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CHAPTERTWO
The carriage rumbled along the road as Clara attempted not to fidget. She’d learned the necessary lessons of a lady, but today, she struggled to remember them. She was going to see the new Earl of Kinross in just a few short days.
She tried to remain still, but she had no idea if she was elated by the idea of seeing him or if she were dreading it. Would her old feelings return? Even if they did, he’d never made a formal promise to her. Would he actually wish to secure a future?
She looked over at her newly married friend, the Viscountess of Ware. Priscilla had graciously agreed to chaperone Clara for this trip and she was well aware of Clara’s mother’s condition and Clara’s feelings of urgency. She’d like to be settled in time for her mother to witness the blessed event.
Priscilla sat to Clara’s left in the forward-facing seat, attempting to sleep while her husband, the Viscount Ware, lounged across from his wife with his hat pulled low over his eyes.
Next to him was Viscount Ware’s…well, Clara wasn’t entirely certain what Mr. Fitzroy was to the viscount. Friend? Associate? Protector?
They’d met some months ago when he’d been introduced as the viscount’s valet, but if that were the case, he’d be in the carriage behind them with the other servants. Why did he ride with them? Was he here for their protection as they traveled?
She took in his sheer size as her hands pressed together in her lap. Mr. Fitzroy was large. Impressively so.
Not overly fat, quite the opposite. He had the barrel chest of a heavily muscled man. But where Kinross was athletically lithe, Mr. Fitzroy’s muscles added a great deal of bulk to his frame. In fact, he looked like he hardly fit into his neatly tailored tweed coat. Coupled with his bowler hat, he looked like a valet.
His dark hair was rather unruly and his brown eyes a sort of warm shade that reminded Clara of melted chocolate, but the skin about them pulled into taut lines as though he grimaced often.
And the set of his mouth…he perpetually frowned.
She shifted again, wondering what he found so fascinating out the window. She flicked open her curtain to see another rolling field, which looked exactly the same as the one they’d passed the last time she’d glanced out the window. She let out a long sigh.
“In a hurry?” Mr. Fitzroy asked with a low rumble of disapproval.
That was another thing. Servants rarely spoke with open disapproval. She was certain they felt the emotion, they just kept it to themselves.
Her nose wrinkled as she looked back at him. “Traveling is the worst part of any journey.”
He cocked a brow, giving her sideways look as clear as if he’d just said the words foolish girl. “Traveling is the journey.”
A frown pulled at one side of her mouth. He wasn’t wrong. “I much prefer the part when we’ve reached the destination.”
“You’re anxious to arrive at a funeral?”
Gads. He was annoyingly right again. “I’m anxious to see my brother and other guests I haven’t seen in quite some time.”
He grunted some noise that sounded a bit like agreement. How irritating. She pushed back the curtain again to stare out at the field for no other reason than to end this ridiculous conversation.
But after a minute, Mr. Fitzroy saw fit to start talking again. “I’ve never liked funerals. For any reason.”
“Then why attend this one?” she asked, allowing the lace to slip through her gloved fingers. She glanced back at him as she waited for his answer because…well…she was curious. Would he say it was his job as valet?
He shrugged. “I’ve made a habit of going where Wyatt goes.”
Wyatt was Viscount Ware, Priscilla’s new husband. They were glowingly happy in a way that made Clara almost uncomfortable. How likely was it she’d receive that sort of future? “Why?”
Mr. Fitzroy grimaced as though the question pained him. And then he leaned back against the seat and commenced looking out the window as though he hadn’t just ignored a direct question.
She huffed a breath, wondering why the man insisted on being so rude.
It was Viscount Ware who finally answered. “Ralph and I are childhood friends.”
She smiled at the viscount in thanks, noting his return grin and how it pulled on the scar on his left cheek. Priscilla had told her he’d received the scar when he’d been attacked by thieves. Perhaps that was the reason Mr. Fitzroy felt the viscount needed protection.
Though Wyatt seemed to be in excellent shape himself.
Priscilla sat up too, patting her dark curls and adjusting her skirts. “Ralph is a former boxer,” she volunteered, as though that explained why he’d be attending a funeral. Clara did not point out that it gave little pertinent information, unless of course, he really was here to help keep them safe.
