Page 41 of Walk on the Wildsyde

Chapter 12

Pip,

Don’t you dare scold that poor child for her mischief yesterday. I know she behaved very badly, but you deserved nothing less. What on earth were you thinking? Honestly, do you really wish to marry such an insipid dimwit? If Tilly hadn’t had created a scene to make the point, I would have done so myself, and it would have been far more embarrassing to you than her little performance, I promise.

―Excerpt of a letter from the Most Hon’ble Catherine ‘Cat’ St Just, Marchioness of Kilbane to her brother, The Right Hon’ble Philip Barrington, The Earl of Ashburton (children of the Most Hon’ble Lord and Lady Lucian and Matilda Barrington, The Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).

23rd June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

“Well, now all becomes clear,” Moyra murmured dryly as Hamilton escorted her into dinner.

“Don’t make mountains out of molehills,” he replied in an undertone.

“Oh, I’m not. I’m making sense out of your sudden lack of interest and the way you hovered defensively around that glorious child. Not that I blame you,” she added with a sigh.

“I was not hovering,” Hamilton shot back, indignant at the implication.

Moyra slanted him a pitying glance and sighed. “Men. Fools every one of them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“It means you had better pull your finger out and marry that girl before Harold Barker does.”

“Harold?” Hamilton said with a snort, for he liked the fellow well enough, but he did not consider him competition.

“Harold is a man of taste and knows how to treat a lady. I considered catching him myself,” she added with a smile, before winking at Hamilton and adding. “I still might. But don’t underestimate him, or Malcolm Stewart, for he’ll queer the pitch if he gets the chance. That man does not like you, my dear.”

“That wee clipe can—”

“He means to cause trouble,” she told him, squeezing his arm. “I mean it. Act, before you are sorry for not doing so. I always knew you’d find yourself a nice girl and settle down. I had no illusions, and you gave me none, but that is the nicest girl you will ever see in all your days if I’m not mistaken. If you don’t secure your interest with her at once, you are a fool, and I never took you for a fool, love.”

Hamilton brooded over this, hearing the truth in Moyra’s words. He had not liked seeing Clara smiling up at Mr Barker. He hadn’t liked it one bit. The truth was, he felt sick with jealousy at the idea she might prefer speaking with any of the men here more than to him because he’d behaved like an ignorant arse when he ought to have treated her like the lady she so obviously was. She deserved better.

Hamilton waited for Mary to guide them to their seats before seeing Moyra settled and finding his own. To his relief, he discovered he was sitting beside Clara on her left, with Mr Barker on her right. Unfortunately, Miss Fleming sat on Hamilton’s left and seemed determined to monopolise his attention. The moment the vexing girl paused and took a breath, he turned to Clara.

“I am pleased to see ye looking so well, Miss Halliday,” he said, finding himself gazing at her profile. The candlelight shone on her lovely face, casting her fine skin with a soft, golden glow that gave him the oddest sensation. He’d been watching her all night in truth, listening to her, to the way she drew people out, genuinely interested in learning about them, about their thoughts and opinions. Everything about her was graceful, her voice soothing, her laugh a warm, rich sound that slid over his skin like silk, quite unlike Miss Fleming’s practised laughter that set his teeth on edge. It hit him then, square in the chest, making him strangely breathless and tense, as if he stood on a precipice as he realised Moyra was right. Clara Halliday was something special, a woman that did not come along more than once in a lifetime. If he lost her, he’d regret it for the rest of his days.

“Thank you, I am well,” she replied serenely, though she did not turn to look at him.

“I was worried for ye,” he added, which was no more than the truth.

“You are very kind, but I’m sure there was no need. Mrs Macready took good care of me.”

She still hadn’t turned to look at him and the need to have her meet his eyes was suddenly the only thing he cared about. If she looked directly at him, perhaps he’d be able to tell if she still thought about their kiss, about him, or if he had buggered everything up as he feared.

All the reasons he ought not to get involved with her suddenly seemed frail and insubstantial. Even her father’s obvious animosity could be handled. He was Hamilton Anderson, for God’s sake, not some witless fool. He could charm the birds from the trees if he cared to do so. Everyone said it. One crabbit old clergyman would not keep him from his goal.

He wasn’t entirely certain when the change had come over him, but he thought perhaps it was the moment he’d walked in the room tonight and seen Clara in that dark blue gown. He’d always known she was lovely, not just beautiful, but with the light of goodness and compassion that shone from within her. She was a woman who was gentle, sweet, and strong as a lioness. The kind who would put him in his place if the need arose and not submit to him just because he said so. He suddenly had the desperate desire to know everything about her, what music she liked, what books she had read, what it felt like to dance with her…. Did she wish to live forever in Wick? It occurred to him then how much of his time he’d spent of late thinking about her or trying not to think about her and failing. She was the perfect mix of sweet and tart, at once strong and fragile, and the thought of kissing her again made his entire body prickle with a restless energy that he doubted would leave him until he knew she was his.

“Did ye like the flowers?”

As he had hoped, she glanced around. “Hush,” she scolded him, her lovely eyes flashing. “Have we not enough trouble with Malcolm Stewart trying to stir the pot?”

“Dinnae fash yerself about him,” Hamilton advised her. “I can deal with his kind.”

“What does that mean?” she asked in alarm. “I will not have you fighting and causing trouble.”

“Are ye gonnae stop me, hen?” he asked in amusement.