come for you tomorrow, then?” he asked her. “At the same time?” “Yes,” she said, lifting her eyes to his. He could see them clearly in the light spilling from the ballroom. Wide and intelligent as always, they also looked something else now. Something he could not quite identify. They looked very deep, as if he could fall into them if he chose. He nodded to her and indicated with one hand that she should precede him into the ballroom. He hung back for a moment or two after she had stepped inside. He hoped no one had noticed how long they had been together. He would not willingly sully her reputation. Or willingly humiliate Miss Hunt.
Lily Wyatt, Countess of Kilbourne, sat next to Lauren Butler, Viscountess Ravensberg, at supper, and the two of them engaged in a private conversation while the group with which they sat conversed more loudly with one another. “Neville told me earlier,” Lily said, “that you have invited Miss Hunt to Alvesley for the anniversary celebrations.” Lauren pulled a face. “Wilma brought her visiting,” she said, “and dropped hints so broad that even a person with no brain could not have failed to understand. And so I invited her. But it hardly signifies, does it? By then she and Joseph will surely be betrothed. It is no secret, is it, why Uncle Webster summoned him to Bath.” “You do not like her either?” Lily asked. “Oh, I do not,” Lauren admitted, “though I would be hard put to it to explain why. She is too—” “Perfect?” Lily suggested, understanding that Lauren had not overheard Miss Hunt questioning her taste in inviting a mere schoolteacher to share the box at Vauxhall with her betters. “Wilma has been scolding Joseph for allowing her to walk with the Duke of McLeith last evening while he played the gallant to Miss Martin. She is afraid that they fancy each other.” “Miss Hunt and the duke?” Lauren said, her eyes widening with incredulity. “Surely not. He seems an amiable man.” “A comment that says volumes,” Lily said. “But I cannot help but share your feelings, Lauren. Miss Hunt reminds me of Wilma but worse. At least Wilma dotes on her boys. I cannot imagine Miss Hunt doting upon anyone, can you? I thought perhaps you and I could—” But a light had come into Lauren’s eyes and she interrupted. “Lily,” she said, “you are not plotting to play matchmaker—and matchbreaker, are you? Can I play too?” “You could invite the duke to Alvesley as well,” Lily said. “To a family celebration?” Lauren raised her eyebrows. “Would it not seem odd?” “Use your ingenuity,” Lily suggested. “Oh, dear, do I have any?” Lauren laughed. But then she brightened. “Christine told me earlier today that Miss Martin is going to Lindsey Hall for part of the summer— Christine’s sister is taking some girls from the school there for a holiday. The Duke of McLeith and Miss Martin grew up in the same house like brother and sister and have just found each other again after years and years of separation. He in particular is very delighted about it, and I daresay she is too. Perhaps I could suggest that he might like to be close to her for a few weeks of the summer before he returns to Scotland and she goes back to Bath.” “Brilliant,” Lily said. “Oh, do it, Lauren, and then we will see what can be accomplished.” “This is fiendish,” Lauren said. “And do you know what Susanna believes? She thinks Joseph might be a little sweet on Miss Martin. He has taken her driving several times and has spent time with her at several entertainments, including last evening at Vauxhall. They were waltzing together earlier. Where is he now, do you know? And where is she?” “It is the most unlikely romance imaginable,” Lily said. But her eyes gleamed. “But oh, goodness, Lauren, she just might be perfect for him. No one else ever has been. Miss Hunt certainly is not.” “Wilma would turn purple in the face,” Lauren added. They grinned at each other, and Neville, Earl of Kilbourne, who was just out of earshot, pursed his lips and looked innocent. 13
Claudia and Susanna had just returned from a visit to Hookham’s library the following morning when the Duke of McLeith called at the house. He was admitted to the morning room, where Claudia was sitting alone, leafing through the book she had just borrowed. Susanna had gone up to the nursery to see Harry. “Claudia,” he said, advancing across the room after the butler had announced him and the collie had rushed across the room to bark at him and then wag his tail. “Your dog?” “I believe it is more a case of my being his person,” she said as he tickled him behind one ear. “Until I can find a good home for him, I am his.” “Do you remember Horace?” he asked. Horace! He was a spaniel she had adored as a child. He had followed her everywhere, like a floppy-eared shadow. She smiled as they both took a seat. “Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg spoke with me last evening before I left the ball,” he said. “They invited me to spend a few weeks at Alvesley Park before returning to Scotland. Apparently there is to be a large gathering there for the Earl and Countess of Redfield’s anniversary. I must confess I was surprised—I did not think I had a sufficient acquaintance with them to merit such a distinction. However, the viscountess explained that you were going to be staying at Lindsey Hall nearby and that I might be glad of a few weeks in which to enjoy your company again after so long.” He paused and looked inquiringly at Claudia. She clasped her hands in her lap and looked back at him without comment. Susanna and all her friends seemed charmed by the story he had told—which was quite true, though it was not by any means the whole truth. She had once loved him with all the ardor of her young heart. But though the days of their courtship had been innocent and decorous, their parting had been neither. She had given her virginity to Charlie out on a deserted hilltop behind her father’s house. He had sworn that he would come back for her at the earliest opportunity to make her his bride. He had sworn too, holding her tightly to him while they had both wept, that he would love her forever, that no man had ever loved as he loved. She had said much the same in return, of course. “So,” he said, “what do you think? Shall I accept? We have had so little chance to talk since we met again, yet there is so much to say. There is so much reminiscing still to do and so much getting to know each other again. I believe I like the new Claudia every bit as much as I liked the old. But we had happy times together, did we not? No real brother and sister could have been more contented with each other’s company.” She had carried anger inside her for such a long time that she sometimes thought it was gone, over with, forgotten. But some long-ago feelings ran so deep that they became part of one’s very being. “We were not brother and sister, Charlie,” she said briskly, “and we certainly did not think of ourselves as such for the year or two before you went away. We were in love.” She kept her eyes on him as the dog settled across her feet and sighed with contentment. “We were very young,” he said, his smile fading. “There is a perception among the not-so-young,” she said, “that the young are incapable of loving, that their feelings are of no significance.” “Young people lack the wisdom that age brings,” he said. “It was almost inevitable that we develop romantic feelings for each other, Claudia. We would have grown out of them. I had almost forgotten.” She felt a deep rage—not for herself as she was now, but for the girl she had been. That girl had suffered inconsolably for years. “We can laugh about it now,” he said. He smiled. She did not. “I am not laughing,” she said. “Why did you forget, Charlie? Because I meant so little to you? Because remembering was too uncomfortable for you? Because you felt guilty about that last letter you wrote me?” I am a duke now, Claudia. You must understand that that makes a great deal of difference. …I am a duke… “And have you forgotten also that we were actually lovers on one occasion?” she asked him. A dull flush crept up his neck and into his cheeks. She willed herself not to flush too. But she would not look away from his eyes. “That was unwise,” he said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as if his neckcloth had suddenly become too tight. “It was unwise of your father to give us so much freedom. It was unwise of you when I was going away and there might have been consequences. And it was unwise of me—” “Because,” she suggested when he hesitated, “there might have been consequences and they might have caused complications to your new life—as your final letter made very clear?” I must not be seen to associate too closely with people who are beneath my notice. I am a duke now… “I had not realized, Claudia,” he said with a sigh, “that you were bitter. I am sorry.” “I left bitterness behind a long time ago,” she said, not sure that was strictly true. “But I cannot allow you to continue treating me with hearty delight as your long-lost sister, Charlie, without forcing you to remember what you have so conveniently forgotten.” “It was not easy,” he said, sitting back in his chair and dropping his eyes from hers. “But I was just a boy, and suddenly I was faced with duties and responsibilities and a whole life and world I had never even dreamed of.” She said nothing. She knew he spoke the truth, and yet… And yet all that did not excuse the cruelty of his final rejection. And how could she tell herself that she had let go of the hurt and bitterness when she had hated, hated, hated all men with the title of duke since then? “Sometimes,” he said, “I have wondered if it was all worth the sacrifices I was forced to make. My dream of a career in the law. You.” Again she said nothing. “I behaved badly,” he admitted at last, getting abruptly to his feet and crossing the room to look out the window. “Do you think I did not realize that? And do you think I did not suffer?” She did understand. She had always understood the inner turmoil he must have lived through. But some things, if not beyond forgiveness, were at least beyond bland excusing. She had destroyed that last letter, along with all the others that had preceded it, a long time ago. But she believed she could still recite it from memory if she chose to do so. “If it is any consolation to you, Claudia,” he said, “I did not have a happy marriage. Mona was a shrew. I spent as much time from home as I could.” “The Duchess of McLeith is not here to speak up for herself,” she said. “Ah,” he said, turning to look at her again, “I see you are determined to quarrel with me, Claudia.” “Not quarrel, Charlie,” she said, “merely have some truth spoken between us. How can we go on if we allow ourselves distorted memories of the past?” “We can go on, then?” he asked her. “Will you forgive me for the past, Claudia? Put it down to youth and foolishness and the pressures of a life for which I had had no preparation?” It was not much of an apology. Even as he made it he also made an excuse for himself. Was youth less accountable than age? But there had been many years of close friendship and a few of love and one afternoon of intense
