But his good breeding held—only just. Seething to his very core, every minute costing him a year’s patience, he yet managed to keep his seat. He even choked down a few spoonfuls of gruel (the egg was not to be attempted).
Whatever penance Claire was determined to foist on him—and it was abundantly clear that this dinner was penance, as was the orange luncheon, the sawdust biscuits, and perhaps even the pilfered trousers—he was equally determined to endure.
He would prove to her that he had changed, that he would never again let anything—or anyone—come between them. No matter what schemes she might concoct to make him leave, he would stay right here by her side.
Accordingly, after the first course was cleared and the second arrived, he served the indecisive Mrs. Nathaniel Chase with endless patience, ignoring his own throbs of hunger. And when Mr. Evans appeared at Jonathan’s elbow with another plate—this time containing colorless cabbage mush and dry, stringy mutton boiled to within an inch of its life—he thanked the butler profusely.
“Please convey my compliments to the kitchen,” he added to Mr. Evans, though pointedly looking at Claire. “All the food has been exactly to my standard and agrees with me exceedingly.”
Claire looked surprised, and Jonathan felt gratified to have finally got some sort of reaction out of her.
Especially when, seemingly despite herself, the corners of her lips turned up.
Six
That night, Claire couldn’t sleep. A sudden storm broke over the castle, rattling its windows and howling through its battlements. Yet she wasn’t kept awake by fearful noises, or even anxious prayers for the weather to clear by morning. No, though a tempest raged all around her, what disturbed her rest was the far more piddling occasion of a stomach ache.
Even worse, the stomach ache was her own fault. Having been too diverted to eat much at dinner, then too flustered to eat anything at teatime, she had thought to fortify herself with a cup of coffee, though she usually took only tea or chocolate. Now she felt shaky, empty, and sick.
Of course, one could lay part of the blame at Lord Milstead’s feet, for it was he who’d rendered her too flustered for teacakes. Taking her side immediately upon entering the drawing room, he’d stuck there like a burr the rest of the evening. In the course of which, just before tea was announced, he’d mentioned in passing the fact of his father having proposed to his mother at a Christmas party, with just such a meaningful look as Claire could hardly fail to understand.
She was very aware of the mistletoe dangling from the drawing room’s chandelier. And for the time being (at least), she was making sure not to stand under it.
For even though his pending proposal was no great surprise—even though he’d been invited here for just this purpose, and even though she’d already made up her mind to accept him—she couldn’t help feeling just a touch of panic.
Which was perfectly natural.
Right?
A proposal is a momentous event. Enough to make any woman nervous. It would be strange had she not felt so!
Although, come to think of it, she could not recall feeling any nervousness when Jonathan proposed. She remembered feeling excited, wildly in love, and so happy that her heart might actually burst out of her chest, or inflate like a hot air balloon and carry her to the clouds.
But not nervous.
Which was neither here nor there. In fact, likely this was further evidence that Jonathan was the wrong man for her. She must have known, deep down, that the marriage would never take place. Hence, no reason for nerves!
Such lines of reasoning relieved her feelings, but they did nothing for her sour stomach. After untold hours curled up in a tragic ball, she threw back the covers.
Her belly cried out for food, but having none to hand (alas, the fancy domed platters were for the guests, not the hosts), she would have to try other remedies. She walked up and down the room, cooled herself by the window, warmed herself by the hearth, and splashed water on her face—all to no avail.
At last, she stifled a groan. There was nothing for it: She needed to eat.
She lit a candle and slipped out into the dark and drafty corridor. Lightning streaked across its small, high windows as her feet, shod in her warmest slippers over two pairs of wool stockings, found their unerring way to the kitchen.
She wasn’t alone, because (unsurprisingly) Kippers had followed her. But upon entering the kitchen, she was startled to perceive another occupant in the space lit by just one dim candle.
Surely the poor scullery maid wasn’t still washing up?
No. The figure hunkered over the worktable was that of a man, garbed in a loosely tied dressing gown and nightcap. With dismay Claire recognized him by the thick, chestnut lock that escaped his cap to fall into his eyes. And with stupefaction she watched him continually sweeping it back, though the same lock would inevitably fall again a moment later due to the violence with which he shoveled food into his mouth.
As had been the case during their entire courtship, she found herself itching to touch that unruly lock.
Could anything be more ridiculous?
Unconsciously, her hand went up to close her own dressing gown tight at her throat. Despite having been moments from marrying this man (three agonizing times!), Claire had never appeared before him in a stitch less than full dress.
Not that she had anything new on display—rather the opposite. Swathed in her heavy winter nightclothes, there was no chance of exposing even a single bodily curve. Still, no man save her brother or late father had ever seen her in such a state.
