His eyes flashed. “I can be as stout-hearted as the next man.”
“I’m certain you can, in support of a just cause. But avoiding your mother because you’re scared to face a quarrel is not what I would call a just cause.”
“I’m not scared!” He took up the poor napkin again, wringing without mercy. “I simply don’t care to waste my time. There’s no reasoning with her.”
“How do you know? Have you tried?”
“No, Claire,” he said with exaggerated sarcasm. “Incredibly, I somehow managed to live with the woman for twenty-nine years without ever engaging in a single reasoned discussion. You know, just because you were right about my mother’s deception does not mean you’re an authority on everything.”
“No, not on everything.” Claire drew herself up. “But I am most certainly the highest authority on my own feelings. And I feel your mother’s shadow still hanging over us—and between us. The problem hasn’t gone away; it’s only been swept beneath the rug.”
He fixed her with an exasperated scowl. “I don’t understand what you want from me. Maman tried to keep us apart, so I severed ties?—”
“I never wanted?—”
“—but now you turn around and say I must reconcile with her?”
“Not reconcile with her, confront her! Stand up to her, instead of pretending she’s gone. Stand up for yourself! And for me.”
He wrenched a hand through his hair. “For you I would, if I believed any good might come from it. But I see no chance of that. And frankly, I don’t see how my relationship with her is any concern of yours.”
Claire felt as if he’d slapped her. “Then you haven’t changed as much as you think!”
His chin jutted stubbornly. “I promise you, she won’t listen to a word I say.”
Claire could match him for stubbornness. “Whether she listens or not, you’ll have said your piece. You’ll have faced her like a grown man, instead of hiding like a cowed child.”
“Ah, just as you faced me like a grown woman, instead of trying to drive me away with childish pranks?”
“I—” She stopped. And flushed. “You’re right, of course. I have been childish.” She sank back onto her stool, worrying her lip.
His temper seemed to cool. “No doubt Elizabeth goaded you into it,” he said in a blatant attempt to cushion the criticism. “By-the-by, what have you two in store for me tomorrow?”
“Nothing,” Claire fibbed, making a mental note to speak with Monsieur Laurent and Mr. Evans first thing in the morning. Oh, and the stables as well! Could she get round to all of them in time? “Our tricks are quite finished.”
“What a relief,” Jonathan drawled. “I feared my trousers must be given up for lost.”
La, she would have to locate those before dinner time! Hopefully Elizabeth knew where they’d got to. “Fear not,” Claire said with feigned confidence. “All shall be put to rights.”
His eyes sought hers. “Between us, as well?”
“Er…”
For a moment, what she saw in the depths of those eyes overpowered her: crushing tenderness, tortured hope…an undercurrent of desire.
She looked away to escape the onslaught. “As far as friendship is concerned, I accept your apology and bear you no ill will.” Or not much, anyway. “But beyond that…”
She shook her head.
“It’s too late, then. As you forewarned.” He braced himself against the table, seeming suddenly exhausted. “And everything we once meant to each other—that means nothing to you now?”
“Not nothing,” she said gently. “Just…not enough.”
“I see.” In seeming response to her gentleness, his tone grew sharper. “Or perhaps not as much as Milstead means to you?”
Before she could open her mouth—before she could even feel outrage—he thumped himself on the forehead.
“No, don’t answer that. It was wrong of me to ask.” He blew out a breath. “Friendship, then. I should like to give it a try, though I’ve no idea how to proceed. Where do we go from here?”
