Page 37 of The Untamed Heart

There went his ungovernable tongue again. It seemed to have developed a mind of its own, and he no longer had any control over the things it said—to her, anyway.

“B-But that’s your given name,” she said, her astonishment vividly illustrated by the wideness of her eyes and the hectic flush of colour that rose to the gaudy heights of a ripe tomato.

Hawkney, who had been flattered and feted by some of the most beautiful women in Europe, did not know why he found this so very appealing.

“It is. Yours is Clara, mine is Alex. Do you have a problem with that? It’s a reasonable name, is it not? Nothing ridiculous that might be found in some ludicrous novel.”

He was babbling. He never babbled. Oh, this was bad.

“Alex is a fine name. I… I like it very much. It suits you,” she said, still watching him as though he had run mad and might set fire to the curtains at any moment.

“Good.” He let out a breath. Well, that was fine. They had established their names. They would have a cup of tea. Everything was fine. Perfectly normal.

He needed a lie down.

Clara watched as the Duke of Hawkney carried the tea tray through to the shabby parlour in her aunt’s house. It was so unreal she wondered if she was dreaming. Perhaps she’d had an apoplexy, she mused, for surely her dreams would never be so bold as to produce a vision of Hawkney—Alex—explaining that he was her friend.

She wondered if he was ill. Certainly, he seemed out of sorts. What had all that been about Sheringham? He’d appeared almost cross, though with her or with Sheringham she could not fathom, and why? Anyone would think he was jealous. That thought made her snort with amusement, and Alex looked around as he set the tray down. Clara pretended to cough.

“Dust,” she said weakly. “The maid cleans downstairs on Wednesdays. So you see, I am not Cinderella, sweeping the grates clean.”

He grunted but did not seem any happier.

She wondered what it must feel like to him, to be in this tiny room which was probably about the size of a broom cupboard on one of his great estates.

“Milk and sugar?” she asked, looking up to find him studying her.

Lord, but his eyes were beautiful, such a dark shade of blue, a colour she had never seen before. Realising she was staring, she looked hurriedly away.

“Milk, no sugar, I thank you.”

She prepared his tea and handed it to him, hoping he did not find the quality undrinkable. She had never remarked it herself until she’d become a regular visitor at the Hall. They had quite spoiled her with tea that was fresh and aromatic, for now she found her aunt’s cheaper bohea harsh and tannic. She was at once rivetingly conscious of the chip in her own cup and turned it so he could not see.

Clara took a sip and winced, horribly aware that he would dislike it.

“I’m sorry, the tea isn’t very good. Aunt… well, she prefers a cheaper blend than you are used to,” she said apologetically. “At least it has only been brewed once, however. By tonight it will be quite vile. I’m afraid you have ruined me by allowing me to run tame at the Hall. I have delusions of grandeur and dream of fine China tea served in Limoges porcelain with those splendid little macarons that your marvellous chef makes.”

She laughed nervously, wondering why on earth she had revealed something so deeply embarrassing to him of all men, and increasingly disturbed to find him scowling at her.

He set down his cup without even tasting it. “It won’t do, Clara.”

Clara stared at him in confusion. “I do beg your pardon. I could get you a glass of water. Oh, I might have some orgeat!” She leapt to her feet, about to scurry away.

“Not the bloody, damned tea,” he said savagely.

Clara jolted in alarm and Alex clamped his jaw shut. After a tense moment, he sighed.

“I beg your pardon. That was unforgivable, I ought not to have spoken so… so roughly to you, but I’m serious. Do you have no one else? Did your parents leave you no means of—” He broke off, looking torn between mortification at a very serious breach of etiquette and the determination to say what he meant. “I know I have no right, save that I am your friend, Clara, but someone must think of the future. What will happen when your aunt dies?”

Clara twisted her fingers together in her lap. “I don’t know.”

“Has she left any provision for you in her will?”

She shook her head, wishing he had not raised the subject. Fear tangled her insides into a tight knot. “Everything goes to my cousin. Her nephew. She always doted upon him.”

“And would he—?”

He must have seen the horror upon her face, for he stopped.