A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he focused on her face again. Some of the tension left his fierce hold on the chair. “My sister is more resilient than most people realize. She plays the Society debutante well, but she grew up with three rambunctious brothers. She will find a new path for herself and may have already done so.”
“In what way?”
“I am not sure yet. But I can promise you Lady Elizabeth is not one to mope, sigh, and wring her hands.”
“So she has your mother’s strength.”
His eyes gleamed. “You admire my mother?”
She returned the smile. “Very much so. I hear from the servants that her spirit has not been dimmed by her illness.”
“So there are rumors wandering about?”
“Of course there are. Nothing happens among thetonabout which there are no rumors. Gossip is our lifeblood. They say your father will not leave her side, and that she has been able to make herself quite understood, despite the limits on her speech. It sounds as if Lady Elizabeth inherited some of that stubbornness.”
“The whole family, it seems, with me as an exception.”
Clara scooted closer to the end of the settee and lowered her voice. “You are not a stubborn man?”
“A trait that seems to have escaped me, along with my brothers’ glib talent with words.”
“So if you had your mind set on a goal, you would not pursue it with all possible efforts?”
Michael stilled, and his lids lowered a bit, as he looked away from her a few moments.
“Ah,” she whispered. “You are considering something specific.”
He smiled, his voice as soft as hers. “You are as perceptive as you are charming. My brother has brought me a proposal that could reverse all my fortunes, set aside my obstacles. That could, indeed, be something I could invest all my efforts—”
“My lady?”
Startled, Clara’s head jerked up.
Jennings stood in the doorway, his face stolid, but his eyebrows peaked in a touch of warning. “The Duke of Wykeham.” He stepped to one side as a man strode by him, brandishing a cane and an amiable if vacant smile.
A smile that froze, as did the duke’s approach, when Michael Ashton rose to his feet. Wykeham cleared his throat as his cane tapped twice on the floor. The smile vanished. “Ashton.”
Michael bowed slightly at the waist, his eyes fixed on the duke’s. “Your Grace.”
The duke glanced at Clara. “I did not realize there would be other... callers.”
Michael stepped away from the chair and moved closer to Wykeham. “My visit was a bit impromptu, Your Grace. Lady Clara was not expecting me.”
Oh, yes, I was!Clara bit her tongue, realizing the most pleasant encounter she had experienced in months had been interrupted—and ended—by the duke’s arrival.
“And I am afraid I have already taken up too much of the lady’s time. I was about to leave, if you will pardon me.”
No!She started to stand, then heard Radcliff’s own throat clearing and low, “Sit!”
Michael turned to her, and he bowed low this time, his fingers touching his brow. “It has been my pleasure, my lady. Perhaps we will see each other again.”
Yes, please!She ached to beg him to stay, to not leave her alone with this man, but another voice in her head reflected the eternal lessons of her mother and governess.Stay calm, Clara. You agreed to this. It is your duty.“Perhaps, my lord. I thank you for coming.”
Michael backed away, nodded to the duke, and left. As he passed Wykeham the comparison between the two men struck Clara in a way that almost took her breath. Michael’s dark to the other’s fair features, his height and breadth overshadowing the older man, whose sour expression immediately conveyed his displeasure at finding a competitor in the room. Michael’s calm and pleasant demeanor to the duke’s stiff posture. His composed, handsome face to Wykeham’s abruptly pinched cheeks.
The duke’s mouth thinned as his lips pressed together and curled downward, and his eyes narrowed as he watched Michael leave. Wykeham’s trim frame had neither the strength nor structure of the younger Ashton, although his appearance remained pleasing, despite his age. He had the slender build of many English men, and his steps revealed a rather mincing sway as he approached her, as if his shoes were far too snug. His blond hair, which had been curled, cut, and affixed to his scalp in one of the current styles, receded slightly from his forehead, but his face seemed agreeable enough, except for the scowl creasing it. His attire, however, seemed overly elaborate to Clara, especially for an afternoon visit, with an intricately embroidered waistcoat in blue and silver, an indigo topcoat of brushed silk, blue cravat, and cream-colored buckskin breeches.
Clara’s examination of the duke caused her to hesitate long enough that he glanced at the chair Michael had vacated, his eyebrows arched.
