“Ah,” he said, “stubbornness and curiosity. Qualities I like. Going down the steps of these old towers is far more intimidating than going up, is it not? Would you like me to go first?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
He would have had the vapors from any other female, he thought as he started down into the steep darkness. Or at least shrieks and shrinking pleas for assistance. Claire Ward came steadily and quietly after him. He could see her trim ankles in their black riding boots whenever he turned his head.
He thought of what was probably happening between five other couples down by the river and in the woods and fields about the castle and thought ruefully of his two chaste kisses. And yet he would not, he thought with a wry smile, change places with any of the other five gentlemen. No, not for a thousand pounds.
Claire looked at her mirrored image and wished again that she had more gowns as attractive as her blue silk. She had always liked the yellow one she now wore, but she knew that it was unfashionable by London standards, the neckline conservatively high, the sleeves too narrow, the hem unadorned. She spread her hand for a moment over the valentine heart, which she had removed from her wool dress and pinned to her evening gown. His signature, she saw when she removed her hand and looked at it reversed in the mirror, quite overshadowed her own.
It was time to go down to dinner. But there would be none of the awkwardness and self-consciousness of the evening before when she had known no one. Tonight it was all arranged. The Duke of Langford— Gerard—would be leading her in to the dining room and seating himself beside her.
She was almost ashamed to admit that she was beginning to enjoy herself. There had been the ride, an activity she always liked, and the hour spent exploring Chelmsford Castle and the refreshments at the inn afterward. And the ride home. She was twenty-eight years old. All her adult life she had been alone. Oh, not quite solitary, it was true. But whenever she went anywhere with Roderick and Myrtle, it was always they who were the couple and she who was the single. There was great pleasure, she had discovered that day, in being part of a couple. And a great sense of security.
And he seemed not to be too displeased at having drawn her as his valentine. That was what had worried her most that morning. She had fully expected to be treated with haughty disdain. Instead he had behaved with courtesy—and something more. Her cheeks grew warm and her mirrored image flushed as she remembered that he had kissed her on top of the tower. And had done more than kiss her, too. He had touched her lips with his tongue and sent sensation sizzling through her.
At least now, she thought with a wry smile for her blushing image, she would not have to go through life with the regret that she had never been kissed. She had been and by a duke no less. Now that would be a memory with which to soothe her old age. Her smile became more amused.
Yet she really ought not to be enjoying herself, she thought as she left her room and descended to the drawing room, where she could hear that some people were already assembled prior to dinner. It was not a proper party she was attending. If she had had any doubts, the duke had dispelled them that afternoon. And if any had lingered, they would have disappeared at the inn, where Miss Sterns had sat all through tea with her shoulder pressed to Mr. Shrimpton’s and where Lady Pollard had turned to Mr. Tucker at one point and they had kissed each other. Claire had been very glad at the time that she was not given to the vapors.
But she was enjoying herself. As soon as she stepped into the drawing room he came toward her, his hand stretched out for hers. And he looked quite magnificent in a brown velvet coat and buff-colored knee breeches, with a waistcoat of dull gold and white linen. Oh, yes, she thought, almost smiling at him but holding back in case after all he was less than pleased with the situation—oh, yes, it was all very romantic, whatever the rest of Lady Florence’s guests made of it. To have a valentine for three whole days—and such a very handsome and distinguished valentine—was quite the pinnacle of romance to an aging spinster.
They would play forfeits that evening, Lady Florence announced gaily during dinner and the announcement drew titters and exclamations. '
“Really, Florence?” Sir Charles said. “Forfeits?”
“Forfeits?” Mrs. Tate said. “Spare my blushes, Florence.”
Yet they all seemed pleased, Claire thought. She played forfeits with her nephews and nieces on occasion, sometimes with small coins, more often with an imposed task to be performed as a forfeit, like a song to be sung. The children always enjoyed it when the adults joined in and showed themselves willing to make themselves look rather foolish.
But it seemed that she was not to have a chance to play that evening. After they had adjourned to the drawing room and drunk their tea—the gentlemen did not remain in the dining room after the ladies left— the Duke of Langford laid a hand on her shoulder and spoke to Lady Florence.
“You will excuse Claire and me for the next hour or two, Florence?” he said in his most bored-sounding drawl. “We feel a pressing need to, ah, view the portraits of your husband’s ancestors and the other paintings in the gallery. Don’t we, Claire?”
Did they? Claire looked up at him, startled. But she did not want to go. She did not want to be alone with him. He could have only one reason for suggesting such a thing. And everyone else must have thought the same thing. There were knowing smiles from the ladies and winks from the gentlemen.
“You naughty man, Gerard,” Lady Pollard said. “Why did we not think of that, Rufus?”
“Well, there is still the conservatory, Mildred,” he said.
“Ah,” she said, “but we would have to miss the forfeits. Are you sure you wish to do so, Gerard?” Claire looked at him hopefully. She should speak up, she knew. But such people always tongue-tied her.
She never knew the right thing to say or when it should be said.
“We have better things to do,” he said, and he lifted his hand away from her shoulder and brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek before extending the hand to help her to her feet.
“Then go,” Lady Florence said with what sounded almost like impatience. “The rest of us are ready to proceed with the fun.”
Carver House had been a Tudor manor before centuries of rebuilding had transformed it. But the long gallery was still on the top floor, running the whole width of the house. They were on their way up the stairs, the duke carrying a branch of candles in one hand, before Claire spoke. By that time she was angry—perhaps more with herself than with him. Was she going to allow herself to be awed into behaving against her nature?
“I don’t think this is a good idea, your grace,” she said. “I don’t think I wish to be so alone with you. It is not proper.”
“Far more proper than being in the drawing room for the next couple of hours is likely to be,” he said.
She looked at him. They had paused on the second landing. “Playing a game in the company of the others?” she said.
“Forfeits,” he said. “Do you have any idea what that means, Claire?”
“I have played it all my life,” she said.
