“MY DEAR LORD Greystone!”
When the singsong greeting reached their ears, both Noah and Claire froze, his hand still gripping her arm. Their furious argument ended abruptly. They looked round in trepidation, having both forgotten the matter of their surprise guest.
But the duchess was nowhere to be seen—until the sound of a yapping dog drew Claire’s gaze to the chaise window. A little black nose was poking through the curtains, as well as a delicate gloved hand wiggling its fingers.
Claire signaled a footman, who sprang into action. Finally shaking off her brother, she straightened her clothing and moved forward to receive the duchess. As Noah joined her, she realized most of their guests were also gathered round, having observed the siblings’ tussle with avid interest. Mary was in her element.
The footman lowered the chaise’s steps, and the Duchess of Rathborne seemed to float down them. Beneath a fur-lined velvet cloak, she was magnificently attired in red and gold silk. Rather too magnificently for traveling, Claire thought, though perhaps not for barging into a Christmas party.
Under one arm she carried a Pomeranian as immaculately groomed as his mistress. Today the little dog wore a collar of rubies and diamonds, matched to those at the duchess’s ears and throat.
“Your grace,” Noah said, bowing over her small hand. “I beg pardon for my shameful neglect.”
“Tiens, you must not think of it!” she replied in her breathy French accent. “I’m sure if poor Rousseau”—she scratched the Pomeranian’s ears—“were not so very thirsty, I should not mind sitting out in the cold and damp as long as you please.”
To this pointed remark Noah could only respond by inviting the trespasser inside. Sending Mr. Evans off for a dish of water (pursued by her grace’s directive that Rousseau drank only green tea of the first quality), Noah offered the duchess his arm.
Claire and the company of eager spectators followed close on their heels. Everyone swarmed through the entrance hall, burying three footmen beneath mounds of discarded outerwear on their way to the drawing room.
Noah led her grace to the fire, talking indifferently of weather and roads until he’d got her installed in comfort, with her dog at her feet daintily lapping Imperial Hyson Tea. Then he fell into pensive silence, and Claire guessed he was scouring his memory for an acceptable way to ask a duchess what on earth she was doing in his home.
Thankfully, her grace spared him the trouble. “You’ve proved so very kind, my Lord Greystone, that I know you shall be only too happy to oblige my wish of visiting with my son.”
“Oh! I see. Yes, well…”—Noah threw Claire a look of panic—“I believe the duke is rather indisposed”—her grace scowled, and he swallowed hard—“but naturally, I’m at your service!” He rose. “I shall fetch him at once.”
The scowl transformed into a serene smile. “So very kind,” she repeated.
In his haste to escape, Noah nearly collided with Mr. Evans by the doorway.
“Begging your lordship’s pardon,” the butler said with ruffled dignity, “but may I venture to apprise you of the time?”
“Hmm? Oh, blast, is it already time to dress for dinner?”
As Noah scurried off to his task and everyone else filed out after him, Claire realized with dawning horror that she was about to be alone with the duchess. For it was unthinkable to leave such a distinguished guest unattended, and as Greystone’s mistress, the duty of staying behind fell to her.
She sought Elizabeth’s eye in order to plead for assistance. But it was in vain, as her sister was either lost in contemplation or pretending to be, and she quit the room without a backward glance.
Claire could only hope Noah would return quickly—and with a stout heart in his chest. She feared her grace might not accept her son’s inevitable rejection with anything close to actual grace. She might even try something drastic to force Jonathan to see her.
She would not succeed, however, in Claire’s estimation, even should Noah’s resolution falter. For as Claire knew all too well, pigs would fly before Jonathan came within spitting distance of his mother.
In fact, odds were Jonathan had already left Greystone. And, believing what he did of Claire, he’d likely never come within her spitting distance again, either.
She could still feel his kiss on her lips and his hands on her body. She was still startled by his desperate passion, still burning with her own need for him. But the sensations were dulled by an all-too-familiar bitterness and despair.
For a spell she’d let herself believe the long nightmare was over; the world was coming right again; Jonathan would be hers again.
But she should have known better. She should have seen it was too good to be true.
She wasn’t guilty of the accusations he’d hurled at her. But it was just as well she’d never get the chance to plead her innocence, since even if she could find the words to persuade him, it wouldn’t change anything.
Because nothing else had changed.
Despite his heartfelt assurances, his mother’s hold over him was as strong as ever. Whether it pulled him to her or drove him from her made no difference. It plainly remained more powerful than whatever he felt for Claire.
“Will you be needing anything, my lady?”
“Hmm?” The query drawing her from her reverie, Claire looked to Mr. Evans—her last remaining ally, as everyone else had gone. Though his expression betrayed no telltale sentiment, Claire knew the old butler well enough to perceive his concern for her.
