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Chapter 15
The Warmth of Summer
Time had come to mean something very different than it ever had before in the St. George house. For most of Clara’s lifetime, it had been something that came and went in minutes—long minutes of toil at the broom or feather duster, short minutes of sleep that evaporated in the glaring sun of each new day’s work.
Now, as summer finally came to London, it felt as though Clara and Edward passed entire glorious seasons in the span of a single week. There were times when she would lie awake in bed and was unable to recall if she and Edward had stolen a brief but steamy embrace in the linen closet earlier that evening or if days had already passed since then.
Ultimately, though, she found herself unable to care just when anything went on, as simply recalling the vivid memory of the heat that passed between them left her smiling to herself so hard it made her face hurt.
Sometimes she could scarcely believe what she was doing, carrying on with a man like Edward in secret. In truth, she had never had any secrets of her own to keep, and now the thrill of keeping their affair confidential was so all-consuming Clara felt she might catch fire. Each time Françoise commented on her jolly mood or Sophia wrote asking for scandalous details, it took all Clara’s strength not to burst into a heartfelt confession of love or song or idiotic laughter.
Then there were the sudden bolts of amatory inspiration that came to her during the few truly private moments they managed to steal from the early summer days. She could recall no book, no conversation with Sophia in which she had learned of the ways she devised to touch Edward and be touched by him, but each new discovery was so exhilarating that Clara was in perpetual fear of losing control of herself completely—which, in turn, was yet more fuel added to the fire they found themselves building together.
More compelling still than the disbelief in herself was her continual surprise at Edward himself. Though she had taken a liking to the man from the first time she had seen him, and he had never been anything less than kind, even doting, he still seemed more than anything to be a very serious man.
Yet somehow, now that they had reached their fateful agreement, Edward became as bold and impetuous as a schoolboy. The first time she felt his fingers sneak a pinch on her bottom just as Miss Forsythe’s back was turned, Clara had nearly passed out from the delicious mix of shock, excitement, and arousal. The second and third times were no less wonderful.
Her heart fluttered as she lay in bed and pondered the moments like this that just kept happening. Clara would remind herself that she, despite the intimacy of their relationship, had still not known Edward very long…yet it was an intoxicating thought that through her own good qualities she had somehow uncovered a rich, untapped vein of passion within the man.
* * *
“Did you…like being a maid, Clara?”
He could feel her hot breath on his chest from their position on the sofa in his study that they had come to regard as their special place. As his question lingered and she buried her head deeper into his embrace, Edward began to regret asking it.
“I don’t know,” she said in a quiet voice, her fingers still playing idly with the buttonhole in his open jacket. “I never really thought about it. It was just…how I lived.”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” Edward said, giving her a kiss on the crown of her head. “It’s just…well, I noticed Anna cleaning one of the rooms just this morning, and it occurred to me I really have never given any thought to what it must be like to do that kind of work. Especially every day. Ah!”
He stopped as he burst out in laughter, feeling Clara’s soft fingers tickling at his sides. “Of course, Mr Lights-His-Own-Fires spares not a thought for the women who clean up after him!”
Edward’s hand fell on Clara’s, stopping her in her play. In a hurt voice, he said, “I apologize, Clara, I didn’t think—”
But she would not let his sudden guilt spoil their brief moment of joy. Putting a finger to his lip just as playfully, Clara shushed him, saying, “I know, I was only joking. The truth is, being a maid is…well, it’s not difficult work, but it is hard work, if that makes any sense.”
Edward nodded. “I understand.”
“You are sure you care to hear about this?” she asked, looking up into his eyes with surprise. “It’s not a glamorous thing to talk about, and in my experience, most of you upper-class lot are quite put off to learn just how much filth is produced by your lifestyles, or just how that filth is taken care of right under your noses.”
He felt his face soften into a generous smile. “I promise, I am not scared to learn. Your time as a maid is part of who you are, Clara, and if I have not already made this clear, I am very much interested in who you are.”
Clara matched his smile with one of her own. “All right. But only if you return the favour. I want to know more about you. I want to know more about the family and childhood of Mr Edward Morton.”
Edward agreed without hesitation. “You are a shrewd bargainer, Miss Clara.” And as she lay pressed against him, he listened to the story of her employment, feeling her soft, beautiful words reverberate in his chest as he held her tightly against him with one arm.
That night ended up being a close call indeed. Clara and Edward talked so long and so late into the night that they had not even realized the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon until they heard the first rustlings of the household staff beginning their workday. Each was only just able to sneak into their own bedchamber without being detected, and they spent the entire rest of the day yawning from lack of sleep.
Yet all Edward could feel as he yawned his way through his duties was how much he would give for the chance to do the same again, that night and every night.
* * *
“You mean you really have never played buck buck, Your Grace?” Clara asked in a voice filled with shock. “It seems almost impossible to imagine a childhood without it.”
“I’m sorry to say I have not even heard of it,” said Christopher sombrely as they walked briskly across the grass. “But from what you describe, it sounds most diverting.”
To her eyes, Christopher looked uncomfortable in the open air of the St. George grounds—his pale skin looked all the paler, his eyes darker than ever as they squinted in the bright afternoon sunlight. But as the warm breeze blew across the glittering green lawn, Clara thought she could almost see the life begin to return to the poor, beleaguered young man.
“What of morra, then? Or mumblety-peg?” she tried with an encouraging smile. Seeing a sad shake of his head, she continued, “Tiddlywinks, then? Leapfrog? Hide and go seek?”
