“No.” She looked back to him. “I begged time to consider my answer.”
He breathed a secret sigh of relief.
“But I ought to have dismissed him outright, for in truth there’s nothing to consider. If I cannot bring myself to share a blanket with the man, how could I share my life with him?” A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled out of her. “And I don’t know why I lied. I’ve never been one to hold my tongue. Even with how I’ve changed since last Christmas”—a flicker in her gaze told Jonathan she meant since you left—“still, I don’t know why I shrank from him. I cannot understand myself.”
Jonathan could understand her; at least, he thought he might. For she had indeed changed. Noah had written of these changes, and Jonathan had noticed nearly as soon as he’d stepped foot in the castle.
Dampened spirits, a new restraint. A sparkle missing from her eyes.
And for those changes he blamed himself. If he’d wondered whether his actions had crushed her, now he had his answer.
And the confirmation crushed him.
The full knowledge of what he’d wrought—the damage to her tender and beautiful soul—was a heavy weight upon his own.
But worse yet, he could see how he’d paved the way for men like Milstead to inflict further damage. For Jonathan suspected the old Claire of being far too robust to interest such men: too lively for entertaining their tedious advances, too self-assured for their perseverance to whittle away her defenses. She would have tired of the pompous worm long before he got her in that sleigh. And he’d have never got the chance to trample her down with his insidious tactics and diminishing words.
Jonathan had given him that chance. With his pigheaded mistakes, he had trampled her first.
And for that he would never forgive himself.
The sight of Claire—magnificent, formidable Claire—now huddled on the edge of the low stone basin, questioning her own reason, could not but trigger an avalanche of self-reproach. He had done this to her. And he must fix it.
But how?
What could he do or say to make her whole again?
Almost as soon as he’d asked the question, his efforts to answer it were thwarted—by the sudden appearance of the pompous worm himself.
Twelve
Claire leapt to her feet when two human figures appeared in the open doorway, silhouetted against the light. The taller figure carried a top hat, while the smaller emitted a familiar, high-pitched chortle.
By the time the newcomers entered the hovel, Claire was standing placidly, hands clasped before her, her face an unsmiling mask. For a second time, the tense atmosphere snuffed out the laughter of Elizabeth’s friend Mary, while seeming to have the opposite effect on her companion.
“Why, Lady Claire.” Lord Milstead smirked, one eyebrow raised lecherously. “I see you’ve embarked on a private tour of your own.”
“Begad!” Mary’s eyes lit with intrigue. “And with her former fiancé!”
“Fiancé?” Lord Milstead sounded startled. “Lady Claire has been engaged before…to a duke?”
“To be sure, my lord!” Mary replied with relish. “Though I suppose I’m not surprised you haven’t heard, for it all happened out here in the countryside a year ago.”
He looked rather put out. “And here I’d thought her just a wallflower,” he muttered crossly.
At that, Claire regarded him with new eyes.
He had indeed met her by a wall, for that was where she’d spent most of the last London season—sitting on the fringes of a great many ballrooms.
At the time she’d thought him ever gentle and patient, not to mention kind to seek her out on each and every occasion. And she’d felt guilty for wasting his time, as she was not yet up to forming any sort of attachment.
But he’d tried to set her mind at ease. He’d assured her he sought her company for his own enjoyment. And though his heart had been hers since their first meeting, he was content to wait till she was ready to receive it. His was not a wild, fleeting passion, but a strong and steady devotion, capable of weathering any delay. And until she signaled her readiness, he would not impose on her by pressing his suit.
Now it suddenly dawned on her that to be conspicuously long-suffering was just an imposition of another sort. His gentle assurances had done a work of their own: taking root in her conscience, demanding her gratitude, rushing her decision.
With their history together cast in a different light, all at once Lord Milstead was overbearing and cold-blooded rather than patient and kind. And Claire was an object of prey rather than one of compassion.
For a man seeking out wallflowers was surely after an easy mark.
