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She dismissed the idea.Preposterous!
“Prepare the front parlor and show him in,” she heard herself say.
The whites of Loudon’s eyes flashed brighter in the candlelight for the instant that his eyes widened. He hesitated, staring as if to confirm her order.
She raised an eyebrow.
He left to do her bidding, closing the door behind him.
Molly opened her mouth but resorted to wringing her hands. She was a decade older than Clara, and her thin face reflected a lifetime of worries. The oldest of fourteen children, her mother had died bearing the last babe, and Molly’s position helped support the family.
“It’s all right; Mr. Robertson is an acquaintance. He’s known to my brother. A business associate. Nothing is amiss.”
Molly’s face didn’t ease as she set about straightening Clara’s clothing.
Clara looked down at herself. She was decent—barely. Having dined alone at home, she was loosely corseted.
She raised her chin. Mr. Robertson would have to take her as he found her.
The bell-shaped sleeves of her fashionable white blouse ended halfway between her wrist and elbow. Molly tugged at the lace-edged undersleeves to settle them perfectly against her wrists, then shook out her forest green skirts.
“Does my hair require repair?” Her hands flew up to the curls that had escaped against her neck.
“Aye, my lady, please sit down.” Molly pulled out the silver comb and numerous pins, combing her fingers through Clara’s wavy hair, parted in the middle. She gathered it back again, rolling and pinning.
Clara held her sterling silver comb as if it could ground her, tracing her fingers over the familiar grape-cluster design.
The front door opened, then closed.
Molly fixed the comb back in place just as Loudon returned.
“Mr. Robertson awaits in the parlor, my lady,” he announced tonelessly.
Clara moved to the door and sensed Molly trailing after her. “You may wait here for me,” she said without looking over her shoulder.
“My lady!” Her maid’s whisper was frantic.
Clara stopped for just a moment. “All is well, Molly.” Her tone was reassuring, even as she fixed her maid with a look.
At least, I hope it is.
Loudon announced her visitor with such dispassion that Clara knew he disapproved most heartily. She sailed past him and into the front parlor.
In any case, her guest absorbed all of her attention.
Clara’s eyes widened at Mr. Robertson’s poor manners. The man couldn’t be bothered to hide that he’d wandered about her parlor whilst left alone! Instead of waiting near the fire or settling into one of the chairs or settee, he stood, examining her decor.
Indeed, a small statuette of a quail was perched on his large palm.
She would have pursed her lips—had they not parted at the sight of him.
La, he’s tall.She herself stood five feet nine inches, a head taller than her female contemporaries and above most men. She didn’t quite feel dainty in his company, but she felt aware of herself as a woman in a way she usually did not.
Male social equals rarely commanded her attention, and she usually ignored their attention. She sensed them counting out her dowry.
Others looked through her, dismissing her because of her family’s scandal, or now, her advanced age.
“Lady Clara,” Mr. Robertson managed after staring at her raptly. Without looking, he put down the quail, scraping it across the table.
