“And in the company of her former fiancé,” Mary added with relish.
“Fiancé?” Lord Milstead sounded startled. “You were engaged? To a duke?”
“Begad,” Mary cried, “didn’t you know? It’s the most delicious tale. Sussex talked of little else for weeks.”
Claire’s cheeks were burning. “I don’t suppose our country gossip travels so far as Shropshire, Miss Harris.”
“Certainly not.” Lord Milstead looked rather put out. “And here I thought you were just a wallflower.”
Claire scrutinized him, feeling as though she were seeing him for the first time.
He had indeed met her by a wall, for that was where she’d spent most of this year’s London season—sitting on the fringes of a great many ballrooms.
And every time he’d found her there, she’d thought him ever so gentle, patient, and kind to keep her company. She’d even felt guilty for wasting his time, aware that she was not yet up to forming any kind of attachment.
But he’d tried to set her mind at ease. He’d assured her he sought her out for his own enjoyment. That though his heart had been hers since their first meeting, he was content to wait till she was pleased to receive it. His was not a wild, fleeting passion, he’d said, but a strong and steady devotion, capable of weathering any delay. And until she signaled her readiness, he would not impose on her by pressing his suit.
Now it suddenly dawned on her that to be conspicuously long-suffering was just an imposition of another sort. His gentle assurances had done a work of their own: taking root in her conscience, demanding her gratitude, rushing her decision.
With their history together cast in a different light, all at once Lord Milstead was overbearing and cold-blooded rather than patient and kind. And Claire was an object of prey rather than one of compassion.
For a man seeking wallflowers was surely after an easy mark.
Now she could only marvel at how close she’d come to marrying a man for whom she felt no love or even liking, but merely gratitude mistaken for affection. How fortunate he’d shown his true colors by having the bad grace to flirt with Mary in front of the whole party. If only he might transfer his attentions in truth, Claire could breathe easy!
Yet alas, she was only too wise to his real sentiments, for if he meant to conceal them, he was failing dreadfully.
While paying Mary no mind whatsoever, he glowered at Claire with indignation—and at Jonathan with pure male aggression. But stronger yet was the feeling that seemed to hang in the air all around the dratted man: a dangerous current tinged with the sourness of bruised pride.
Jonathan must have sensed the danger too, for he moved to Claire’s side. “Just a wallflower?” he echoed, eyeing his rival mildly. “Isn’t it vexing how looks can deceive? I daresay Lady Claire thought you a gentleman.”
The man reddened. “You presume to speak for my betrothed?”
Mary’s mouth fell open.
Though touched by Jonathan’s gallantry, Claire found it entirely unnecessary. Gone was the paralysis of the sleigh ride, when she’d felt unnerved, alone, and physically overmatched. Although she appreciated Jonathan’s support, she wanted to speak for herself.
With deadly calm, she said, “I am not your betrothed, Lord Milstead. I’ve had time enough to consider your offer, and while I thank you for the honor, I must refuse.”
Mary closed her mouth and grinned, her eyes shining with the joy of bearing witness to such scenes.
Jonathan shot Claire a tender look of approval. The tenderness she would have to sort out later, but for now his esteem shored her up to face Lord Milstead’s wrath.
“You refuse me?” he spluttered furiously. “Why? Are you involved with Rathborne still? Explain yourself, for this is absurd.”
“No more absurd,” she retorted, “than your making such a speech with another woman on your arm.”
Mary screamed with mirth—and found herself thrown off his arm. Far from taking offense, she seemed delighted by the theatrics.
“The flirtation was your own fault,” Lord Milstead charged Claire, “for you provoked me this morning. You’re just the same as every other female. You all sport with us as you like, then lay the consequences at our feet. No matter how deserving a fellow, no matter if he prostrates himself before you—” He banged a fist against the wall, shaking dust from the rafters. “Months I waited for you, with nary a hint you might refuse me! What more would you have of me? What more could I have possibly done to show my regard?”
“Nothing, my lord,” Claire said evenly. “You did not lack in showing regard. You lacked in feeling it.”
He dismissed her with a wave. “I’m sure I shan’t take the trouble to understand your meaning. All nonsense, I wager, to cover your indiscretions with Rathborne. His grace should count himself lucky my pistols are at home.” Rudely turning his back, he offered Mary the return of his arm. “Madam?”
She took it readily and followed him out, throwing a look of incongruous hilarity at Claire.
After a moment of heavy silence, Claire felt a hand on her shoulder. “That was well done,” Jonathan said.
