“And I suppose,” she said, “that there are those who believe you must be happy because you apparently have everything.”
“Oh, legions of such people,” he said. “You have only the one brother, Claire?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I have two other brothers and two sisters. All married, like yours. And all parents. I have eleven nieces and nephews to romp with at Christmas and other family gatherings.”
“And you are the youngest,” he said. “The sacrificial lamb.”
“I loved my father,” she said.
“I am sure you did.” He squeezed her hand.
It seemed strange, he thought as she told him some memories of her childhood, to be having such a conversation with a woman. His conversations with women usually consisted of light repartee and sexual innuendo. His more usual dealings with them were entirely physical. He could not remember ever telling any woman—or man either—about his family and childhood. He could never remember any woman wasting time telling him about hers.
He felt strangely honored to have won the confidence of Claire Ward. She looked relaxed and unselfconscious beside him. And then she shivered. There was no fire in the gallery and it was only February.
“You are cold,” he asked.
“Not really,” she said.
But her arm was cool, he could feel when he set an arm about her and drew her against him. “It is time to go back downstairs,” he said regretfully.
“Yes,” she said.
“I imagine the game will be finished now,” he said as they got to their feet and he picked up the branch of candles and offered her his arm.
They descended the stairs in silence. But she paused at the top of the flight leading down to the drawing room. “I don’t want to go back there tonight,” she said. “Will it be ill-mannered if I do not?”
“Not at all,” he said. “And neither do I, Claire. Let us go straight to bed instead.”
She looked calmly into his eyes as he set down the candles on a small table. She did not quite know his meaning, he thought, any more than he did. But there was acceptance in her eyes. She had made a decision up in the gallery, and she was not going to go back on it. He took her arm through his and led her to the door of her bedchamber.
“Claire,” he said, smoothing back her hair from her face with one hand, cupping her cheek with the other, “it has been a lovely day. Romantic.”
“Yes,” she said.
He kissed her softly on the lips and felt her arms come about his waist.
“Let us keep it that way, at least for tonight and tomorrow. Shall we?” he said, looking down into her eyes.
There was a moment’s silence. He watched her swallow. “Yes,” she said.
“Good night, Claire.” He kissed her softly again. “Good night, my valentine.”
“Good night, your gr—” she said. “Good night, Gerard.”
And he opened her door for her and closed it behind her after she had stepped inside. He stood where he was for a while, staring down ruefully at his hand on the doorknob. He could be on the other side of the door with her, he thought. She had been his. That had been very obvious both upstairs and here a few moments ago. And he wanted her badly enough, God knew.
He must be getting soft in the head, he decided, turning away in the direction of his own room. Or perhaps it had just been a fear of the unknown. He had never had a virgin. And he was a total stranger to the sort of tenderness he would need to exercise when bedding Claire. Well, perhaps tomorrow night. Undoubtedly tomorrow night.
Claire came awake with a surge. The sun was shining through the window with all the promise of a beautiful day. But it was not newly risen, she thought, sitting up in some surprise and stretching her arms above her head. She must have slept deeply right through the night when she had expected to lie awake.
She got out of bed and crossed to the window on bare feet, heedless of the coolness of the room. She felt wonderful, and indeed it was going to be a glorious day. There was not a cloud in the sky.
She stretched again. There was not a trace left of the sadness she had felt at first the night before when the door of her bedchamber had closed behind her. She had felt bereft and instantly lonely as she had leaned back against the door with closed eyes. And rejected. He did not want her after all. She was perhaps acceptable to talk with and even to kiss. But not for anything else.
But the moment had passed almost instantly.Good night, my valentine,he had said. He had said no when she had asked if he regretted drawing her name. He had said it had been a lovely day. Romantic, he had said. And he had suggested that they keep it that way.
Oh, yes, she thought now, resting her hands on the windowsill and leaning forward to look through the window, yesterday had been wonderfully romantic. And there was the whole of today to look forward to and the whole of tomorrow. And perhaps tonight. She felt her cheeks flushing. But she wanted it, she realized, as much as the romance. Perhaps more so. She wanted it, brazen and immoral as the wanting was. She had been kissed for the first time the day before and it had been far more wonderful than she could possibly have imagined. She wanted the rest of it too. Oh, yes, she did. She wanted to be able to hug to herself for the rest of her life the secret knowledge that once—at Valentine’s—she had been wanted and had herself wanted and that that desire had been satisfied.
