Bound By Temptation (16 page)

Violet granted him the favor of answering only the second. “I am not unaware that you have expressed some interest in a certain lady, and I wanted to know if you wished her invited also. I did not desire to put pen to my thoughts and decided it would be pleasant to call upon my brother. Is there some difficulty with that?”

So perhaps Violet was not totally letting him avoid the issue of their relationship. Clara knew her friend well and could sense that Violet’s discomfort was as great as Masters’s. Whatever stood
between them was too great for a simple dinner invitation to repair.

Masters looked taken aback by Violet’s words, but answered smoothly, if with some tension. “Of course not. Were you thinking of Miss Thompson or Miss Pettigrew? And what does this have to do with Isabella?” He was clearly impatient to find out about his sister.

Violet shot Clara an exasperated and questioning glance. “I was not thinking of either Miss Thompson or Miss Pettigrew.”

Surely Violet didn’t think that—No, the very thought was preposterous. Just because Clara and Masters had been seen spending some time together was no reason to think—Clara’s mind was spinning with the possibilities. Even with all that had happened between them she had never considered Masters as a possible marriage partner. Why, the very idea was ridiculous. Then why did her mind seem to fix on it?

“—and Isabella. No sooner did I arrive than your agent burst in and asked for you.” Violet was talking again, and clearly Clara’s wandering mind had missed some crucial detail.

Masters had not missed it, and he leaned toward his sister, his face drawn tight. “My agent? I wasn’t expecting to hear from him until the end of the week, and even then only by post.” Masters stood and began to pace. “What did he say?”

“He wouldn’t tell me much. In fact, he seemed annoyed that I questioned him at all.” Violet clearly had been put off by the man.

“Then what did he have to say that sent you here in such a rush?” Masters asked.

“It was more what he didn’t say. He clearly had hurried to your home with news to share. And he did tell the porter it was about Isabella—I could not help hearing that. I knew I must find you at once so that you could question him in more detail.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so immediately?” The tension grew with each word he spoke. “We must be off. Is the man still at my house?” He turned without even looking at Clara.

“I believe so,” Violet said, turning her face from her brother. “The porter was doing his best to settle him in the library when I left to find you.”

“Then let us be off.” With little more than a nod back, Masters grabbed his sister’s arm and made for the door.

“You will send word when you know more?” It was all Clara could do to get the words out as Masters grabbed his hat and gloves from the table.

“Of course,” he said.

Then they were gone.

Clara sat for a minute, letting the sudden silence close about her. She didn’t understand what had just happened. Masters and Violet had seemed more separated by the task of finding Isabella than united. She had always considered adversity a bonding agent, but whatever issue lay between Masters and Violet prevented this.

And yet—Masters had forgotten her the moment his sister’s name was mentioned.

She felt wounded.

It was foolish, but true. She examined the feeling for a moment, trying to understand its cause.

She had no reason to be upset. She was glad that there might be news of Isabella. So why did she feel a sudden need to mope?

It was that damn man again. For weeks now they had been coconspirators in his quest to find a bride, and now suddenly she was excluded. One second he was rubbing her wrist and causing butterflies to dance in her belly, and the next she was forgotten.

But then so was his quest. In less than a minute he had forgotten his desire for a bride. There was some satisfaction in that.

What was she thinking? Clara grabbed her needlework from the basket beside her. She chose a bright red floss and stabbed the needle into the fabric.

She would not care about what that man thought or did. She did not need him. She would concentrate on her own life again.

Isabella might be in Richmond. Masters could only stare down at his desktop as the thought circulated through his brain. His sister might be found. After all this time searching, she might be so near.

Should he have searched longer himself?

His hands trembled.

What would he do if he found her? It could as easily lead to heartbreak as resolution. Finding
Isabella would definitely force him to confront his sins.

He picked up a quill and set it down again.

He needed to tell Clara. She would be so pleased. That, at least, was simple. He had seen the concern that marked her face whenever he spoke of his sister and she didn’t even know the whole story.

It was this last thought that stopped him cold. No, Clara did not know the whole story, not even Violet did. Why then did he have a sudden urge to share it all with Clara, to open up those dark secrets of his heart that he had so long hidden?

Clara was nothing to him.

Yes, she was helping him find a bride, and yes, there had been the wonder of that one morning, and yes, there was this continued urge to touch her, to feel the rapid beat of her pulse, to—

He should not be thinking such things.

He would not even put to thought the temptations his mind played with. Clara was helping him find a bride, and all else must be forgotten as if it had never been.

He picked up his pen again. He would send a note and explain the need for his absence that night. He would leave it to her to make explanations to Miss Pettigrew and Miss Thompson.

Leaving Clara with such a task would make it clear to her where she stood in his life.

Why did it feel like he was trying to make something clear to himself instead?

“Clara.” She heard Robert’s call from the hallway.

Could she never be left with a moment’s peace? Since Masters and Violet had rushed out the day before, she’d been constantly trying to find peace. It was hard to admit that it didn’t matter whether she was left alone or in company—peace was not to be found.

“Clara!” This time he yelled.

There were some habits it had proved impossible to break him of, and screaming from room to room was definitely one.

She considered a moment, placed a smile on her face, and yelled back, “I am in here.”

He came in the room, grinning widely. “If I call loud enough you can always be depended on to holler back. I know that you hate it, but you always do it anyway.”

“I do enjoy how it amuses you, but really, couldn’t you just learn to ask the porter where I am?”

“And where would be the fun in that?”

“You are impossible,” she answered.

“And you love me for it.”

It was true, she did. She must have an attraction for impossible men: first Michael, then Robert—if in a certainly different way—and now Masters. Perhaps that was all the attraction was. He was impossible and therefore she found him irresistible.

She looked more closely at Robert. He was still smiling. “What has you in such a good humor? It is clearly more than getting me to scream like a scullery maid.”

“I’ve found it.”

“Found what?”

“The perfect gift for Jennie.” His voice was filled with pride.

“And whatever did you choose?” It was probably a pretty necklace. Men always ended up with jewelry. Even Michael had given her shiny things more often than not.

“Books and plants.”

“You are teasing me.”

“No, I am not. I thought about what you said about finding something that she would like. You know there is nothing she likes better than her garden.”

“Except perhaps you.”

“Well, I might grant you that.” His eyes crinkled. “But she loves nothing more than to stick her hands in the earth and make things grow.”

Clara had not known that. In fact, she had a hard time imagining the ever-spotless Jennie covered in dirt, but she trusted that Robert knew of what he spoke. She nodded.

“Well, I met Mr. James Wedgewood at Tattersall’s. He mentioned the newly chartered Royal Horticulture Society, and, after talking with him, I came up with a list of several books to get Jennie. Plus he’s going to arrange for some cuttings so that when Jennie moves into the Abbey, I will have the greenhouses already stocked with some exotic specimens. What do you think?”

Clara thought that was the most wonderful thing she had ever heard. “I am so proud of you,
Robert. You will make Jennie a truly wonderful husband.”

He blushed. She sometimes forgot how young he was. It was not a matter of years, but of experience. He had come to London a few times during her marriage and perhaps a dozen times since, but he remained a country boy. Perhaps after his marriage he would come to London for a full season and take up his seat at Lords.

Michael had never done that. He’d considered life too much fun to spend time listening to “dusty old men.” At the time she had felt great sympathy for him, but now—having sowed her own wild oats—she wondered if a little more responsibility might have been better.

“You’re looking solemn suddenly.” Robert interrupted her thoughts. “I do hope it is not about me and Jennie.”

“Of course not. I have only smiles when I think of you. No, I was thinking of your father.”

“Normally, you smile when you think of him too. You won’t always talk about him, but he makes you smile.”

“I guess not all memories can bring joy. Even when they are mostly good.”

Robert pushed back to his feet. “I am sorry to have brought you low. I only sought to see if you liked my gift for Jennie.”

She looked up at him. “It is a perfect gift. It will show her how much you care and bring her hours of delight, perhaps even a lifetime of it.”

“I will take my leave then. I promised to meet some fellows at the club and then proceed.”

“Do not think I haven’t noticed that you do not tell me where. I am sure you’re off to Jackson’s to pound at each other a bit.”

“You will notice I do not answer.” He turned to walk toward the door. “I will be leaving for Aylsham in the morning so I will not be out too late.”

“We’ll wait and see.”

She listened to his boots echo down the hall. He was so happy with Jennie. Clara could only be relieved that she had done nothing to ruin their match. She made an even firmer resolve that she would live by society’s dictates until they were wed. Lord Darnell would have no reason for complaint.

I
sabella is gone from Richmond. I am off to Cornwall.

Clara supposed she should be happy for any communication from the man. Masters had at least not depended on Violet to fill her in on the details of his search for Isabella.

Well, that was not strictly true. If she wanted details, she would certainly have to apply to Violet.
I am off to Cornwall
could not be considered detail. Still, it was something.

She carefully folded the note away. She didn’t really need to look at it anymore. She could see those two sentences in that strong masculine hand with her eyes closed.

Three weeks and she received two sentences—and that had been more than two weeks ago. She wondered if he’d written to either Miss Pettigrew or Miss Thompson or if she’d been supposed to inform them of his whereabouts, as she had when he went off to Richmond for a day or two at most.

Three weeks.

She dropped the folded sheet on her dressing table and stared straight into the mirror. Had she changed in three weeks?

It was a silly question on its surface, but she knew that she had changed.

Her hair was still the same, dark and thick with a tendency to curl, but never when it was supposed to. Her skin no longer had the shiny firmness of youth, but it was still smooth and clear, with only a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. She leaned forward, examining the first faint lines that ran from the corners of her eyes. They were always more visible when she’d neglected to wear her bonnet.

She scrunched her nose, exaggerating them. They did not disappear as quickly as they once had, but she did not mind. They were the markers of every smile she’d ever had. She would rather have the lines than have missed the experiences that caused them.

She drew her brows together and released them, running a finger over the two slim furrows that grew between. Those had never been there before Michael’s death. It would be easy to wish them away, but even there she was not sure. Would wishing them away be changing the past or only canceling out her emotions?

She sat back, pushing away from the mirror. She was being a twit. She turned thirty-one tomorrow, not a hundred and three. Yes, she had the beginnings of lines, and being a woman she was entitled to fret about them, but this was silly.

Picking up her brush, she ran it through her hair, counting the strokes as if that would blank her mind.

Her eyes were drawn again to the mirror. She imagined herself as she had been on the day of her marriage. She’d been slimmer then, her breasts less full, her waist more willowy. She rather thought her eyes had been more carefree, but less playful at the same time. She was a woman now, a woman ready to deal with whatever cards the world dealt—even this one.

She tossed the brush on the table and rose, pacing across the room and back.

It was good that she was no longer that sweet young girl who had drawn Michael’s attention. That girl would be useless now. It was far better to be the woman she had become.

The woman who could face scandal and laugh.

The woman who could smile at the most powerful of men and cast a spell.

The woman who managed her own money, hired her own staff, and never let another take responsibility for her actions.

It was good to be this woman.

Clara walked across the room and stood before her high dresser. She reached up with care and took the ebony and mother-of-pearl box off the top. She turned to her bed and placed it gently on the coverlet.

She took a deep breath before opening it.

Inside were her memories.

First, the badly written poetry that Michael had
slipped into the base of her glove on their second meeting.

Second, a silk scarf he tied around her eyes during some foolish Christmas game, before leading her into a quiet room and kissing all the thoughts out of her head.

Third, a dried flower from her bridal bouquet.

A small book of verse from their first anniversary.

A single pearl on a chain from when she’d told him she was expecting.

There was no marker for the baby that had never come to be. Some memories needed no marker. Her hand fell to her stomach and cradled it.

There was a small piece of black twill cut from her widow’s weeds. She’d debated that marker, but somehow it had seemed fitting to include that chapter of her life. She picked up the shred of fabric and rubbed it between her fingers.

Michael was the past. She’d acknowledged that in the past year and felt only bittersweet sadness now. He would have understood what she needed to do.

The fabric dropped back into the box. She reached into her own pocket and with some care pulled out her watch, Michael’s watch, the watch that had started this all. She ran her thumb over the case, kissed the warm metal, and then with great care, she added it to the other memories. All these memories were stored on the top shelf of the box. She grabbed it by the edges and lifted it out to reveal the space underneath.

Here was more of a mixture of her life. The medal she’d won by running the fastest at a local fair at the wise old age of twelve. A bit of silk braid from her first real gown. A locket with her parents’ pictures.

And then the more recent memories. It was these she pulled out to examine.

There were not many of them. Only three, to be exact.

The world imagined so many more, but there had been only three.

Brisbane, the dashing young duke. She pulled out the flashing green ring. If it had been real, it would have ransomed a king, but it was only paste—the marker of a masquerade that had started her rapid fall from grace. She’d thought she could love the young duke, but he had not been ready for love. And if she was honest, neither had she. Michael had still been too often in her thoughts.

Mr. Winchester. His memento was an ivory gaming marker carved like a fish. It was small and fragile, so unlike the man it represented. He’d been a cit, a self-made man no self-respecting hostess would ever have entertained. His lower-class accent had entertained Clara and made her laugh. Not even Michael had known how to laugh like Jeremy Winchester.

Jeremy had sailed off to America to seek a place that he could call home, far away from the narrow, cold streets he’d grown up on. She’d understood his need and sent him off with a kiss and a letter of introduction to a shipbuilder’s daughter. They’d
wed within three months and now had four children of their own. She’d been full of delight when she heard, and there had not been even a heartbeat of regret.

Finally, she picked up the large brass button and rolled it between her fingers. She’d been to the vilest of gambling dens with Alex Clarke. He’d been so lost in the horrors of what he’d seen in the muds of Belgium that nothing else could penetrate. She’d done her best, been her gayest, but none of it had mattered. Some men were beyond a woman’s abilities to save.

She dropped the button back into the box and returned her other memories as well. The top shelf was firmly fitted into place, and she closed the box with a decisive click. She stared at it for a moment before picking it up and carrying it to the next room. She opened a bottom drawer in a tall dresser and wedged it between a pile of old gloves and an ostrich feather headdress that might have been worn to court by some long-dead relation of Michael.

Shutting the drawer, she stood and walked to the door without turning back. It was time to move forward.

Her hand dropped to her belly for the briefest of moments.

Yes, it was time.

Time to face what the world must be.

She needed to know where Masters was.

Her baby was already three months along, and she needed to make decisions before things pro
gressed further. She had never thought to marry because of a baby, but then life was full of the unexpected.

He was tired, tired to the very bone. It had only been three, nearly four weeks of searching this time, but the lack of success had robbed him of all energy.

He thought he’d accepted that Isabella was gone. Now he had to accept that he could never give up hope—and that the pain would never fade. Finding her might have presented problems of its own, but this was so much worse.

It was not the first time he had failed to find his sister—indeed, this was the first time he was sure beyond a doubt that he was on the right track. She had left behind a scattering of belongings in Richmond, and the small filigree brooch had definitely been Isabella’s. He had given it to her for her fourteenth birthday. He hoped it had been abandoned in error and not intentionally. He needed to still hope that he could reconcile with her—if she was ever found—as he mostly had with Violet.

He sagged forward, letting his head rest in his hands. She had been in Richmond, and all the signs were that she had gone on to Cornwall. Only in Cornwall there was no indication that she had ever been there. The family she was reported to work for did not exist. Nobody could remember seeing a girl with bright cinnamon curls. He’d found one driver who might have remembered picking her up
in Richmond—Isabella was memorable—but he couldn’t remember where she’d left the coach.

Masters rubbed an aching temple. It should have been good to be home, but it didn’t feel like a home. The house was so quiet, as it had been for the last year or more, and nothing seemed quite right. Violet had described it as dull and dour, and he feared that she was right.

He longed to hear Clara’s laugh filling the halls. Her laughter always made him feel that things were right in the world. And the smile that went with it, when her lips turned up just that little bit at the corners, and—

He would ask Miss Thompson to wed. It was time he had a wife and a home. Being here, in this house, only made that clearer in his mind.

If he wed, he would stop thinking unsuitable thoughts about unsuitable women, or an unsuitable woman. He would marry and take his bride home to Dorchester. He would set up a nursery and lead a peaceful life.

He would visit London on occasion to see Violet, and he could hope that at some point Isabella would be found, but in the meantime, he would let life progress. A sweet young wife, a baby watched over by a nurse, an assured place in society, and the continued success of his estates—this was the life that he wanted, the life that he would have.

He rubbed his temple harder, wishing the pain would leave. It was tempting to take to his bed for the rest of the day, but having made up his mind, he would brook no delays.

He would call upon Miss Thompson and then her father. His natural inclination was to call upon her father first, but he wanted to be sure that nothing in Miss Thompson’s affections had changed while he was away.

He would call and ask her if she wished to ride in the park. He might even decide to address her by her first name. He paused for a moment trying to remember what that name might be. Kathryn. That was it.

After he was assured that she received his suit favorably, he would call upon her father. Perhaps they could have a July wedding. It was not much time, but if he remembered Isabella’s past ramblings correctly, June was the preferred month for weddings. July must be almost as good.

He was determined to do this right.

And once that was all in place he would visit Clara—Lady Westington—and inform her that his quest was done. He felt both eagerness and dismay wash over him at the thought. It would be good to see her again, to show her that he had not needed her help to accomplish his task. Miss Thompson did not seem put out by his desire to be sure that she understood what he looked for in a proper wife.

No, it was only Clara who seemed to find his wants questionable. Well, not all his wants—some of them she seemed to understand very well. He had a vision of creamy skin and passion-darkened topaz eyes. Her lips would part slightly, the flash of a tongue between. He’d lean closer, feel the heat
of her breath upon his neck, taste the sweet salt of her skin as he—

She would never make a biddable wife. She was too full of ideas for that.

He rubbed his temple again. It sometimes felt that he had spent his whole life giving up what he wanted for what he should have. He felt like a child in the nursery, eating eggs with toast soldiers instead of cake.

Damnation. It was all too much for him. He would go upstairs and rest. Then, when his brain had recovered, he would speak to Miss Thompson. He picked up a pen and wrote out a card letting her know of his intention to call.

He rang for the porter to take the card and poured himself a good snifter of brandy.

He took a deep swallow, feeling the burn down his throat. The door creaked behind him.

He held out the card without turning. “Please deliver this to Miss Thompson. I assume you know the direction.”

“Why yes, I do.” The low, husky voice filled the room. “Do you want me to convey a verbal message as well?”

“What are you doing here?” Masters answered, his eyes taking their fill of the luscious picture Clara presented. There was nothing the least bit daring about the butter yellow silk dress, but somehow it gave the impression of revealing as much as it covered—or perhaps it was simply her shape. He suspected that even burlap would flatter her curvaceous figure.

She laughed softly, drawing his eyes to the long lines of her throat. “Is that the correct way to greet a guest? Didn’t I listen to you explain to Miss Northouse how the exact words you used in greeting explained the different levels of relationship?”

“You are hardly a guest.”

“What am I then?” She had stepped toward him, her voice growing even huskier. The light odor of vanilla and cinnamon wafted to his nose. How could a smell be so comforting and arousing at the same time?

And what was she to him? He could not think of a single word that described their relationship. “You are simply you.”

She gave him a crooked smile that said she understood very well his avoidance. “But, to answer your question—no matter how rudely it was phrased—I am here because it truly is urgent that I speak to you.”

“Have you heard something new of Isabella?” He could not stop the hope from sounding in his voice, but even as he spoke he knew that was ridiculous. “No, of course you have not. It must be something else. Miss Thompson or Miss Pettigrew, perhaps?”