Aunt Aurora went on enthusiastically. “And so handsome! Paris, indeed!” She glanced at Clara. “He looks so much better in these bucolic surroundings, don’t you think?”
“He is handsome,” Clara agreed.
Who could disagree, she thought, recalling his casual attire of an open-necked white shirt, his surprisingly broad shoulders that were certainly not the result of the tailor’s art and his fawn-colored riding breeches that emphasized the muscularity of his thighs.
Aunt Aurora tried another arrangement of her front hair. “He’s a perfect gentleman, too, I’m certain.”