His eyes gleamed. “I can see that our winter evenings beside the fire will be delightfully challenging.”
For you.She looked down at her hands again, realizing her grip on her skirt had become so tight that the wrinkles might have become permanently imbedded. She fought all the words that surged through her mind, and defaulted to, “Do you have other requirements for our... association, Your Grace?”
A forward inch. “I assume it goes without saying that you will refrain from any of the feminine machinations young girls seem to be so prone to in circumstances like these.”
Clara’s eyes narrowed. “I do not—”Whatever did he mean?“Machinations?”
Another wave. “Those weak attempts to manipulate. Saying one thing and doing another. Pretending you will be some place and either going somewhere else or simply not showing up at all.”
God forbid I become ill.“I see.”
“And you will eschew any hint of scandal, of course. This will include your acquaintance with Lady Elizabeth Ashton and Lady Newbury. I understand you are friends with both.”
“We are, but I don’t see—”
“Lady Elizabeth has become a pariah.”
Clara’s eyes shot wide. “I beg your pardon.”
“Since the Marquess of Aldermaston has set her aside. It was expected, obviously—”
Clara’s hands clutched the fabric in her skirt, twisting it into a knot. “I saw them just last night. They were lovely together. I know she will be devastated, and I do not think we should be discussing such a thing.”
Wykeham went on as if he had not heard her. “It must have been after then. Obviously, he could not continue with her after the scandal her brother has thrust them all into. You will avoid her, Lady Newbury, and all the Ashtons.”
Clara scoured the room, looking for anything to focus on but the duke’s face. The fireplace. The mantel clock. The empty doorway. The sideboard near the door. “Beth,” she whispered, her heart aching for her friend. Her fingers tightened, and Clara suddenly wished they were around the duke’s neck.
“It is best for both. Now he can pursue someone more suitable—”
“Is there anything else, Your Grace?”
“I assume you dance.”
Clara’s eyes snapped to his, the change of direction almost as off-putting as what she had just heard. “Dance? Did you say ‘dance’?”
“Do not all ladies dance?”
Clara had to find a way to get back in control of her reactions to him. She twisted her left thumb and pressed the nail hard again her right palm. The slight pain drew her attention and cleared the fog about Beth. She straightened. “Most do. Some are more adept than others.”
“Dance is a frequent pastime on my estate. Everyone, even the servants, participate. It helps keep our moods light and helps to pass the long winter evenings. I employ a dance master and two musicians, who live on the estate.”
“I see.”
“I am particularly fond of the Scotch reel.”
Wonder how he feels about lemonade.“I will do my best, Your Grace.”
He scowled. “You do not dance?”
“I know the steps, sir. I am not particularly adroit at completing them.”
“That will change, I’m sure. And the dancing will help with your—” The man faltered then, and red tinged his cheeks.
Clara stilled. “My what?”
He waved again, up and down this time. The red deepened. “Your appearance.”
Radcliff definitely had developed a hairball.
