Chapter Five
“ ‘If you would win a damsel’s heart, always lose to her at chess’. Ridiculous proverb – but then it is French – I s’pose they do know about ‘amour’.”
Mr Daniel Lockwood – classical scholar, philosopher and bachelor.
Powdering her lip in the mirror, Clara hoped it didn’t look as bad as it felt. The pain had somewhat dissipated with the application of ice. Her aunt had placed an entire bag on it, which had caused her whole lower face to go numb, but at least the swelling had gone down.
Now it just stung, although that could also be from the rather nasty, slimy concoction that her aunt had slathered on after the ice. She thought she’d overheard her aunt saying it had worked well on her cat, Romeo, she could only hope she had misheard.
Clara had considered following the earl’s advice and dining in her room, but to be honest, she didn’t want to be alone. Her aunt had offered to keep her company, but she was driving Clara slightly barmy with her constant apologies. Even now, she was fussing.
“Never should have left you alone, Clara dear,” she insisted for the tenth time. “I got caught up in conversation with that dear Lord Bains.” A faint blush came to her cheeks, and Clara wondered what exactly they’d been talking about. “But even so, that disgusting man – to attack you so, I’ll never forgive myself –”
“I’m fine, really,” she cut her aunt off in an exasperated manner. “It is forgotten, and now at least we can convince Ralph that Sir Matthew Taylor is not suitable.”
Her Aunt Agnes was an absolute dear, and at first, Clara had relished the cosseting and fussing. Now she felt smothered. Her aunt looked away and fiddled with something in a trunk.
Clara sighed; she had always looked after herself in most situations – growing up in a bachelor household had made her self-reliant and quite self-assured for a young lady. When she was younger, she knew she could always go to her uncle with problems, but he had never sought to solve them, only to help her find the answer.
Physically, she had thought herself strong from all the riding and walking that she enjoyed although, after the events of today, she yearned for some instruction on how to defend herself against attack. Men were taught how to box and shoot from birth, but even her uncle had baulked at that.
Clara pulled her glove over her damaged hand – it had been aching today. That usually meant, for some strange reason, that it might rain tomorrow. She sincerely hoped not, as being cooped up all day did not agree with her, but then neither did games, she acknowledged. Oh, she was a moaning ninny, but she felt so…so…out of sorts! Nothing seemed agreeable.
It was that deuced kiss, she thought.
It had almost been more affecting than the first one. So gentle and soft – as though she was the finest treasure.
The smell of herbs and mint, the feel of his hot, muscular chest against hers – it had all combined to make her ache for him in quite an un-lady like way. She had hoped, (although she knew she shouldn’t), that the kiss might have progressed to the wildness of the masquerade one, but he had stopped.
And then…she didn’t really know what had happened. It was as though he’d pulled back, not only physically, but mentally. Pushing their attraction from his mind and treating her as merely a female in distress. A helpless one at that, she thought, as she remembered his dutiful questions on the walk back to the house.
“Shall I send up some laudanum to help you sleep?” he’d enquired. “A maid to help you undress?” he’d asked. “Someone to read to you?” he’d fussed.
Only the fact that her lip stung, and that she was struggling to keep her bodice from slipping down, had stopped her from asking, “And will they help me visit the water closet too?” An ungrateful comment maybe, but pertinent.
Sir Matthew, the earl andthatkiss had made her ill-tempered. Very ill-tempered, and she needed some light conversation, and some rather strong wine – that would help.
She stood, and kissed her aunt’s cheek, surprising her.
“I’m so sorry, aunt. You’re too good to me, and I’m so irritable. Ignore me please.” Her aunt patted her face.
“You’re allowed dear; you’ve had a trying day. Plenty of food and a light beverage will put you right.” With that her aunt turned to leave, and Clara followed, hoping her aunt didn’t feel the need to dilute her wine tonight.
ΦΦΦ
Rook glared at his friend, as Clara threw her head back and gave a hearty, deep laugh to Jack’s witticism. He frowned, as the man sat back admiring the graceful lines of Clara’s neck. He knew that look, and glowered some more, grabbing hold of his red wine and glugging half the glass in a most unbecoming manner.
It was, he acknowledged, his own entire fault.
He had decided to stay away from Clara Lockwood. Stay away, but keep her within arms reach – so to speak. He was positive that she would most likely bore him, if they spoke for any length of time, but equally, he didn’t want to raise her hopes of a match. Therefore, he’d just stay close and observe.
Thinking she must be feeling fragile after her ordeal, he’d asked Jack and Uncle Dill to keep an eye on her – Jack seemed to be keeping two. He’d also asked Hestia to move Clara up the table, with her aunt and Mayden; they were now only three seats down from himself.
He’d also noted that Clara had worn gloves throughout dinner, and surmised that she had injured herself in her fight against Taylor. He’d told Jack to keep her entertained, thus keeping her mind diverted from the ordeal of today.
Another low purr of smothered laughter came from Clara, and Rook clenched his jaw as he saw the flash of teeth from Jack. He honestly hadn’t expected to see her at dinner tonight: he thought she would be feeling too delicate.Delicate–hah!She was no such thing!
Listening in to their conversation, he was hoping to God she would bore Jack, and hence himself, with talk of ribbons, embroidery and maybe…watercolours.
