“I’m still yours. If you’ll have me.”
Eight
He’s still mine.
Claire felt unable to decipher her own reaction. Esteem and the glow of validation were at war with doubt and indignation, and if the seedlings of forgiveness or affection were anywhere to be found, she couldn’t perceive them.
Correcting his error now, she reflected bitterly, after the damage was already done, did not oblige her to forgive and forget.
And yet…
Still mine.
He just stood there, looking at her.
Waiting for her.
He didn’t even blink.
I’m still yours if you’ll have me, still echoed in her head.
Still mine.
At last, Claire felt something shift—just a hair’s breadth—within her. She was not disarmed, but she felt the first inkling of danger.
It would be so easy, such a relief, to fall into his arms and let him soothe away all the hardships of the past year. No more constant little stings of deprivation.
Her skin, deprived of his warmth.
Her body, deprived of his intoxicating nearness.
Her heart, deprived of the bubbly joy that had carried her smiling through all her days, from the day they met to the day he left.
For a moment, she let herself imagine that those comforts could be hers again. He could be hers again. It seemed impossibly indulgent—after yearning so long for just a word or a glimpse of him—to instead imagine him always by her side. They would be always together. They would be quickly married. They would ride off in a carriage and begin their new life at?—
At Twineham Park.
“What of your mother?” Claire asked abruptly.
Jonathan raised a brow. “What of her? She’s nothing to me now.”
Claire saw right through his indifferent facade, but decided not to remark upon it just now. “Has she given up the dower house?”
“No, but that doesn’t signify.”
“Does it not?” Claire planted a hand on her hip. “She’ll be living a quarter mile from our—that is, your doorstep.”
“So?” He twisted his mouth into a sneer. “A quarter mile is distance enough if we decline to acknowledge her. I was at Twineham just yesterday and never clapped eyes on the woman.”
“You’re certain she was at home?” Claire pressed. “And didn’t try to see you?”
“I’ve no idea. I instructed the butler to turn her away and henceforth never utter her name to me.”
Claire laughed without humor. “And this is your plan? You’ll spend the rest of your life tiptoeing round your own house and pretending she doesn’t exist?”
“Only the rest of her life,” he retorted. “Unless she should decide, on her generous widow’s portion, to remove somewhere else—to Brighton, perhaps, or even Neuf-Marché. Then all parties would be satisfied.”
“Satisfied?” Claire scoffed. “You think your mother will ever give up on reconciling with her beloved son? Or that you and your tender heart could just throw her off with nary a scruple?”
