Authors: Alice Duncan
“Love
me, Claire,” came, muffled, from the region of her chest.
Love
him. He wanted her to love him. He was asking her to fulfill her heart’s
most fervent desire, and love him. Claire didn’t think she could be
happier if she discovered she’d been kidnapped by gypsies in her infancy
and sold to the man who called himself her father.
Tom
wanted her to love him. In spite of her background. In spite of her
father. In spite of her having grown up in a medicine show. In spite
of her being merely a housekeeper. Well, Claire acknowledged with a
faint spurt of pride, not merely a housekeeper. She was a wildly successful
novelist, as well.
She
sat up straight so abruptly that she sent Tom sliding from the sofa
to land on the floor.
“Hey!”
he cried
Claire’s
hands, which so recently had caressed her lover’s thick hair, flew
to her cheeks and pressed hard. She cried, “Oh, no!” and stared
at Tom in honest terror.
He
looked up from his seat on the floor, his expression registering alarm.
“Claire?”
“Tom!”
“Claire?”
“Oh,
no!”
“Claire,
what is it?”
“Good
Lord!”
In
a frenzy, she gathered her sateen bodice together and jumped up from
the sofa. She cried, “I’m so sorry!” And, without even pausing
to stick her hands through her little puffed sateen sleeves or draw
her gown over her bosom, she snatched up her corset and ran from the
room, her spectacles sailing out behind her on their blue satin ribbon
like a banner. The ribbon got caught in the door when she slammed it,
and she had to open it and yank her spectacles out. The door slammed
again and she was gone.
Tom
stared after her. “Claire?”
But
Claire had fled and Tom found himself staring at the closed door, as
uncommunicative an article of carpentry as he could imagine.
Then,
with his heart breaking and his trousers about to burst, he dropped
his head back onto a sofa seat and muttered, “Aw, hell.”
Chapter 16
He
genuinely cared for her! Claire slammed the door to her room behind
her, locked it, and threw her corset against the wall in a fit of pique.
She collapsed onto her bed, her eyes open wide in wonder and she realized
he’d told her he really, honestly cared for her. Could it be true?
Her
body still singing from his magnificent caresses, Claire allowed her
head to fall back as she sighed. What she wouldn’t give to be able
to live the last several weeks of her life over again. She wasn’t
exactly sure what she would have done differently, but she most assuredly
would not have entangled herself in a snare of lies and deceit.
How
could she get out of it now? How could she confess to being Clarence
McTeague, the writer whose
Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee
books Tom claimed
had made his life miserable for years?
He
hadn’t seemed to think Claire was behaving like a strumpet, even though
he’d still wanted to kiss her. That was some sort of—of progress,
she guessed. In fact, he’d explained quite carefully that gentlemen
often wanted to kiss ladies who were not loose, even though those women
weren’t beautiful.
Thinking
about it, Claire decided his explanation made sense. How else could
one explain the world’s ever-increasing population? After all, very
few women were truly beautiful, yet men still seemed to want to kiss
them. In Tom’s case, his evident desire for her also indicated that
he was both large-minded and benevolent. Her lack of beauty, though,
however much she might regret it, hadn’t exposed Tom Partington to
ridicule. Her books, according to him, had, and Claire didn’t expect
he was making that up.
“What
have I done?” she muttered, staring at her ceiling and seeing Tom’s
beloved face looking back in disapproval.
# # #
Tom
sat on the floor in a state of intense frustration and absolute befuddlement
for several minutes. At last, deciding he couldn’t remain there all
night pondering the mysteries of women, he got to his feet.
“Hell,”
he muttered, his unhappy gaze still focused on the closed door.
He
didn’t understand Claire’s latest flight at all. Not one little
bit. What in the name of God could possibly have spooked her this time?
Things had seemed to be going so well there for a while. He should have
known it wouldn’t last. It never lasted with Claire.
But
why? He slammed his fist down hard on her desk.
“Ow!”
He glared at the desk as if it had leapt up and attacked him rather
than having been the recipient of his own assault. His eyes narrowed
as he recalled an earlier meeting with Claire, one in which she’d
also become rattled when he’d displayed his interest in her.
He
walked slowly around her desk and sat in her chair. It made him feel
not quite so removed from her to be sitting where he’d so often seen
her sit.
She
always looked perfect here, performing her duties in the businesslike
and professional way she had about her. He admired those qualities.
He’d seldom found them in men, much less in women, who seemed to be
trained from the cradle in the art of silliness. Not Claire, though.
There wasn’t a silly bone in her slim, luscious, elegant body. Tapping
his chin thoughtfully, he cast his mind back to their first kiss.
She’d
been upset then, too. Tom believed now, however, that some problem in
her youth had been the culprit; perhaps something about which she felt
a secret shame. Whatever it was, it must have happened a long time ago.
Her reputation since her arrival at Partington Place was absolutely
spotless, and she’d been here for ten years. He didn’t expect she
was much older than twenty-six or twenty-seven.
So
whatever it was must have happened when she was very young. His fists
curled in frustration. Damn. Whatever it was that plagued her, he was
sure that portly gentleman from three weeks ago had something to do
with it. Tom hadn’t been able to find him again even though he’d
gone to town to look. But the fellow had left Pyrite Springs, according
to Bruce Bing, the day after he and Tom had sat up so late chatting.
Damn,
damn, damn. Somehow, Tom know that man was the key. He wished he were
here now so Tom could beat the truth out of him. Whoever that man was,
he’d done something to Claire to make her feel she wasn’t good enough;
that she had to work harder and behave even more properly than most
women in order to be worth the space she took up. Good God, if most
of the men Tom knew felt that way, the world would be another Eden.
But
poor Claire. She’d thought she’d somehow enticed Tom into behaving
in an ungentlemanly manner.
In
spite of his present state of disappointment and confusion, Tom chuckled.
As if Claire Montague’s demeanor could in any way be considered seductive.
He frowned, remembering her tearful disclosure this evening.
Poor
Claire. In his wildest imagination he couldn’t picture her setting
out deliberately to seduce anybody. Her nature was too naturally refined,
her character too perfectly pure.
A
thought struck him and he sat up. Maybe that portly gentleman had seduced
Claire and then blamed her for it! He’d read stories about girls seduced
and abandoned, of girls lured into intimacies and then denounced by
their seducers. Why, just think about poor Hester and her scarlet A.
Or Clarissa. She’d stood firm in the face of everything that damned
rake Lovelace had done to her, and who had died in the end? It sure
as hell wasn’t Lovelace. In fact, Claire’s story was as old as the
Bible.
That
mustachioed gent was certainly a smooth enough operator to be such a
villain. Tom wished he could remember some of the fellow’s stories.
They might give him a clue. His memory of the evening was, unfortunately,
a little fuzzy. He wondered if Claire would ever admit to having been
seduced and abandoned.
Tom
wished he’d suspected about Claire’s unhappy love affair when he’d
been drinking with that shifty old charlatan. He’d have given him
an earful. Maybe a gut-full and a jaw-full, too. Tom kneaded his knuckles
in anticipation.
After
sitting at Claire’s desk and wallowing in his black musings for a
good half hour, Tom finally stopped trying to make sense of things.
Until Claire came to trust him, he’d never know why she got so skittish
every time he tried to demonstrate his affection. His heart heavy, he
dragged himself from her office and trudged up the stairs. He paused
in front of her bedroom door, contemplating knocking and asking admittance.
After
only a very few seconds, he realized he wouldn’t be able to chat coherently
tonight, even if Claire answered his knock, which was unlikely. Seeing
her again would just sharpen appetites better left unwhetted until they
solved their problems. Whatever they were. With a sigh, Tom dragged
himself to his room.
Right
before he drifted off to sleep, he determined to prove to Claire that
he was the only man in the world for her. By fair means of foul, he
aimed to have her. If that meant lulling her into complacency, weakening
her with charm, and softening her up for the strike—much in the way
he used to stalk game on the prairie—so be it.
He
realized that in a few short weeks his goals in life had undergone a
subtle change. Before his arrival at Partington Place, all he’d wanted
was his horse ranch and enough money for comfort. Now the notion of
achieving those same aims without Claire at his side made his blood
run cold and his heart pound with dread. He couldn’t let her go. He
wouldn’t let her go.
# # #
It
was a wonder to Claire that breakfast on Christmas morning was not more
strained. After all, she’d made a fool of herself—again—last night
when she’d run away from Tom.
He
was in a jovial mood, however, and kept the conversation light. Since
Jedediah Silver seemed lost in a romantic fog, Claire could only bless
Tom for his savoir faire; his light touch on a day that might have been
nerve-wracking if dealt with less adroitly.
How
she loved him! Overnight she’d toyed with the idea of confessing her
dastardly deed. After all, he’d told her he cared for her. Surely
he wouldn’t hate her just because she’d made a mistake and written
those wretched novels.
Yes.
With an aching heart, she acknowledged that Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee had
been a mistake. Those books had been a labor of misguided love; nothing
more, nothing less. If Claire had possessed the slightest inkling that
Tom would be embarrassed by them, she would not have written them. She
would have been awfully disappointed, of course, but she wouldn’t
have written them.
All
that was beside the point, however. She had written them, and in doing
so had hurt him.
Seeing
him here now, though, his blue eyes sparkling with friendship and Christmas
cheer, she knew she couldn’t do it. Not today. In her present state
of anxiety, watching the affection in his eyes turn to contempt and
distaste would kill her. Claire resolved to put her mind to the problem
later when she would certainly have overcome the worst of her nervousness.
She applied herself instead to being a satisfactory Christmas companion.
After
breakfast, Tom visited the staff of Partington Place, gave them each
a very nice present and a Christmas bonus, and allowed them the rest
of the day off. Then he asked Claire if she’d like to go horseback
riding with him.
“When
I saw Miss Thelma in town, she said you’d picked up your new riding
habit.”
Claire
felt her cheeks get hot with pleasure and trepidation. “Well. . .
. Are you certain you want me to go with you? I’m sure you’d have
a better ride if a more accomplished horseman accompanied you.”
“Ah,
but I wouldn’t have the pleasure of your company, though, would I,
Claire? It’s your company I want.”
Immeasurably
reassured by his words, Claire flushed hotter. “In that case, I’d
be delighted to ride with you. Or, rather, to have a riding lesson.
For you do understand that I’ve never ridden a horse before.” She
didn’t suppose the one time Charley Prince, the animal trainer at
the circus, led her around the ring counted.
“Good.”
Tom rubbed his hands together. “Hurry, then. I want to teach you all
about horses, Claire, my sweet.
Claire,
my sweet
. Tom’s honeyed words curled through Claire like fragrant
steam.
The
winter day sparkled around them, the air crisp and clean, the magnificent
Sierra Nevadas rising in the distance to frame the day with grandeur.
Clouds that looked as though somebody had whipped them with a fork piled
high in the deep blue sky like meringue on one of Mrs. Philpott’s
lemon pies.