Page 82 of The Trouble with Tweed

“And I’d never advise that,” Rachel added.

Like her sister Dahlia, Rachel was blonde and blue-eyed and looked the part of the perfect English rose. However, where Dahlia had mastered the social gambit, Rachel refused to constructively engage in at all. She’d made no secret to the fact that she hadn’t wanted a Season in the first place and was only participating because her eldest sister had demanded it . As far as suitors went, she’d frightened off all but the most desperate of fortune-hunters.

“Oh, dear heavens,” Rachel said, looking over Claire’s shoulder. “Here comes Lord Forthswithe. He overheard me speaking to Margaret the other day, so he knows I’m not the incomprehensible ninny I’ve been pretending to be. I must go.”

Rachel fled in the opposite direction. The man frowned after her and changed direction.

“Poor fellow,” Beatrice mused. “It must be difficult to have to marry for money if one has any sort of standards.”

“We shouldn’t speak of that,” Claire said. “It’s vulgar.”

“What, marrying for money?” Beatrice laughed. “At least the fellow is honest about it and doesn’t hide his intentions beneath honeyed words. Besides, make no mistake, Claire—every single person in this ballroom is marrying for money, to some extent.”

Claire frowned at her but couldn’t find the correct end from which to start unraveling Beatrice’s tangled way of thinking.

Her sister smirked at her. “As if you don’t have fiscal requirements.”

“That’s different.”

“Because you’re already wealthy?” Beatrice arched an eyebrow. “How haughty of you to believe that makes us superior, when only a year or so ago, we would have been lucky to snag Lord Forthswithe.”

“Snag? What dreadful language. What rubbish have you been reading lately?”

Beatrice only laughed.

An hour later, Claire thought she’d never spent time in frivolity that had felt so interminable. Michael had danced once with his sister and once with the pretty brunette. If Margaret had intended to discover the young lady’s identity, she’d certainly forgotten—she was nowhere to be found.

Michael eschewed all other company, which was contrary to his natural character. Claire tried very hard not to notice him leaning against a pillar on the fringes of the glittering whirl, but it was impossible. Her eyes found him again and again.

He wore a dark grey suit with a charcoal waistcoat. It was understated and perfectly tailored to fit his tall, lithe frame. She smiled ruefully. The suit was so fashionable that Claire thought his mother or sister must have accompanied him to the tailor.

Claire had taken a position to the side and back of him on purpose. She wanted to observe his mannerisms—and his interactions with the mystery lady—without their eyes accidentally meeting. She stood hidden behind a large floral arrangement on a plinth and peeked at him every other second.

Claire could just see the reddish-blond hair that refused to lie properly, the periodic clench of his jaw. He seemed to be looking for something or someone, but from her angle of observation, she couldn’t see what.

As she watched him, a strange sort of desperation took hold of her. Was this to be her life? Hiding from a former friend because she was too embarrassed of her own behavior to apologize? Too cowed by her own wrongdoing to tell him that she’d misjudged him? She had done him the injury—she knew that now.

Any hope she’d had of a romantic future with Michael had been snuffed out by her own actions four years ago. But if all she could have was his forgiveness, Claire still wanted that. If—hope against hope—she might still have his friendship as well, wasn’t that slim chance worth every bit of embarrassment an apology would cost her?

It was this desperation that caused Claire to follow Michael when she saw him slip from the ballroom moments later. Perhaps if she caught him in the corridor, they might have a bit more privacy for a conversation that was bound to be awkward. Despite her firm resolution to apologize no matter the consequences, she didn’t relish the thought of half the ton overhearing.

But by the time her slippered foot hit the hallway carpet, Michael was nowhere to be seen. There was only the soft click of a door closing down the passage that belied his direction of travel. Claire hurried after him, the silk of her gown whispering as the volume of the party faded behind her.

He’d gone out into the gardens. Claire only hesitated a moment before opening the door and following. Perhaps it was appropriate—their relationship had all but ended in a garden much like this. Maybe their friendship could be salvaged in similar surroundings.

Claire took the obvious path of the garden walk and hurried through several garden rooms enclosed by shrubbery. She caught up to him swiftly. He’d leaned against a stone pillar facing her, as if they’d arranged to meet and he’d been waiting.

His eyebrows rose briefly in surprise. “Claire?”

Now that she was before him, her heart pounded and anxiety threatened to climb up the back of her throat. How to begin? There were so many things she wanted to ask him, so many things she wanted to tell him. She decided to start with the most important thing first.

Claire shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Michael.”

“You’re sorry?” His forehead creased. “Whatever for?”

His apparent confusion only served to muddle her. How could Michael not know what she had to apologize for? But then, perhaps he’d asked the question in the same way a tutor asked his pupil to recite the times table—to test if they knew the correct answer.

“For not speaking to you all that time. For not knowing you better. For jumping to the worst conclusion and punishing you and not even giving you the chance to defend yourself.” She said the words all in a gust so that by the time she’d reached the end, she was quite out of breath.