his eyes, “I had noticed.” She laughed. His kissed her eyelids one at a time before kissing her lips again. “It only astonishes me,” he said, “that it seems like a novel idea to you.” She laughed again. “You have no idea,” she said, “how a woman’s femininity becomes identified with an early marriage and the production of a number of children and the running of an orderly home.” “You surely might have had those things if you had wished,” he said. “McLeith cannot have been the only man who showed an interest in you when you were a girl.” “I had other chances,” she admitted. “Why did you not take any of them?” he asked her. “Because you loved him so dearly?” “Partly that,” she said, “and partly an unwillingness to settle for comfort over…over integrity. I wanted to be a person as well as a woman. I know that may seem strange. I know it is hard for almost anyone else to comprehend. It is what I wanted, though—to be a person. But it seemed that I could not be both—a person and a woman. I had to sacrifice my femininity.” “Are you sorry?” he asked her. “Though you did not do it with any great success, I might add.” She shook her head. “I would do it all again if I could go back,” she said. “But it was a sacrifice.” “I am glad you did it,” he said, feathering light kisses along her jaw line to her chin and then lifting his head again. She raised her eyebrows. “If you had not,” he said, “you would not have been there to call upon when I was in Bath. And if I had met you elsewhere, you would not have been free. And I might not have recognized you anyway.” “Recognized me?” “As the very beat of my heart,” he said. Her eyes filled with tears again, and she bit her upper lip. She heard the echo of what he had said in the carriage on the way to London when Flora and Edna had asked him to share his dream. I dream of love, of a family—wife and children—which is as close and as dear to me as the beating of my own heart. She had judged him quite insincere at that time. “Don’t say things like that,” she said. “What has this been about, then?” he asked, somehow turning them so that he lay on the inside of the bed, pressed against the wall, and she lay facing him, held firmly by his arms lest she fall off the bed. “Sex?” She thought for a moment. “Good sex,” she said. “Granted,” he agreed. “I did not bring you here for good sex, though, Claudia. Or not just or even primarily for that.” She would not ask him why, then. But he answered the unspoken question anyway. “I brought you out here,” he said, “because I love you and because I believe you love me. Because I am free and you are. Because—” She set her fingertips over his lips. He kissed them and smiled. “I am not free,” she said. “I have a school to run. I have children and teachers dependent on me.” “And are you dependent upon them?” he asked. She frowned. “It is a valid question,” he said. “Are you dependent upon them? Does your happiness, your sense of self, depend upon continuing your school? If it does, you have a genuine point. You have as much right to pursue your happiness as I have to pursue mine. Fortunately, Willowgreen can be run from a distance as it has been for the past number of years. Lizzie and I will take up residence in Bath. We will live there with you.” “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I will be as silly as I need to be,” he said, “to make things work between us, Claudia. I was in a basically arid relationship for twelve years even though I was fond of poor Sonia—she did, after all, give me Lizzie. I came within a whisker this year of entering into a marriage that would surely have brought me active unhappiness for the rest of my life. Now suddenly, just this evening, I am free. And at last I want to choose happiness. And love.” “Joseph,” she said, “you are an aristocrat. You will be a duke one day. My father was a country gentleman. I have been a governess or teacher for eighteen years. You cannot just give up all you are to live at the school with me.” “I would not have to give up anything,” he said. “Nor could I if I wanted to. But one of us does not have to sacrifice our life for the sake of the other. We can both live, Claudia—and love.” “Your father would have an apoplexy,” she said. “Probably not,” he said. “But the matter would admittedly have to be broached carefully with him—yet firmly. I am his son, but I am also a person in my own right.” “Your mother—” “…would adore anyone who could make me happy,” he said. “The Countess of Sutton—” “Wilma can think or say or do what she likes,” he said. “My sister is certainly not going to rule my life, Claudia. Or yours. You are stronger than she is.” “The ton—” “…can go hang for all I care,” he said. “But there are precedents galore. Bewcastle married a country schoolteacher and got away with it. Why cannot I marry the owner and headmistress of a respected school for girls?” “Will you let me complete a sentence?” she asked him. “I am listening,” he said. “I could not possibly live the life of a marchioness or a duchess,” she said. “I could not possibly mingle with the ton on a regular basis. And I could not possibly be your wife. You need heirs. I am thirty-five years old.” “So am I,” he said. “And one heir will do. Or none. I would rather marry you and be childless apart from Lizzie than marry someone else and have twelve sons with her.” “That sounds all very fine,” she said. “But it is not practical.” “Good Lord, no,” he agreed. “With all those boys I would never know a moment’s peace in my own home.” “Jo-seph!” “Clau-dia.” He set one finger along the length of her nose and smiled at her. A log crackled in the hearth and settled lower. The blaze began to die down. The little hut was as warm as toast inside, she realized. “There are some problems, admittedly,” he said. “We are from somewhat different worlds, and it seems that they would make an awkward fit. But not an impossible one—I refuse to believe it. The idea that love conquers all may seem to be a foolishly idealistic one, but I believe in it nonetheless. How can I believe otherwise? If love cannot conquer all, what can? Hatred? Violence? Despair?” “Joseph.” She sighed. “What about Lizzie?” “She loves you dearly,” he said. “And if you marry me and come to live with us, she does not have to fear that you will take the dog away from her.” “It is all quite impossible, you know,” she said. “But there is no conviction whatsoever left in your voice,” he told her. “I am winning here. Admit it.” “Joseph.” Once more her eyes filled with tears. “This is no contest. It is impossible.” “Let’s talk about it tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll come over to Lindsey Hall to see Lizzie, and you and I will talk. But perhaps you should have a word with my cousins before you leave here—Neville, Lauren, Gwen. Perhaps you had better not talk to Wilma, though she would be able to tell you the same thing. They will all tell you that I never played fair as a lad, that I always had to have my own way. I was quite detestable. I still do not play fair when I want something badly enough.” He had snuggled closer—if that were possible—while he talked, and was now nuzzling her ear and the side of her neck while smoothing his hand over her hip and buttock and along her spine until her toes curled again. “We had better dress and go back to the house,” she said. “It would be too shameful if everyone were ready to return to Lindsey Hall and I was nowhere to be found.” “Mmm,” he said into her ear. “In a moment. Or several moments might be better.” And he moved them again so that this time he was lying on his back and she was lying on top of him. “Love me,” he said. “Never mind practicalities or impossibilities. Love me, Claudia. My love.” She spread her legs to set her knees on either side of his hips and raised herself onto her arms to look down at him. Her hair fell forward to form a sort of curtain about them. “Once upon a time,” she said, sighing one more time, “I thought I was a woman of firm will.” “Am I a bad influence on you?” he asked. “You certainly are,” she said severely. “Good,” he said and grinned. “Love me.” She did. 24
It was a blustery day. White clouds scudded across a blue sky, bathing the ground in sunshine one moment, darkening it with shade the next. Trees waved their branches and flowers tossed their heads. But it was warm. And it was potentially the loveliest day of his life, Joseph thought as he arrived at Lindsey Hall late in the morning. Potentially. It had not been an easy day so far. His father had quivered with fury even just with the news that Portia had run off with McLeith. He had not excused her actions for a moment—far from it. But neither had he excused Joseph for driving her to take such drastic measures. “Her disgrace will be on your conscience for the rest of your life,” he had told his son. “If you have a conscience, that is.” And then Joseph had broached the topic of Claudia Martin. At first his father had been simply incredulous. “That spinster schoolteacher?” he had asked. Then, when he had understood fully that it was indeed she, he had exploded in a storm of wrath that had had both Joseph and his mother seriously worried for his health. Joseph had held firm. And he had shamelessly played his trump card. “Mr. Martin, her father,” he had explained, “was guardian to the Duke of McLeith. The duke grew up in their home from the age of five. He thinks of Claudia almost as a sister.” McLeith was not much in his father’s favor this morning, of course, but nevertheless the man was of a rank to match his own, even if it was only a Scottish title. Joseph’s mother had asked the only question that really mattered to her. “Do you love Miss Martin, Joseph?” she had asked. “I do, Mama,” he had told her. “With all my heart.” “I never did really like Miss Hunt,” she had admitted. “There is something cold about her. One can only hope she loves the Duke of McLeith.” “Sadie!” “No, Webster,” she had said. “I will not be quiet when the happiness of my own children is at stake. I am surprised, I must confess. Miss Martin seems too old and plain and stern for Joseph, but if he loves her and if she loves him, then I am content. And she will welcome dear Lizzie into your family, I daresay, Joseph. I would invite them both to tea if I were in my own home.” “Sadie—” “But I am not,” she had said. “Are you going to Lindsey Hall this morning, Joseph? Tell Miss Martin if you will that I will call on her this afternoon. I daresay Clara will go with me or Gwen or Lauren if your father will not.” “Thank you, Mama.” He had raised her hand to his lips. There had still been Wilma to face, of course, before he left for Lindsey Hall. She was not to be avoided. She had been waiting for him outside the library and had forced him into the small visitors’ salon next to it. Surprisingly—perhaps—she had had nothing but recriminations to call down upon the head of the unfortunate Portia. But she had been deeply shocked by the rumors she had heard last night—rumors none of her cousins would either confirm or deny. Not that rumors had been necessary. “You waltzed with that teacher, Joseph,” she had said, “as if no one else existed in the world but her.” “No one did,” he had told her. “It was quite indecorous,” she had said.
