“But Gerard could not stay abed so long,” Lady Florence said, a gleam of something like malice in her eyes. “He went galloping off for a ride more than an hour ago. But he will be back, Miss Ward. How could he not be? This is St. Valentine’s Day, after all.”
Lady Florence had wanted the duke for herself, Claire thought. Indeed, it was surprising that she had not found some way of ensuring that it was her own valentine he had picked up. Claire half filled a plate and sat down at the table and felt awkward and selfconscious again. And somewhat relieved too. She did not know how she would face him today, how she would look him in the eye.
He did not return until luncheon was almost over. He strode into the dining room in his riding clothes and apologized to Lady Florence. Claire kept her eyes on her plate, even when he took the empty chair beside her. She had hidden away in the library all morning, looking resolutely at page one hundred and twenty of a book whose title she could not now even remember. She had not wanted to intrude on a houseful of amorous couples. And she had sat through luncheon, eating food that tasted like paper and wishing the floor would open up and swallow her.
“Goodness,” Lady Pollard had said. “Did you and Gerard have a lovers’ quarrel, Miss Ward?”
Claire set her spoon down as soon as he sat down at the table. Her hand was trembling and she would not have anyone else notice. He did not speak to her but conversed with everyone else. He had been so absorbed with the beauties of nature around him, he explained, that he had lost all track of time.
Claire rose from the table with everyone else and hurried from the dining room. She half ran toward the library, as if it were the only haven in the whole wide world. Or as if she had the hounds of hell at her heels. She grabbed a book from a shelf and threw herself down into a deep leather chair, wishing she could be swallowed up by it. The library door opened behind her.
There was a lengthy silence before a pair of Hessian boots and buff-colored pantaloons above them appeared before her and he sat down on a low table.
“Forgive me for being late to wish you a happy Valentine’s Day?” he asked her quietly.
“Of course,” she said, looking up quickly. “There is nothing to forgive.” She had forgotten just how handsome he was, she thought with great absurdity.
“Come walking with me outside?” he asked.
“There is to be a picnic,” she said.
“Hang Florence and her picnic too,” he said uncharitably. “Come walking with me to our lake. Will you, Claire?”
She looked at him and shrugged slightly.
“It is warmer even than yesterday,” he said. He got to his feet and held out a hand for hers. He looked down at the book closed on her lap and smiled. “Do you enjoy reading Greek philosophy?”
She bit her lip as she set the book aside and placed her hand in his.
The ornamental lily pond was not far from the house, they had discovered the day before. They set out for it now on foot, and he took her hand and laced his fingers with hers just as if he had not slapped her in the face, figuratively speaking, the night before. And just as if she had not humiliated herself by begging him to take her. Just as if the romance of the day before could be recaptured. And perhaps it could be. She closed her eyes briefly and willed herself to live for the moment, to enjoy everything that she would remember in the coming days with an ache of longing.
“My valentine is not smiling today,” he said softly.
She shrugged.
He untwined his fingers from hers to set an arm about her shoulders and draw her against him as they walked. “I hurt you, Claire?” he asked her. “I did, didn’t I?”
“It does not matter,” she said.
“It does.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Did you not realize that I could not do it because I like and respect you too much?”
“Respect is a cold lover,” she said.
“And because I love you too much,” he said as they came through the trees to the small lake. The sun was sparkling off the water that was not covered with lily pads.
She laughed, though the sound was not one of amusement.
“I have never before loved a woman,” he said. “And it is many years—far too many—since I have liked and respected one. I could not take you to bed last night, Claire, in a parody of love. Sex is not love. At least, it never yet has been with me.”
“It does not matter,” she said. “You do not need to explain. Today is the last day. Tomorrow we will both be able to return to the lives with which we are familiar.”
“Do you want to?” he asked.
She laughed again and hesitated before seating herself on the cloak he had spread on the grass. He sat down beside her and rested his elbows on his knees and stared out over the water.
“I don’t think I do,” he said. “In fact I know I do not, though of course launching out into the unknown is a little frightening too.”
“Men can do something different with their lives anytime they wish to,” she said. “Women cannot.”
