Authors: Alice Duncan
He
wanted to keep her around. For a long time. Maybe even—well—forever.
At
the very least, he was going to do his best to make her agree to be
his mistress.
Good
heavens. Tom had never had a real, honest-to-God mistress before. The
thought frightened him.
Rubbing
his eyes and leaning back against his headboard, he decided he was being
absurd and determined to think about it before he did anything irrevocable.
This apparent overnight insight was only the result of the erotic dream
he’d just had and which had been interrupted at an extremely inopportune
moment. If he’d stayed asleep another minute or two longer, he might
have been able to experience what he’d primed himself for last night
in Claire’s arms.
Tom
gave himself a mental punch in the jaw and told himself to behave. He
had some serious thinking to do.
After
devoting a good forty-five minutes to the task, he sighed and mumbled,
“I don’t want her to leave me.” In fact, the thought of her leaving
Partington Place and him filled his very soul with dread.
The
revelation was not particularly welcome. He’d never considered needing
another human being the way he needed Claire. It seemed like such an
unmanly thing to do.
On
the other hand, he’d come to highly value Claire’s practicality,
companionship, and sweetness. The notion of wanting to keep her by his
side wasn’t entirely idiotic.
The
thought of marriage paid his brain a brief visit but was so appalling
to Tom, whose memories of his parents’ marriage had left an indelible
blot on his soul, that he buried it immediately. Hell, Claire already
lived with him; he couldn’t see any reason to commit so rash a folly
as marriage.
No.
There was no need for him to marry her. If he played his cards right,
he was sure he could get her to fall in love with him. Then she’d
want to stay and he wouldn’t have to do anything stupid.
Frowning,
he swung his feet over the side of his bed and realized with annoyance
that his night shirt had gotten tangled up around his waist again. Damned
irritating inconveniences, night shirts. He wondered if Claire would
mind if he slept naked after they became lovers.
Then
he realized how silly he was being. He’d jumped from hoping she’d
fall in love with him to worrying about sleep wear after they were lovers.
First, of course, he’d have to convince her that it would be in her
interest to have him, and Tom didn’t have a clue as to how to go about
that. Especially not after he’d lost his head last night and scared
her to death.
“I
guess I’d better apologize first.”
He
didn’t know what he’d do if she felt she had to leave his service,
but he knew for sure he wasn’t about to let her get away.
Damn,
but civilization was difficult to deal with. There were so many cursed
rules. Out on the prairie if a man needed something, he just tracked
it down and shot it. He didn’t have the leisure—or the need—to
bother with finesse. Here in the damned civilized world, he had to woo
it first. To tame it. Taming virgins was a new experience for Tom; he
wasn’t altogether sure he was up to it.
Nevertheless,
he knew he’d bungled badly the night before. Poor Claire was a delicately
nurtured female, and he’d all but mauled her, right on his own ballroom
balcony.
As
he buttoned his vest and straightened his tie, Tom muttered, “So be
it.” If he had to court Claire Montague, then by God, he’d do it.
All
the way down to the breakfast room, he cudgeled his brain, trying to
remember the arts his mother had drilled in him when he was a boy. He
wished he’d paid more attention.
He
paused at the door, trying to think of a suitable apology to offer her
this morning. Deciding his best course would be honesty, he pushed the
door open, intending to beg Claire’s forgiveness and try to persuade
her to let him make it up to her properly.
His
intention was thwarted immediately. She wasn’t there.
“Where
the hell’s Claire—er, Miss Montague?” She couldn’t have left
him already, could she?
Jedediah
looked up from the eggs he’d been shoving around on his plate. He
was the only person in the room besides Tom.
“Oh,
hello, Tom.” Jedediah sighed dreamily. “Beautiful morning, isn’t
it?”
Frowning,
Tom muttered, “I guess so. Where’s Miss Montague?”
“Your
first Artistic Evening went splendidly, Tom. Wasn’t Miss St. Sauvre
brilliant?”
“I
guess so. Where’s Miss Montague?”
“Her
‘Ode to the Spotted Horse’ was truly an homage to Appaloosas, wasn’t
it?”
“Is
that what it was? Where’s Miss Montague?”
“I
don’t think I’ve ever met a lovelier woman in my life. She’s the
epitome of everything I’ve ever even imagined in a female. Don’t
you think she’s wonderful?”
Perceiving
at last that his companion was paying him no mind, Tom peered at Jedediah
closely. The man looked moonstruck. He’d been in the presence of love-sickness
before and knew one had to proceed carefully around its victims. He
sat down next to Jedediah and put a hand on his shoulder. You had to
capture their attention first or they were of no use at all.
“Jed,”
he said, shaking his shoulder. “Jed, look at me for a minute.”
When
he was absolutely certain Jedediah was looking at him, he said, enunciating
carefully, “Do you know where Miss Montague is?”
“Miss
Montague? She was here a minute ago. Didn’t eat a thing. Then she
went away again.”
“She
didn’t eat?”
“No.
I don’t think so.”
Jedediah
sighed soulfully and Tom knew he would soon be lost to him again. He
said quickly, “Did she go to her office?”
“Hmmmm?
Who? Oh, Miss Montague? I don’t know.”
Good
grief. Deciding he’d have to hunt Claire down on his own, which shouldn’t
be too difficult for a professional scout, Tom rose and prepared a plate
of fluffy biscuits, bacon, butter, and jam. When he found her, he was
going to be damned sure she ate something. He wasn’t about to let
her waste away on him.
Claire
had tried her level best to braid her hair into her usual two braids.
She wanted to get her old, prudish self back if at all possible so that
the wanton creature who had invaded her body would go away and never
rear its evil head again.
She’d
had no luck. The permanent wave Miss Thelma had used on her bangs was,
well, permanent. And the back tresses had been cut and were now too
short to braid properly. The only way she could possibly fix her wretched
hair without help was to knot it in the back and leave the front curly.
Even when she tried wetting those devilish curls, they persisted in
bouncing back and taunting her with their verve. Their élan. Their
wretched gaiety.
Claire
didn’t feel gay. She felt awful. At least she could dress properly,
so she did. Selecting the dullest, brownest, plainest frock from a closet
full of dull, brown, plain frocks, she buttoned it up to her neck and
tiptoed down to breakfast.
She
must have stood at the breakfast-room door for a good five minutes trying
to bolster her courage before she dared enter the room. She almost fainted
with gratitude when she encountered only Jedediah Silver. When she’d
finally managed to get his attention, he’d told her Tom hadn’t been
down yet.
Thank
heavens.
Now
she sat at her desk, wringing her hands and wishing she hadn’t been
too cowardly to meet Tom in the breakfast room. He might go more gently
on her with Jedediah in the room. But no. She’d run away like a coward
and now she was alone. When he came, there would be only the two of
them. There would be no third party to mitigate what must surely be
his total denunciation of her morals and manners.
So
involved was she with self-censure that when his soft knock did come
at her door, she jumped and uttered a soft cry. Then, too frightened
to speak, she pressed her hand to her bosom and stared at the door as
if it were about to devour her.
When
it slowly opened, she began to tremble.
“Miss
Montague?” came Tom’s voice from behind the partially opened door.
He sounded quite friendly, and Claire could scarcely believe her ears.
“Y-yes?”
she managed weakly.
“May
I come in for a minute?”
Might
he come in? Why was he asking her that? This was his home. She cleared
her throat and said, “Of course, Mr. Partington.”
The
door opened, and Claire beheld Tom Partington, a penitent smile on his
glorious face, a plate of biscuits and jam in his hand, his incredible
eyes twinkling like sapphires. She nearly fainted.
“Will
you ever forgive me, Miss Montague?”
“F-f-forgive
you?”
“For
frightening you so badly last night. My behavior was unforgivable.”
His
behavior was unforgivable? Claire opened her mouth, then shut it again
when she realized she didn’t know what to say.
“I
know how I must have frightened you, Claire. Miss Montague. May I call
you Claire?”
“I—you—well—of
course.”
“Will
you call me Tom?”
Thunderstruck,
she gawked at him for several seconds before she murmured, “Good heavens,
no. I simply couldn’t.”
He
looked disheartened and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I had hoped
we could mend our fences this morning. May I at least join you for a
little morning chat?”
Gaping
at him like the fool she knew herself to be, Claire murmured, “Of
course.”
“Thank
you.” Tom looked down at his plate. “I brought you some breakfast.
May I please ring for coffee? You should eat something.”
Suddenly,
Claire knew what she must do. She stood in a flurry of brown calico
and resolution, determined to get this over with.
“Mr.
Partington, my behavior last night was insupportable. I behaved in a
manner not merely unseemly, but—but depraved. Why, you must conclude
me to be beyond forgiveness. Indeed, I can scarcely believe it of myself.
I’m sure you have no reason to believe this, but truly I’m not given
to—to vile behavior of that sort.”
To
her absolute horror, tears began to sting her eyes. She swallowed the
ache in her throat, determined not to cry and humiliate herself further.
“You
what?”
Tom
looked astounded and Claire almost stamped her foot in frustration.
Surely he wasn’t going to pretend that nothing had happened between
them, was he?
She
sucked in a deep breath. “Do you want me to leave your service, Mr.
Partington? I would not blame you if you desired me to do so, although
I—I had hoped we could come to an understanding.” She would not
cry. She told herself so as she dug in her pocket for her handkerchief.
“Me?
Want you to leave?” Tom stood as still as a plaster statue of a waiter,
his plate held stiffly before him. “Do you want to leave?”
She
couldn’t hold his gaze a second longer. Her gaze dropped as she whispered,
“No.”
Expelling
a gigantic breath, Tom said, “Well, then, let’s not even talk about
it. Of course, you don’t want to leave. Last night—well, it was
a momentary breach of propriety, Claire, and it won’t happen again.”
She
was afraid to look at him for fear she’d find he didn’t mean it.
“Thank you.” She almost jumped a foot when he clunked the plate
down on her desk.
“Thank
you
, Claire. I was afraid I had ruined myself in your eyes forever.”
She
did look at him then, a swift glance to ascertain if he was joking.
It certainly didn’t seem like a joking matter to her, but she guessed
an honorable gentlemen like Tom might have a large tolerance for disgusting
behavior. He looked only relieved, and Claire began to believe he truly
had forgiven her and that she really would be allowed to remain at Partington
Place.
“Now,”
he said bracingly, “will you please ring for coffee so we can eat
some of these good biscuits. I’m hungry, and Jed said you haven’t
eaten anything yet either.”
Although
her stomach rebelled at the very thought of food, Claire whispered,
“Of course, Mr. Partington.” She pulled the bell cord and sat down
at her desk once more, feeling a little more secure with several feet
of furniture between herself and Tom.
Tom
popped a piece of bacon in his mouth and began to butter a biscuit.
“Hope you don’t mind, Claire. I’m used to getting up and eating
a lot earlier than this. I’m not used to these city hours.”
Claire
blinked at him, surprised yet again by this declaration that he wasn’t
the sophisticate she’d always believed him to be. “Of course. Please
eat.”
Scruggs
knocked, opened the door, and walked slowly into the room. He looked
as if his best friend had died overnight, but he always looked like
that. Claire was used to it.
“May
we please have some coffee in my office, Scruggs?” she asked politely.
With
a look at the food on her desk and then a look at Tom, Scruggs said
at last, “Very good, ma’am.”
Right
before the door shut behind him, she heard him mutter, “A perfectly
good breakfast room, and where do they decide to spread the crumbs?”
She
felt guilty. If she hadn’t been such a coward, they would be eating
in the room designed for such practices instead of in her office.
After
swallowing his bite of biscuit, Tom said, “Uncomfortable sort of fellow
to have around, old Scruggs, isn’t he?”
Gripping
a pen in her hands to keep them from shaking, Claire said, “He’s
simply accustomed to orderliness and routine, Mr. Partington. I’m
sure he doesn’t mean to be uncivil.”
With
a beautiful grin, Tom said, “I don’t mind, Claire. I think it’s
sort of fun to have a death’s-head butler on my staff. Makes the place
more interesting.”
A
smile trembled at the edges of Claire’s mouth and Tom said gently,
“That’s right, Claire. Please smile for me. I won’t feel so much
like a brute if you smile for me.”
Of
course, his kind words made her want to cry again. Fortunately, a knock
came at the door and she managed to salvage her composure by jumping
up to answer it. She took the coffee tray from Scruggs’s hands.
“Thank
you, Scruggs.”
“Think
nothing of it, Miss Montague. I’m sure I’m used to having my morning
chores interrupted by trivial requests.”
Scruggs
shuffled off and Claire brought the coffee tray over and set it carefully
on her desk.
“All
right. Your turn, Claire. You must eat something. I won’t let you
not eat.”
Looking
at the biscuits this time with the knowledge that Tom didn’t plan
to dismiss her from his service, Claire actually began to feel a faint
quiver of hunger. She sat down and took a biscuit.
“Mrs.
Philpott’s a very good cook, Claire. I’m glad she’s over her fuss.”
As
she buttered a biscuit, Claire murmured, “Mrs. Philpott is an artist
in her own way, I believe. I expect all artists are temperamental from
time to time.”
“A
brilliant comparison. I do believe you’re right.” He kept smiling
at her, and Claire felt nervous. “You don’t seem to be temperamental,
Claire. Your disposition seems to be remarkably even.”
If
you only knew! Claire cleared her throat. “I’m not an artist, Mr.
Partington.” She didn’t suppose her Tuscaloosa Tom novels counted
as an artistic endeavor.
“I
don’t know. It seems to me that there’s art to keeping an estate
of this size running as smoothly as you do it. You make your job appear
effortless, and I know it’s not. You have to juggle a million different
things, yet you do it so smoothly your management appears invisible.”
“Thank
you.”
Claire
tucked in her chin and took a bite of biscuit, aware of her cheeks turning
hot. She’d never been complimented so prettily on her efforts at housekeeping
before; indeed, she didn’t think anybody even noticed how much effort
went into making the running of the place appear effortless.
They
ate in silence for a few minutes, Claire feeling quite nervous, Tom
apparently relaxed.
“Tell
me, Claire,” he said after a while, “have you ever ridden?”
She
looked at him in surprise. “You mean horses?” she asked, then berated
herself. Of course, he meant horses!
“Yes.
I wondered if you used to ride as a child or anything.”
“No.
No, I never had the opportunity to learn to ride, Mr. Partington.”
The
two or three times her father had managed by foul means to get his hands
on a piece of horseflesh, he’d immediately sold or gambled it away.
Claire felt her mouth tighten and made an effort to relax. She’d have
loved to ride as a child; it had almost broken her heart when she’d
seen those pretty horses go away again.
“Well,
if you would allow it, I’d like to teach you.”
“I
beg your pardon?”
“Would
you allow me to teach you to ride? I’d enjoy—I mean I’d appreciate
it. I—I think you could help me a great deal in my horse-ranching
endeavors if you wouldn’t mind. If you have time. That is—”
“Mr.
Partington, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be of service
to you in any way possible.”
“Yes.
Your value as an employee is measureless.” He smiled almost ruefully.
“Are you sure you’ll have time? I know you’re busy. I’d be happy
to hire another person to help you with your housekeeping chores if
you need one.”
“No,
please. I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Why, I’ve always wanted
to ride. It will be a joy to assist you.” It would, too.
Claire
knew that after Tom married Dianthe, the beautiful poetess would never
enter into his interests as she herself did. If she could make herself
even more useful to him, perhaps she’d never have to leave Partington
Place. Granted, it would be difficult___⁄ to see her best friend married
to the man she herself loved, but Claire could do it. She’d spent
her entire life watching others have the things she wanted; she was
an expert by this time.
“Wonderful!”
Tom
sounded happy with her acquiescence, and Claire was pleased.
“I
shall visit Miss Thelma today and order a riding skirt, Mr. Partington.
I don’t believe any of my present clothing would be suitable for riding.”
“Let
me pay for it, please, Claire. After all, you’ll be doing me a favor.”
Shocked,
Claire exclaimed, “Oh, no! I couldn’t possibly allow you to buy
clothes for me, sir. Why, it would be most improper!” She blushed,
recalling the very improper kiss she’d participated in a mere few
hours earlier.
“Well.
. . .” Tom didn’t look particularly resigned, but he finally muttered,
“All right. But you must promise that you’ll allow me to buy your
boots. After all, you can’t ride without boots, and they’re expensive
items.”
She
smiled grimly, aware that she had already earned more money than she
could spend in three lifetimes, thanks to her books. “Please, Mr.
Partington. Indeed, I have a good deal saved up. I should not dream
of allowing you to buy boots for me. Why, you will be giving me one
of my life’s fondest dreams when you teach me to ride.”
“Will
I really?”
Tom
looked genuinely pleased, which only confirmed Claire in her opinion
that he was a truly wonderful man.
“Indeed
you will, Mr. Partington. I used to long to ride when I was a girl.”
She
refrained from telling him about the brief period during which she and
her father had tagged along with the circus. Ten-year-old Claire had
haunted the ring where the bareback-riding lady used to practice. The
lovely woman had never even bothered speaking to the carnival hack’s
scrawny daughter, but Claire had been in awe of her. With a sigh, she
told herself to stop remembering her dismal childhood and to concentrate
instead on her much more agreeable present.
“Well,
then, good. It’s settled. I look forward to your first lesson, Claire.”
“Thank
you, Mr. Partington. As soon as I have the house organized, I’ll set
off for town.”
Tom
rubbed his hands in pleasure. “Jed and I will be seeing to the stables,
Claire. The first horses will be delivered the week after Christmas.
That’s only four weeks away. By that time, maybe you’ll be able
to help me break them.”
She
looked at him blankly and he elaborated. “Tame them. Calm them down
enough to take a saddle.”
“Oh.
Of course.” She felt foolish.
“Don’t
worry, Claire,” he said, putting a hand on her arm. “You’ll soon
learn the language of horses.”
Her
skin caught fire under his touch. Good grief, she simply must suppress
this infatuation of hers.
Chapter 12
Tom
wanted to take Claire to town himself, to storm into Miss Thelma’s
and order all the prettiest gowns and bonnets in the place. He wanted
to deck her out; to show Pyrite Springs exactly what he saw in Claire
Montague: a lovely woman of rare merit in a world filled with fools.
But the minute he’d set foot inside her office, he’d sensed he had
better move very slowly, very carefully.
Poor
Claire had been almost frozen with terror. Her red-rimmed eyes told
him more clearly than words what she had suffered overnight. Not only
that, but she’d obviously tried to subdue her new curls this morning.
And she was back to wearing those ugly brown gowns, too. It was as if
she was struggling with all her might to suppress her natural feminine
instincts.
He
didn’t understand her motive for hiding her true beauty any more than
he understood her reaction to the quite wonderful kiss they’d shared.
Any of the painfully proper females his mother used to fling at him
would have already begun planning the wedding if he’d kissed one of
them the way he’d kissed Claire. Claire, obviously, had been reared
according to principles far different from those of his parents; yet
another reason to value her.
When
she’d apologized for the kiss as if it had been all her fault, his
puzzlement grew. Something besides mere innocence was at work here.
He didn’t know what it was. When she’d asked if he wanted her to
leave his service, he began to perceive that the job of persuading her
to become his lover would be a formidable one.
He’d
certainly like to get to the bottom of her fear, whatever it was. Had
she been the victim of an unlucky love affair? Had she been exposed
to brutality in her early years? Had some scoundrel trifled with her
or disparaged her sleek, trim elegance? The very thought made Tom’s
blood boil. Whatever it was that had frightened her so, Tom vowed he’d
unearth it and lay it to rest, no matter how difficult the job proved
to be.
Ah,
well. Tom Partington had never shrunk from a challenge in his life and
he sure as the devil didn’t plan to shrink from this one. In fact,
as he stepped outside and drew in a bracing breath of crisp winter air,
he smiled and knew he was looking forward to the wooing and winning
of Claire Montague.
Jedediah
Silver joined him a moment later. Clapping Jedediah on the back hard
enough to jolt the look of spellbound vapidity from the accountant’s
face, Tom said, “Come with me, Jed. We’re going to the saddler’s
this morning to buy Miss Montague a sidesaddle.”