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James and Chadbourne both looked at her again, and she glanced from one to the other.
“I’m speaking specifically of Rosemount,” she explained. “Now that you’ve found common ground about the fire, perhaps it’s time to reconsider…”
It took effort to swallow his pride and his words of confidence about triumphing in the dispute, especially sensing Chadbourne’s usual icy reception, but James managed. If he hadn’t already known, it was now clear that Irons’s actions could ultimately be sourced to Clara’s influence.
He turned to Chadbourne, only to find him shaking his head. James balled his hands into fists, seeking control of himself for Clara’s sake.
“I regret your misfortune in the fire, Robertson. It was the proper thing to do, standing up publicly against outright slander. But make no mistake, it changes nothing about Rosemount.”
As I thought.
Clara sat up straight but stared down at her hands.
Chadbourne turned to his sister. “Your charitable views do you credit, sister. I’m sure, however, Mr. Robertson understands very well that as men of trade, we’re bound equally by honorandreason.”
I’ve said everything I have to say to this Englishman.James resolved not to address the man any further than necessary. All that remained was for Clara now.
“Lady Clara is right.” James waited for all eyes to return to him.
Her green eyes looked up with hope.
He continued, “After the fire, certain things are clear in a way they weren’t. I’m more determined than ever—I’ll have what’s mine.”
Her mouth parted on a silent gasp, and James left, hoping that the flare in her eyes wasn’t from fear or offense.
∞∞∞
The sun set; the candelabras around his house glowed. James’s missive to Clara had received no reply.
He strode in a large figure eight for an untold time, and when he tired of that, he sat down to have another go at correspondence.
Silence was broken by the tip of his metal nib scratching out a letter—until he pressed so firmly in pent frustration that the nib ripped through the parchment. He tore it in half and crumpled it.
He needed to see Clara, damn it!
James again paced his study with purposeful steps, counting to mark the time. When he reached two hundred, he would leave his study and go wait in the mews—in case.
The door opened after one hundred and eight steps. He spun on the ball of his foot, his heart launching into his throat.
Clara stood in the doorway, looking at him like a thirsty person regarded water.
He didn’t know who took the first step; it seemed that they moved toward each other simultaneously. Clara’s’ arms fit around his waist; James melted around her, his head settling into the crook of her warm neck.
As if an invisible cord holding him taut finally slackened, his body and soul eased. The air drained from his lungs, and his muscles unclenched.
She held him tighter; her lips found his temple.
Until she embraced him, he hadn’t realized how much he needed her absolution. He let her take the full weight of his head against her shoulder as she ran her hands through his hair.
“James,” she crooned.
He made a sound in the back of his throat in response.
“Are you well?” She stepped back, forcing him to lift his head.
She inspected his appearance. His face was healing quickly, his nose and lips virtually repaired. Slight redness remained. She ran her fingertips down the bridge of his nose.
But he didn’t answer; he couldn’t. She opened her arms again, and he came into them. She held him tightly and rocked slightly, comforting him. He sighed deeply.
