The Wolf's Pursuit (London Fairy Tales #3)(71)

After the drawing room's sun-drenched warmth, the cool Grecian elegance of the entryway made her face feel hot. If the housekeeper had bent her ear to the door, she'd run in time. With luck, Clara would escape, too, without additional arguments. But on the curved stairway's far side, the library door stood ajar. That would be Uncle David's temporary retreat and he'd be listening for the first sign of movement. Yes, there was his shadow, approaching the doorway. No time to spare.

Clara composed her expression as she ran up the white marble stairs, her slippers soundless, her pale muslin skirt gathered in one hand, the other trailing up the ebony banister. A few moments alone, hidden in the old schoolroom where Papa had taught her mathematics and the stars, and she'd compose herself. The little telescope was still there, beneath the heavy canvas covering they'd sewn for it, pointing as he'd left it, to the merchant shipping and men-of-war anchored in the Sound. If she held the canvas close to her face and breathed deeply, sometimes it seemed she could still smell his musky scent on the neat stitching, so much more even than her own. The memory cooled her temper, but did nothing for the hole he had left behind in her heart. She'd always miss him, always, and no man — certainly not that titled twaddle — could ever remove him from the foremost place in her heart.

Aunt Helen waited at the top of the stairs, almost dancing in place. The artless little brunette wisps fallen from her upturned hair framed her delighted smile, and she held out her hands as Clara paused, three steps below. Surely Aunt Helen, with her superb taste, hadn't presumed she'd accept that man?

"Our viscountess-to-be! My beautiful niece, I wish you joy."

Inexplicable. But horribly true. "In regard to my fortunate escape, I'm sure." The tart words tumbled forth without thought. But there was no recalling them and while it had been dreadful imagining Aunt Helen's shock, seeing it only added a cold edge of satisfaction to Clara's anger.

"You didn't — you didn't refuse him? Clara, how could you?"

"With relief and a smile, I assure you. Dear aunt, how could you imagine I'd agree to marry anyone so cold and arrogant?"

"But he is a viscount. The ways of the nobility are not like ours. Great wealth and vast landholdings, dating from generations long gone, give a titled man a sense of entitlement that you and I cannot understand. He would make an excellent husband for you."

The anger broke her restraint, floodwaters rushing from a collapsing dam. "I am no entitlement. And Aunt Helen, could you marry without love?"

"Oh, Clara—" Aunt Helen tucked the fallen curls behind her ears. "Not that again. We've had this discussion over and over—"

"You will never convince me."

"—and while it's a wonderful, romantic notion to marry for love rather than for stability, fortune, or position, it's simply not practical. You must have a husband—"

"An encumbrance I know only too well."

"—and it will not be the Frenchman."

That was a new voice, a masculine, booming one, coming from the stairs behind her. Clara whirled. Uncle David had approached to within two steps, and she hadn't heard his footfall through her temper tantrum and their raised voices. His blue eyes, usually warm despite their cool deep color, now burned like chips of Arctic glacial ice.

"Uncle—"

"We are at war with France," Uncle David said, "a fact you seem able to forget but which torments my every hour, waking or sleeping. Your father's ships — your fading inheritance — are being taken, sunk, burned, destroyed, and your father's sailors are dying and wasting away in Napoleon's prison hulks." He stepped closer, and while he wasn't a tall man, in this tempestuous state he seemed twice as large as life, and she seemed smaller. "I will see you unmarried and disinherited before I allow you to wed a Frenchman."

His declaration rang through the stairwell and entry. Aunt Helen stepped back, hand to her throat. Clara gripped the banister. He would not make her cry. And she would not allow him to win.

"Viscount Maynard has been so good as to accept my invitation to supper and cards." Uncle David's voice, while quieter, surrendered none of its authoritative ice. "We both agreed that not every immediate refusal equates to an absolute no."

Again her knees threatened to deposit her, this time onto the white marble. And this time was far worse. She would not cry, no matter what he said.

"You will go to your room and consider the viscount's proposal in greater depth." He turned and clattered down the stairs, the tails of his claret-colored coat fluttering with each step.

No tears. And he would not win.





Clara threw the inoffensive morning dress onto the floor and, in her shift, rang for fresh water. "Take that rag away, Nan, please."

The maid picked up the muslin, nervous hands folding and refolding it. "Shall I have it cleaned, miss?"

"No. Throw it out. Give it to the poorhouse. Keep it for yourself. But get rid of it. I'll never wear it again."

Alone, she sponged the lingering stain of those hungering reptilian eyes from her skin, washing again and again until she finally felt clean. The cold way he'd leered at her, as if she were a broodmare at auction, mouth open to be checked! Clara shivered. Did that ugly, open sort of scrutiny best symbolize the marriage market? None of the gentlemen in her usual set, and certainly none of the Frenchmen she'd met during the too-short Amiens peace, had ever looked at her in such a lewd manner. It was not to be borne.