She sat in the middle of the table on the opposite side from Alden, too far away for his liking. Then again, he could look his fill of her from here. Clara had changed her worn and muddygarb for a fetching cream-colored frock trimmed with dark blue, which brought out her eyes. Her light-red hair, dressed in a simple knot, glistened whenever she turned her head.
Lord Duxford, on Alden’s left, leaned to him. “I will speak to you later, young man.”
Alden started, dragging his gaze from Clara to find her father watching him with a knowing look.
“Everything aboveboard, I assure you, sir,” Alden said hastily and quietly.
“Even so.” Lord Duxford returned to his morning tea.
The fellow reminded Alden strongly of his own father, a quiet man who let his talkative wife rule the table, but a man with hidden depths.
Alden hungrily dug into his breakfast. Around him, chatter flowed. The three daughters and their mother discussed everything under the sun, punctuated by the occasional wry comment from Lord Duxford.
Meals with Alden’s parents were much more formal. While the marquess and marchioness had never been standoffish with their son, they were quiet spoken, his mother stately. Lady Ravensmoor filled her house with very correct servants, who went about their duties efficiently and noiselessly. She’d never have maids serving at the table—only footmen and the butler ought to do that.
The two maids were local young women whose parents ran a shop and a pub, respectively. They smiled good-naturedly at the younger daughters’ requests and added their opinions on whatever topic was at hand when asked.
Alden’s mother would hardly approve.
But then, Alden’s mother liked Clara. At one of the stiff suppers at the Ravensmoor house in Town a few months ago, the marchioness had remarked: “That oldest Griffin girl has turnedout rather well, do you not think, Morty? Had her debut last year, I believe.”
Montmorency Carlisle, Lord Ravensmoor, who’d been addressed as Morty since his nursery days, had nodded. “Sound family. A trifle eccentric. You know them, Alden. Live in that rambling cottage a few doors down from you in Hampstead.”
Alden, sunk in his own misery, had answered with something noncommittal, paying scant attention.
Now, he agreed with his mother. Clara had turned out rather well, indeed.
“Can we take Harvey for a walk?” Emily asked, breaking his train of thought. “I think he needs a walk.”
The family had completed their breakfasts, and plates had been pushed aside, while the younger daughters rested their elbows on the table.
Emily gazed longingly out the back window. Harvey, finished with his own meal, had lain down by the door and stared inside with as much hope as Emily peered out.
Clara, on the other hand, kept her gaze on Alden, her eyes unreadable.
“Patience, Emily,” Lady Duxford said. “Lord Alden hasn’t finished.”
“Please, do not stand on ceremony with me,” Alden said quickly. “Do go on. Harvey must be tired of being confined to a garden.”
“Hurrah!” Emily leapt from her seat. “Come along, Anne. Come along, Clara. Bring the lead.”
Lady Duxford lifted her hands and shook her head, but Emily didn’t notice her disapprobation. Clara sent Alden an apologetic smile but readily followed her sisters out of the dining room. In a few moments, the three appeared in the garden in coats and hats.
Harvey, who knew his fortunes had taken a turn for the better, greeted them with enthusiasm, letting Clara hook the lead to his collar without fuss.
Lady Duxford watched fondly as the three young ladies took Harvey out the garden gate. She returned her gaze to her husband and Alden, took a sip of tea, and then rose. “I must see to…”
She glided out, not bothering to finish the sentence.
Lord Duxford waved for Alden to continue his meal. One of the maids refilled Lord Duxford’s cup of tea and then Alden’s, then both of the women bustled out of the room.
As soon they’d gone, Lord Duxford turned to Alden. “Do not choke on your toast, sir,” he said with good humor. “But are you planning a proposal? Or will you let my daughter’s reputation be ruined when the tale of her running about with you in the night leaks out?”
Alden laid down the piece of toast he’d taken up, unsurprised at Lord Duxford’s question. His body heated at the thought of waking up to Clara every morning, her hair mussed on his pillow, her eyes warm with what they’d done the night before.
Alden’s heart had lightened for the first time in many months when he’d encountered Clara at the cemetery yesterday afternoon, and he’d joined in her arguments with renewed spirit. He liked the thought of arguing with Clara for a long time to come—and making up afterward, of course.
He strove to keep these thoughts from his expression.
