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Chapter Two
Clara observed as her brother and that brooding Mr. Robertson exchanged words about whose deed was valid. She drifted a dozen steps to the table, wondering what about the model had attracted Mr. Robertson’s inspection.
Perhaps she ought to stay away from him entirely; he was an interloper who’d momentarily frightened her,andhe was disrupting her carefully planned surprise picnic.
For all of David’s opposition to this intriguing individual, he wouldn’t have sent away the butler and footmen if the man posed any actual threat.
Any other threat, that is, besides commercial.
It was most curious—and concerning—that her brother discussed his business interests with the man, who was obviously privy to her brother’s true role. If this information became known to theton, their family wouldn’t just exist on the fringes. They’d become completely unacceptable.
Not a half hour earlier, David had shared his frustrations about the disputed property title. Each of the enterprises needed access to the river, and each thought it owned such rights.
Two dishonest associates had surreptitiously negotiated separately with her brother and Mr. Robertson, each thinking he was buying the land and exclusive water access. They discovered the fraud almost immediately and simultaneously, but the previous owners absconded.
Clara understood both men’s frustration, but her impatience grew as they volleyed claims of ownership. The stakes were as high as their behavior was puerile!
She stepped even closer to the table, her true aim being to observe Mr. Robertson again. She scanned his demeanor, wondering whether he could listen to reason. With the right approach, she might make headway with David, but what of this stranger?
Clara’s eyes moved over the man’s form. He responded again to David without raising his voice, but his body was rigid. She noted his clothing, well-tailored and of fine material, but almost stark, and there was no disguising his unusually muscular frame.
No matter how well-dressed, this was not a man of leisure.
She blinked, recalling her task. This man was around the same age as David, a few years past thirty. Yes, their differences were apparent, but so too their striking similarities.
Could they not see how the Rosemount conflict could be an opportunity rather than a quandary?
She glanced at David, his hands clenched now. Clara stepped between the two men before her brother could stop her or engage with Robertson again.
She extended her hand in peace, planning her opening.
Allow the hostess of this fine picnic to speak.
But that brutish body of Mr. Robertson’s barreled toward her.
Surprise and confusion fired at the same time. Why wasn’t she jumping away?
Her palm pressed into his soft ivory shirt—and into compact muscle.
The thin shirt did nothing to stop the transmission of the heat from his body, nor did the shock of the moment arrest the heat from his eyes. She stared into them, a kaleidoscope of moss green and cinnamon, overlaid with a smattering of dark gold flecks.
The next thing she knew, David pulled her arm back and stepped in between them.
Clara curled her hands and held them against her chest, holding onto the man’s warmth.
“Have youno honor whatsoever?Trespassing into my home? Accostingmy sister?”David’s voice grew louder.
Clara moved to her brother’s side, urging him to step back.
Mr. Robertson’s jaw tensed; his nostrils flared as he took in a deep breath. His open coat, jacket, trousers, and cravat were flat black. The pointed collar tips of his white shirt stood up against his throat and emphasized his powerful neck and square jaw. The striking black and white of his clothing were echoed in his own coloring, from his moonlight skin to the nearly jet hair.
It was his large hands that especially gave him away, and they flexed by his side now before balling into fists.
Frissons rippled down her spine—excitement at the sight of his capable hands—and a moment of fear.
“It is I who accosted our uninvited guest, brother, not the other way around.” Clara adopted her hostess mask and infused her voice with calm and a hint of humor. “Mr. Robertson, I beg your pardon.”
Clara’s only reaction to her brother’s huff of indignation was to squeeze his arm without taking her eyes off Mr. Robertson.
