Page 61 of The Trouble with Tweed

“What if none of them want me?” she whispered.

“Impossible,” he said, even as a heady swirl of victory ran through him. “You are beautiful, intelligent, caring, and protective of those you love. If any man doesn’t see your worth, then he’s an idiot.”

Claire stared at her teacup and nibbled her lower lip, an action that never failed to threaten to drive him to distraction. So he sipped his tea and looked out the same window her gaze had just vacated.

“I don’t want to do this alone,” she admitted. “That was half the benefit of⁠—”

Michael smiled, pleased at the implication in her words. She thought she would miss him. Little did she know, he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You don’t have to do it alone. We can still be in each other’s confidence. I daresay you know things about the feminine set that I don’t. I certainly know things you don’t about the males. We can help each other.”

Claire took a fortifying breath, then nodded. “Very well.”

“It’s a deal?” He held out a hand again.

She reached out and slipped her delicate hand into his much larger one. He shook it and released her fingers, though he wished to hold her hand for the rest of the day.

Or for a lifetime, he corrected.

“It’s a deal.”

CHAPTER 20- CLAIRE

That night, staring up at her canopy, Claire regretted the impulsive agreement she’d made with Michael. Not because she’d agreed to try for a love match—after meeting many of the Tweeds these past few weeks, she had been slowly coming around to the idea herself. She might not have, if there had been a single Tweed whom she could imagine marrying, but every single one made her want to grimace with revulsion.

Claire regretted agreeing to Michael’s idea, because if he was going to look for love, he’d surely find it. Besides, he most definitely wouldn’t be around as often. He’d be courting, but he wouldn’t be courting her. A clench of jealousy snaked through her stomach at the thought of him bestowing his smiles on someone else.

Claire rolled over and boxed her pillow into a more comfortable shape. Feathers tufted upward—perhaps she’d hit it a little too hard. It wasn’t her fault she was irritable. She couldn’t sleep. It was far too bright in her room this evening. The moon must have been at the perfect angle to shine through the curtains.

She flopped back down with a sigh and tried to figure out which young lady Michael might call upon the following day. Claire hadn’t paid much attention to the beautiful new crop of ladies this Season. They hadn’t been her competition. She’d been focused on the wallflowers, the kind ladies with wonky noses and crooked teeth. Those had been her competition for the Tweeds.

Now, she wished she’d never made that idiotic deal with Michael. It was going to be stressful enough to sit in the front parlor and smile like a ninny at every single gentleman who walked in. How foolish to think that any of them would look at her, with Lily in the room! It would feel like waiting for one of her sister’s biscuits to be crowded off her plate so that Claire might catch it.

Perhaps Michael would court Dahlia Warrington and sink both her and William into a similar misery. No—she corrected herself. It wouldn’t make Claire miserable to see Michael courting someone else. She would simply miss his company and his assistance navigating the social whirl. That was all.

They were friends, though. Which meant she’d undoubtedly be invited to Michael’s wedding. Suppose Claire should know the bride, too! She wondered which side of the church she’d sit on—the bride’s or the groom’s. But of course she’d sit on Michael’s side, for no matter who his bride would be, there was no possible way that Claire would be closer to her than to Michael. He was her very dearest friend.

Unless! Claire sat upright in bed on a gasp. What if Michael married one of her own sisters? Hadn’t he admitted that Lily was very beautiful? Hadn’t he jokingly mentioned marrying Lily on that afternoon at the tearoom? And he knew Lily well enough to know that she was kind and gentle and everything a man could want in a wife.

If Michael married Lily—which, of course, he would—both of them would be lucky to have the other. It would be the most perfect union in all of England. But if he married Lily, then Claire wouldn’t be sitting on either side at the wedding. She’d stand behind Lily with an excellent view of Michael’s face as he traded vows with her sister.

Claire could see it—the ardent love on his face, lighting up his expression. And to think he might have been hers four years ago, if only… Claire groaned and slid a hand over her face. She was surprised when her fingers came away damp. She was crying, imagining Michael and Lily’s wedding.

It was the stupid mattress. It had to be—shoddy construction or the maids hadn’t flipped the feather bed in ages. She lay down once more, rolling to her side and swiping her face clear of her silly tears. She shouldn’t be upset at the notion of Michael and Lily.

Claire loved Lily. She wanted to see her end up with a man just like Michael. Someone responsible and steadfast. Someone kind and devoted. Someone trustworthy, who loved and cared for his family, who saw them as cherished responsibilities and not dreary obligations.

There could be no charge against him—no current charge, at least. The only one Claire had was the one that had separated them four years ago. On that she had no doubt, though she didn’t think that Lily would let such a thing separate her from the man she loved—especially when he was as wonderful as Michael.

And now, if Claire were being honest, she wished that she had never let it separate her from him four years ago, either. How was she to celebrate holidays and other events, knowing that she might have been Michael’s wife?

“This is foolish,” she hissed into the silence of her bedroom. “That time has passed.”

She wiped away fresh tears from her cheeks, gave her pillow one last punch for good measure, and determined to count sheep instead of regrets until she fell asleep.

The following day, Claire joined her sisters in the front parlor. Beatrice arched an eyebrow and opened her mouth to speak, but Lily caught her eye and shook her head. Claire pretended not to have seen, but she was grateful for her intervention. She was nervous enough—her spine felt as taut as a violin string—and she didn’t know if she could bear the weight of Beatrice’s teasing.

Things had been markedly better between them ever since their chat. Beatrice’s mocking was once again of the normal, sisterly variety, and not designed to cut. However, her wit was still sharp and acerbic, and Claire felt soft and very vulnerable at the moment.