Jonathan ground his teeth.
“…yet after a little reflection, he believed he knew his own mind, and despite his very natural reservations—and in view of my compelling attractions—in short, I’d left him no choice but to circumvent my modesty by proposing on the spot.”
She paused, no doubt to catch her breath.
What was your answer? Jonathan shouted in his head. It took everything he had to keep his jaw clenched shut.
She cleared her throat. “Forgive me; in reciting these words I’ve realized the man who uttered them is a conceited worm. I must have noticed it when he said them—indeed, thinking back now, I remember feeling nettled—but I suppose I was only half-listening to his speech, since during the whole of it he was…”
She trailed off, rubbing her furrowed brow.
He was what? On the sharpest of tenterhooks, mouth dry and jaw aching, Jonathan wondered what could possibly be coming next. Milstead having already rattled her with his forward behavior, disparaged her character with insinuations, and solicited her hand in perhaps the most insulting terms imaginable, to what further heights of boorishness could he have aspired?
“Forgive me,” she repeated haltingly, “I’m finding this difficult to explain. For I was about to relate my outrage that during the whole of Lord Milstead’s speech, in defiance of his supposed apologies, he still had me trapped under the blanket. But as it happens…that is false. For in fact he never so much as touched me, let alone held me confined. I was free to remove the blanket at any time.”
She looked up to the thatched ceiling, and her tone turned speculative, as though she might be talking to herself.
“But I didn’t. Though I itched to have the dratted thing off me, though I felt excruciatingly aware of and all but tortured by it, I let it be. Why did I do that? And why did I let him rattle on and on, instead of interrupting? And why didn’t I refuse his offer?”
This was too much for even Jonathan’s self-command, and a ragged query forced its way out. “You are engaged?”
“No.” At last Claire looked at him. “I begged time to consider my answer.”
Jonathan breathed a secret sigh of relief.
“But I ought to have dismissed him outright, oughtn’t I? For there’s nothing to consider. If I cannot bring myself to share a blanket with the man, how could I share my life with him?” A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled out of her. “And I don’t know why I lied. I’ve never been one to hold my tongue. Even given how I’ve changed since last Christmas”—a flicker in her eyes told Jonathan she meant since you left—“still, I don’t know why I shrank from him. I cannot understand myself.”
Jonathan could understand her; at least, he thought he might. For she had indeed changed. Noah had written of these changes, and Jonathan had noticed them as soon as he’d stepped foot in the castle.
Dampened spirits, a new restraint. A sparkle missing from her eyes.
And for those changes he blamed himself. If he’d wondered whether his actions had crushed her, now he had his answer.
And the confirmation crushed him.
The full knowledge of what he’d wrought—the damage to her tender and beautiful soul—was a heavy weight upon his own.
But worse yet, he could see how he’d paved the way for men like Milstead to inflict further damage. For Jonathan knew the old Claire had been far too robust to interest such men: too lively for entertaining their tedious advances, too self-assured for their perseverance to whittle away her defenses. She would have chased off the conceited worm long before he got her in that sleigh. And he’d have never got the chance to trample her down with his insidious tactics and diminishing words.
Jonathan had given him that chance. With his pigheaded mistakes, he had trampled her first.
And for that he would never forgive himself.
The sight of Claire—magnificent, formidable Claire—now huddled on the edge of the low stone basin, questioning her own reason, could not but trigger an avalanche of self-reproach. He had done this to her. And he had to fix it.
But how?
What could he do or say to make her whole again?
He had no sooner asked the question than his efforts to answer it were suspended—by the sudden appearance of the conceited worm himself.
Eleven
CLAIRE LEAPT to her feet when two human figures appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the light. The taller figure carried a top hat, while the smaller emitted a familiar piercing laugh.
As the newcomers entered the hovel, Claire forced herself to stand placidly, hands clasped before her, her face an unsmiling mask. For a second time, the tense atmosphere snuffed out the laughter of Mary Harris, while seeming to have the opposite effect on her companion.
“Lady Claire.” Lord Milstead smirked, one eyebrow raised lecherously. “I see you’ve embarked on a private tour of your own.”
