Anne Barbour (11 page)

That was not to say he did not like women. A coquettish smile, a lilting voice, the gratification—and temporary oblivion—to be found in a warm, scented embrace, were all pleasures taken by him with gratitude and, yes, even friendship. However, he had never given anything of himself in these encounters. He had little to give, after all, and it didn’t do to let oneself become too close to another. Down that path lay only disillusionment and grief. No, he had always known just where he was in his affairs. In all of them, everything had been above board and spelled out ahead of time, just the way he liked it.

Then what had he been about tonight? Granted, the lady was supremely enticing, and to find oneself alone in a candlelit room with such a creature—one in a fairly advanced state of undress to boot—was surely an incitement to dalliance. But he had already established in his own mind that this particular lady was not for seduction. After an initial leap of anticipation, his pulse had slowed, and he had felt himself fully in control.

Then she had drawn near, and his detachment had exploded like a bolt of flame rising from the sun’s surface. Her beauty, the scent of her, robbed him of coherent thought, leaving him a shaken, unthinking mass of desire. He could no more have stopped himself from at long last giving into the temptation to see if that glorious hair really felt like coiled satin than he could have voluntarily elected to stop breathing.

From there, of course, it was not to be expected that a man could resist the temptation to taste the warmly curving lips raised to his. It had been an experience like nothing else he had ever known. In an instant, he had become lost in the wonder of her mouth and the sweetness that lay within. If she had not pulled away ...Hmm.

Had he detected a response in the lovely widow? Her eyes, just before she turned to flee the room, had not been angry, but rather almost frightened. Perhaps she had been concerned about the possibility of being discovered in the arms of her butler. She had seemed as startled as he at his sudden transformation from respectful servant to importunate lover.

He slumped into a handy chair and listened to the silence around him. This must not happen again. He would be on his guard in the future against taffy-colored hair that seemed alive with a vitality of its own and huge eyes filled with a blend of childlike vulnerability and womanly wisdom. There would be no more candlelit encounters. No more confidences shared over brandy.

In a matter of weeks, if all went well, Claudia Carstairs would be out of his house and out of his life. As would her appalling relatives, he added, reflecting on the contretemps he had witnessed earlier between Jonah and young Master George.

He began his preparations for bed and felt, for the first time in many years, an odd sense of loneliness.

Chapter Eight

The next several days passed in relative calm. Despite Claudia’s best efforts, she and January met each other frequently in the chambers and corridors of Ravencroft, as well as the stables, but his demeanor toward her reflected nothing beyond the most neutral of servant-employer relationships. Claudia was relieved, of course, that the man did not again attempt to importune her, yet she was forced to admit that she felt somewhat bereft as well. The memory of his lips pressed against hers remained with her in startling clarity.

Claudia entered the breakfast room one morning, after the Reddingers had been at Ravencroft for a week. It was a small, sunny chamber on the south side of the house, giving onto a charming garden, and as she entered, she was relieved to note that January was nowhere in sight. A respectable repast, including eggs, ham, kidneys, and toast ready to be spread with fresh, country butter, was laid out on the sideboard, and a footman, one of the young men drafted from the village community for the duration of the Reddingers’ stay, stood by to give assistance.

As she moved farther into the room, Claudia’s relief turned to dismay as she noted that the only other person at table was Fletcher Botsford. Her heart sank within her. She knew that ordinarily he was a late riser, and must have left his bed early with the express purpose of waylaying her. She had been successful at evading his clumsy attempts to get her alone, but now she was virtually trapped.

Observing his expression of pleased delight at her entrance, she forced her lips into a smile.

“Why, good morning, Mr. Botsford.”

Mr. Botsford’s somewhat vacuous features fell into what could only be termed a smirk. “I have asked you repeatedly to call me Fletcher, my dear lady. Surely our acquaintance is of long enough standing to permit ourselves this small informality.”

“Oh, I think not, Mr. Botsford,” she replied breezily. “I’m afraid I was raised to set great store by the proprieties.”

The smirk faded, to be replaced a moment later by a hopeful grin. “It is a lovely day,” he began, pausing to wait for a gesture of encouragement that never came. “Um, that is, I was hoping that you would come for a drive with me. Perhaps we could even pack a pic—”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Botsford,” Claudia interrupted, looking not in the least regretful, “but Lord Winlake is driving over this morning to look at one of our yearlings. He is visiting friends nearby, and will only be in the area for a day or two.”

“Clau—Mrs. Carstairs!” His lips pursed in astonishment. “Surely you do not handle the business matters of your estate. You must have retainers for that sort of thing.”

“Of course, she does.” A jovial voice sounded from the doorway, and, as was becoming a habit, Claudia’s fingers clenched instinctively. “What can you be thinking, m’dear? Of course you will accompany Botsford. Jonah can take care of his lordship.”

As though the matter were settled, Thomas turned to the sideboard and proceeded to mound large portions of food onto his plate. He waved at the footman to indicate his desire for coffee, then settled himself at the table across from Claudia. “Do you good to get out,” he finished, speaking through a mouthful of eggs and ham.

Before Claudia could reply. Rose fluttered into the room. Directing the footman to procure fresh toast,
very
lightly buttered, and a cup of tea brewed from a simmering, but not boiling kettle, she perched on a chair next to her husband.

“Gracious,” she declared in a faint voice. “I vow I did not sleep a wink last night. Claudia, dear, you really must instruct your housekeeper to replace the mattress on my bed. It has such a large lump in it that my back is one large welt this morning.”

“We do not have a housekeeper,” responded Claudia quietly, her fingers now in a permanent cramp, “but I shall relay your message to Aunt Gussie.”

Rose’s hands waved in a petulant gesture. “Oh yes, I had forgotten. Well, never mind then. I do not wish to add to Aunt Augusta’s burdens. I shall make do.” Her eyes lifted ceiling-ward in pious resignation.

“Nonsense,” Thomas said. “I’m sure your aunt will not regard the matter as any trouble. After all, this is your home, too.” He shot a sidelong glance at Claudia, and at her expression of affront, he added, “That is, we are all family, are we not?”

Claudia did not reply, but abruptly rose from the table. “If you will all excuse me,” she said, fighting to control the anger that bubbled within her, “I must go out to the stables and see that all is in readiness for Lord Winlake’s visit.”

“But what about your drive with Botsford?” Thomas’s voice was high with vexation, and the piece of toast he held in one beefy hand paused in its journey to his mouth.

“I’m afraid that will be impossible,” said Claudia tightly. “For I do, indeed, find it necessary to see to the business of running the stables myself.”

Hurrying from the room, she practically flew down the corridor and did not stop until she had reached a small service room into which she darted for haven. Slamming the door behind her, she leaned against it with closed eyes, breathing deeply.

“Is anything amiss, ma’am?”

Startled, she whirled about to discover January standing at a table at the far end of the room, garbed in a voluminous cloth apron. Claudia stared unbelievingly. He was polishing silver!

Carefully placing a gleaming sugar bowl next to the creamer he had just finished, he repeated his question in a manner that perfectly blended concern with deference.

She did not answer at once, merely staring for a long moment at her hands, which she slowly stretched out before her. At last, she bestowed a fiery glance upon the butler.

“Yes, January,” she said in a controlled voice. “There is something very definitely amiss. I am surrounded by persons who appear to have made it their main goal in life to steal Ravencroft from me.”

To Jem, the young widow seemed to be in danger of simply exploding in a burst of lightning bolts. She advanced, her eyes taking on the color of polished shell casings. ‘I’ll tell you something else, Mr. January.
Nobody
is going to take this place away from me. Do you hear?
Nobody.”
Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and strode from the room.

Jem could have sworn he heard a sound of trumpets as the door clicked soundlessly behind her.

Well, he mused as he picked up a tarnished butter boat and thoughtfully applied polish and cloth. Well and well, indeed. The situation was growing interesting. Was he to infer that Mrs. Carstairs suspected his true identity? He smiled to himself at his Gothic interpretation. The smile faded. He had by now searched through nearly all the volumes in the library. He was still hopeful that he would find the information he needed to prove his claim to Ravencroft. He admired the widow’s tenacity and her fearless determination to fight all comers, but if matters turned out as he hoped, it would be to no avail. In the end, she would have to admit defeat, and her departure would take place soon afterward. He would miss her, but... He paused in his ruminations, surprised. He would miss her. What a ludicrous thought—it implied that her presence was of importance to him. Which it wasn’t He had learned long ago the importance of being sufficient unto oneself, and the idea that a woman he had known but a few days could creep into his life was—well, ludicrous.

Still, the house would seem empty without her clear laughter and the warmth of her ready smile. His brief conversations with her left him smiling and wanting more. Her wit and intelligence—her generosity to those around her—had admittedly got under his skin. And he rather regretted that he would not have another opportunity to feel the brightness of her hair beneath his fingers, or the softness of her body pressed against his.

He shook his head and applied himself with renewed vigor to the butter boat.

After she left Jem, it took some moments for Claudia to recover her equanimity, but her mood improved measurably some hours later when Lord Winlake purchased the yearling with a minimum of haggling. When his lordship left, he declared his cheerful intentions of recommending the Ravencroft stables to his friends.

The remainder of the day was consumed in discussing with Jonah how the purchase price was to be spent, and in delighting Aunt Gussie’s soul with the promise of a new closed stove for the kitchen. Just before it was time to dress for dinner, Claudia left the service area of the house and, entering a quiet corridor on the ground floor, she slipped into a small, pleasant little room that lay at the far end of the east wing. Emanuel had used it for a study, and once she had removed all traces of its previous occupant, she had appropriated it for her own use. In one corner stood a small, elegant Sheraton desk, and here she sat to do the estate accounts. On a table nearby rested an untidy stack of books culled from the library. They were her favorites, and many a reflective hour was spent perusing their contents or simply daydreaming in a comfortably shabby chair drawn up to catch the window light

It was into this chair that she now sank gratefully, and settled back to review the day’s events. She murmured aloud the figure she had received for Cloud, the yearling, and lovingly rolled it around in her mind. This was the second large sale she had made in a month. There were four yearlings yet to be sold, in addition to one or two mares, and the prospect of...

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door, followed immediately by Fletcher Botsford’s balding head, peering into the room.

“Dear lady,” he said breathily, whisking the rest of his thin frame inside. “I hope I do not intrude?”

Since she was slouched in a chair staring at nothing, she could hardly claim the press of her affairs as an excuse for fobbing the man off. Claudia managed a weak smile and a “No, of course not, Mr. Botsford.”

She rose to greet him, hoping that if they both remained standing, his visit would be of short duration. He grasped her hand and pressed it to his lips. Restraining an urge to wipe her fingers on her skirt, Claudia stepped back hastily.

He wandered about the room, riffling the papers on her desk and turning over the books to examine the titles. Stifling her irritation at his familiar behavior, she asked, “Was there something you wanted, Mr. Botsford?”

He turned back to face her. “No, no—I merely wondered where you had got to. Haven’t seen you all day, after all.” His gaze traveled over the little chamber. “So this is where you keep so busy all the time.”

“Yes, here and in the stables, and often in the fields.”

“The fields?” He glanced about again, as though expecting to see a plow standing in the corner.

“Yes,” she replied smoothly. “I like to go out now and then to see how the work progresses. Harvest is not far off, and there is much to be done to insure a good crop. We are expecting an exceptionally good growth of corn this year. Our alfalfa is shoulder high already and the clover is doing well, too. Would you like to come with me tomorrow?” she asked innocently. “I plan to help with the sheep delousing.”

She watched with malicious pleasure as he paled. “De... ? Uh, no. I think not. I have a delicate constitution, you know. I shouldn’t wonder if I’m not allergic to, er, sheep.”

Claudia assumed an expression of regret

“But I didn’t come in here to talk to you of corn and sheep,” he continued with an air of injury. He advanced on her once more, and again availed himself of her hand. “My dear,” he continued throatily. “You must know of my feelings for you. My, ah, long-standing feelings, that is. I want...”