Page 13 of The Trouble with Tweed

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Claire recovered enough to say. “Your skin is lovely. If I could swap with you, I would. No one ever asks you if you’re feeling quite well, do they?”

Sylvia had the same reddish-blonde hair as Michael. Though she was undoubtedly feminine, there was something about her straight nose and impish smile that clearly marked her as Michael’s sister. Claire thought that the late Viscount Rutheridge had more claim over his children’s appearance than their mother did.

Sylvia said, “Of course not, but I have to wear a bonnet and use a parasol to make sure I don’t freckle.”

Claire lifted a shoulder. For all the emphasis the ton put on pale skin, possessing it had never done her any favors. Instead, people whispered the word sickly behind her back. As if she had any control over how she looked.

“And what I wouldn’t give for your hair,” Sylvia added, worrying one of her own reddish curls with her fingertips.

“Your hair is lovely.” Lady Rutheridge looked at the ceiling as if beseeching it for help.

“Yes,” Michael added. “Why would you want to change it? It’s the same color as mine.”

“I know it is,” Sylvia said. “But somehow, the same color red looks far better on a gentleman than it does a lady. I think because there’s so much less of it.”

Claire got the impression she was witnessing the reenactment of a long-standing family argument. Each of the players knew their lines too well for it to be the first performance.

“What other color would you want it to be?” Claire asked with a kind smile.

“Black or brown, or a lovely blonde. Anything but red.” Sylvia surprised Claire by reaching over and smoothing the curl that Claire’s maid had left draping forward over one shoulder. “See, your hair color is perfection.”

Claire said, “Some would say it’s rather boring—trapped somewhere between brown and blonde.”

“Who says it’s boring?” Michael frowned.

“I think it’s lovely,” Sylvia said, giving Claire’s curl a final pat of approval.

“Sit, sit. I’m sorry we mauled you the second you walked through the door,” Lady Rutheridge said, waving her hands. “Have some tea.”

Michael looked heavenwards. “It’s my house, Mother. I believe that’s my line.”

“Yet you didn’t say it,” she said earnestly. “I was standing there tapping my foot, giving you the eye, waiting for you to offer, but you went on grinning at Claire and Sylvia like a simpleton.”

Claire couldn’t hide the laugh that erupted from her.

Sylvia shook her head in mock embarrassment. “It doesn’t do any good, apologizing for them. Though I probably don’t have to remind you of that.”

Claire smiled. “I suppose it makes for a lively household.”

“Indeed it does,” Lady Rutheridge said. “Henry and I were never bored. How could we be, when we had the most marvelous children in all of England?”

“Just England?” Michael teased. “You should have gone to France—maybe there was a son there you would have liked better.”

“Perhaps,” she said with a dramatic sigh, “but you know your father was never fond of traveling.”

Claire smirked. She’d forgotten the Rutheridge way of speaking to one another with chiding informality. She’d always wondered if it was just in front of friends, or if they spoke that way in front of everyone.

The tea and refreshments arrived. Each of them participated in the same comforting routine that they’d enjoyed a thousand times—spreading a napkin and accepting a filled cup. Claire noted that Sylvia went directly to the scones and jam, and she smiled. Some things hadn’t changed over the past four years.

“Well, dear, put us out of our aching misery,” Lady Rutheridge said, turning to Claire once they were settled around the table. “What on earth did my son do that you haven’t spoken to him in four years?”

“Mother.” But even as he chided Lady Rutheridge, Michael’s blue eyes were keen on Claire’s face, as if she might give something away.

The question might have once sent a bolt of anxiety through her, but Claire found herself smiling slyly behind her teacup instead. “I’ll not allow you to cheat me out of all of his guessing.”

“Very well. I suppose it hardly matters,” Lady Rutheridge said, deftly plunking pressed sugar flowers into her tea with tiny silver tongs. “If I know my son, now that he has you speaking to him again, he’ll never let you go again.”

An odd thrill twisted her stomach, but Claire ignored it. Lady Rutheridge certainly didn’t mean anything by her off-hand comment. Besides, Claire wasn’t in the market for a rake.