“I don’t know.” Exhausted too, Claire rose. “Right now, we go to bed.”
“Wait—”
“Good night, your grace.”
In a low growl, he said, “Don’t ‘your grace’ me, Claire.”
A delicious shiver raced down her spine. She’d never heard him speak that way before. Her name on his lips—that almost wild, guttural Claire—echoed in her ears. It seemed to stoke something buried within her—a dim glow—a faint heat. But she quashed the sensation with all her might, instinctively drawing away from him.
“Claire,” came another growl, which made her knees go rather weak. “Where do you think you’re going? It’s pitch-black out there, and you’ve no light.”
She lifted a sleepy Kippers and tottered to the door. “I know my way about the castle.”
“Take my candle.”
“I’ll be all right.” Before he could stop her, she fled into the dark.
Nine
Greystone Castle
Friday, 24th December 1819
The middle of the bloody night. — Confound it, I still cannot sleep! Having gone down to the kitchen in hopes of settling my stomach, instead I’ve only managed to unsettle my mind. What time is it? No, I shall not look. I should rather not know, for daybreak cannot be many hours distant.
Really, upon reflection, I’m inclined to think Jonathan The Ratbag dreadfully inconsiderate! Surely unburdening oneself to one’s former lover at such an hour, and with no regard for said lover’s quality of rest, is quite infamous behavior? Is it not the very height of selfishness? For now I shall continue awake the whole night through, thinking over what I’ve heard and puzzling over what I’ve felt, instead of replenishing myself with much-needed slumber.
What a ghastly toil tomorrow will be! How can I hope to endure the day’s engagements, including our surprise outing? After wasting the night in a wearisome stupor, robbed of even the barest scrap of a wink of sl
Half past six o’clock in the morning. — I fell asleep.
I know you shall pardon me, most wise and merciful Diary, for conscripting your unwitting self as a pillow. Your binding has only slightly split beneath the weight of my head. I shall have you re-bound, of course, along with the new pages and embroidered jacket, just as soon as our guests depart.
I dreamt of Lord M, I think. He was down on bended knee, but instead of proposing he removed his hat and revealed a headful of snakes, like Medusa’s.
So that seems a good omen.
My one bit of luck: the storm has finished. Hallelujah! I fancy dawn shall break clear, though it’s still too dark to tell. I’m crossing all my fingers (except the ones I’m using to write).
I suppose nobody else will be stirring for a while yet. Which suits me just fine; I can use the time to write out my directives and save myself the trouble of rushing about to give them in person. Let me see how many there are…
M. Laurent: His Grace no longer to require special diet (cancel calf’s foot jelly, dry burnt toast, etc)
Mr. Evans: Footmen to disregard cold bath order from Ruby Room (send hot water instead)
Mrs. O’Connor: Ruby Room to require fresh bedclothes (warn maids about smell)
John the Stableman: Upon further consideration, do please put Serenity to harness in place of Chaos
Elizabeth: Where are trousers???
La, what a sad waste of poor Elizabeth’s ingenuity. My sister will be sorely disappointed. To be sure, the entire operation was childish, petty, and mean, but it was also great fun.
How I hate when Jonathan is right!
A quarter to seven in the morning. — And yet, was I not just as right about his childish behavior as he was about mine? Is he not acting awfully naive by pretending his mother into a ghost?
But perhaps I would overstep—were I his wife—to concern myself with the matter. Heaven knows I haven’t any right to scold him in my new capacity as a friend.
