“Would that not be a great honor?”
“I suppose.”
“If he does, I do hope he is a gentleman. I am still unsure what I am to do if he is not.”
“Perhaps poke him with one of those needles?”
Radcliff’s eyes widened. “A duke? They would hang me!”
Clara grinned and settled on the settee. “They would not. And I would speak up for you. But I suspect you would simply need to dash across the hall to my father’s study. He will be there all afternoon, the door will be open, and I can almost assure you he will be listening to every word.”
Having Radcliff as her chaperone on these afternoon calls had at first seemed odd to Clara, as Radcliff was still considered to be “in training” as a lady’s maid. She had not been—as Clara’s previous maids had—employed as such and had not come to the position in the usual manner. Agnes Radcliff had been a tweenie at a country estate near the Scottish border and had come to London to take care of an extremely ill aunt, who had since passed. Instead of returning to her previous employer, she decided to stay in London, and had applied for the position on a whim.
Clara and their housekeeper had been interviewing potential maids for weeks, with no results. The housekeeper, annoyed at the constant stream of maids who worked for Clara but resigned abruptly, had hired Radcliff on the spot. As she had explained to Clara, “Sometimes a dark horse wins.” Radcliff had since been under the tutelage of the lady’s maid who tended to Clara’s mother.
Yet Clara was glad it was Radcliff who sat with her instead of her mother, who had done the duty the previous years. Then the afternoons had passed even slower, as the countess saw it as her duty to school Clara endlessly on the proper comportment of young women and the lineage of each visitor. At least Radcliff remained silent most afternoons.
Clara toyed with the embroidery at her side. It would be best if the duke did not see her work on this project—definitely not her best efforts, and needlework had never been one of her greater talents. She preferred to be outside, and even now her heart ached for the open fields of Beckcott Abbey and the weight of Maid Marian on her hand.
“Perhaps we can go for a ride in the park if no one arrives.”
Radcliff looked up, her face pinched. “A ride?”
Clara smiled. “I meant in the curricle. I would never ask you to mount a horse in the city.”
“Ah, thank goodness.” The maid turned her eyes back to the needle at hand.
Jennings, the Durhams’ butler, appeared in the door, his face held in the usual solemnity he adopted when making announcements. “Excuse me, my lady, but you have a visitor.” He held out a small silver salver with a calling card on it. Clara stood and picked up the card as Jennings spoke just under his breath. “Lord Michael Ashton.”
Clara’s entire body tensed, and her breath caught as she looked from the card—and that was indeed what it said—to Jennings. The butler waited a moment, then whispered. “My lady?”
Clara found her breath, in one deep gasp, finally letting it out. “Please send him in.”
With a crisp nod, Jennings turned and ushered Lord Michael into the room as Clara snagged her gloves up and yanked them on. She then stared up at him, again caught by the pure loveliness of his form—the breadth of his shoulders and the trim line of his waist, the clarity in his dark eyes and the perfect symmetry of his features. The smooth, even brown of his skin seemed to glow in the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows. He seemed radiant to her, healthy and lively as he strode across the room and bowed before her.
Although his waistcoat did seem a little snug.
“Lord Michael,” she said, her words soft. Almost too late, she lifted her hand, which he caught immediately, kissing the gloved knuckles. Clara continued to stare, suddenly imagining his lithe form astride a horse, galloping across an expansive, green field, his well-muscled legs gripping the horse’s girth. Her chest tightened, her lips pursed.
“Sit!” Radcliff hissed.
Clara jerked, the image vaporizing. She slipped her hand from his, then eased back down on the settee. “I apologize, my lord. I did not know if you would come.”
Michael’s brows furrowed. “Was I not expected to?” He gestured toward the door. “I can leave if you wi—”
“No!” Clara swallowed hard. “No,” she said, more quietly, as she motioned to the chair near the end of the settee. “Please sit. I am very glad you came.”
He sat on the very edge of the chair, his posture stiff and formal. “Please forgive me. It has been quite a long time since I have called on a lady, especially one as lovely as you.”
A small doubt nagged at Clara. “Lovely?”
He smiled. “Of course.” Then, examining her, those beautiful brows furrowed again. “Should I not have said so?” He glanced at Radcliff. “Is it improper to praise your beauty?”
Clara clutched her hands together in her lap. “Not at all, my lord. And I am flattered. I appreciate the compliment, although I can assure you the rest of thetondoes not consider me so.”
“Then they are fools.”
Radcliff gasped and Clara shot her a stern look. When she turned her gaze back to Michael, his eyes gleamed but his face remained placid, his tone even.
