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Chapter Nineteen
Clara awaited James in his drawing room for the second time in her life.
She was following proper social protocol, fighting her curiosity and sitting sedately. The repetitive ticking of the longcase clock brought her back to her first visit, when she’d walked in the door trying to contain anticipation and fear, and its infernal noise frayed her nerves.
Clara’s smile was bittersweet thinking of the woman she’d been that night. Brazen, determined—and scared.
Her eyes strayed to the table against the wall, where they first kissed and she learned his taste. Where he tenderly freed her hair—and captured her affection.
Clara gathered her strength and suppressed her curiosity. How she wanted to go and examine the items James had swept so dramatically to the floor that first night!
You mustn’t!
Comportment!
Decorum!
Those words had lost their power over her, she found. They had no teeth.
She laughed at the senselessness of sitting demurely when a few nights ago she had lain with her legs spread in James’s big bed, arching her hips.
Anyway, didn’t James like it when she was as unfettered as her unpinned hair?
He himself had wandered aboutherparlor!
In a rush, she stood and soon traced a finger over the small painting’s gilt frame. She hadn’t noticed its details that first night; of course, she’d only seen it face-down on the carpet. It looked to be a Scottish landscape.
As she examined the finery and reminisced about her own time on top of the table, her awareness of the large object in the opposite corner of the room grew.
The gorgeous grand piano was practically intoning her name.
“Beg pardon, Clara,” said James. “I’ve only just now returned.”
Excitement and anticipation effervesced as he strode over. They both smiled somewhat idiotically, taking each other in.
“Good evening,” she breathed.
“Your absence makes three days feel like a hundred,” he murmured.
He kissed her lingeringly. When his hand moved up from her waist and he deepened the kiss, Clara pulled back.
“Just returned? Were you out?” She reached up to finger a lock of damp hair that fell over his forehead. His face was shiny. Pulley had undoubtedly provided him with wet linen to cleanse himself upon entering.
“At the docks again. More shipments of near to useless wool.”
“However is that occurring?”
“Apparently, I’ve a bunch of cheats working for me in Australia. It will take time to determine who, butsomeoneis stealing the difference in payment. We pay for washed wool of high quality—large amounts of it—and, lately, receive shipment after shipment of unwashed rubbish.”
“Will you be able to use it? Or sell it?”
He fingered the neckline of her dress distractedly. “We seemed to have buyers for the first lot, but they lacked the funds. Now I have an entire warehouse full of it, enough to hold a wool market on site.”
“You want to board a ship right now, don’t you? To sail to Australia and sort this out.” She eyed him knowingly.
He laughed. “Yes. But it’ll be resolved, eventually. I have a few men under sail already, though by the time they arrive, the cheats will be in hiding. With favorable sailing conditions, the crossing one way takes a hundred days, probably more. I’ll have to be patient.”
He kissed her neck. “Patient aboutthat, at least. In fact, Idon’twant to board a ship. I want to be distracted from sheep altogether.”
