Feeling touched, she managed a small smile. “Thank you, Mr. Evans, but I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your dinner preparations.”
He hesitated. “Are you certain?”
She squared her shoulders. “Quite certain.”
While he would never be so undignified as to wink, she detected an approving twinkle in his eye. “Very well, my lady.” He bowed and went out—though decidedly leaving the door open, as if to accord her the option of shouting for help.
Then Claire had nothing left to do but to go settle herself in the wingback chair opposite her grace’s. Folding her hands primly in her lap, Claire regarded the duchess with wary expectation.
Instead of meeting her gaze, Jonathan’s mother continued staring into the fire. Claire studied the dance of light and shadow upon her formidable face. It threw every droop and crease into sharp relief, making the duchess appear ten years older than she had last Christmas.
And all at once, Claire realized she felt no animosity toward this woman. Her quarrel had never been with the duchess and her bad behavior, but with Jonathan and his willingness to be taken in by it.
The Dowager Duchess of Rathborne was by no means pleasant company. But whatever her reasons for interfering in her son’s affairs—whether she’d taken some dislike to Claire or simply feared losing pride of place in his heart—Claire could only pity her. To have gone to such lengths and concocted such schemes spoke of deep desperation. Having witnessed the genuine bond between mother and son, Claire could only attribute that desperation to the deepest love.
It was love misapplied, of course—and disastrously so. But Claire fancied the events of this past year (and most especially these past days) had taught her something of love and desperation, and indeed, schemes and mistakes.
And if all that had been driven by a love forged in mere months, Claire shuddered to think what a mother’s love might drive her to…
Claire might have passed the whole of their private audience in such charitable reflections, had she not felt the increasing necessity of saying something. Resolved on keeping to the most banal of civilities, she cleared her throat. “I hope you left your mother in good health.”
Only at her grace’s astonished reaction did Claire realize she’d made a controversial remark. She’d somehow forgotten that when they’d last parted, the duchess was allegedly en route to her mother’s deathbed.
Before responding, her grace lifted the little Pomeranian onto her lap. “The marquise is in a tolerable way, considering.” Stroking Rousseau’s back, she looked to Claire with wide, concerned eyes. “I only pray, ma mie, the same can be said of yourself! You appear to have suffered some sort of accident, n’est-ce pas?”
Claire followed the duchess’s pointed gaze down to the large, wine-colored stain on her gown. “Oh! Yes, an accident. I am honored by your grace’s compassion, but I have suffered no injury. It’s only spilled wine.”
“Bien sûr! Forgive me, I did not realize the English mademoiselles engaged in such, ah, spirited modes of celebration.”
“Oh, no,” Claire protested, blushing hotly. “I’m not ‘spirited’ at all! I’ve barely had a sip! The spill only happened because?—”
“Ma mie,” the duchess interrupted with smothering generosity, “there is no need for embarrassment. Do not imagine me to be censuring you, for I am quite sure you are beyond reproach. The mistake is all mine. Unsociable as I am, I’ve become woefully ignorant of the general conduct of young ladies. I fear,” she concluded, her eyes hard, though her voice lost none of its sickly sweetness, “I am only familiar with the conduct befitting a Duchess of Rathborne.”
Though Claire could hardly fail to understand the rebuke, its framing left her unable to attempt any defense. Instead she merely quailed beneath the duchess’s withering glare and wished to expire on the spot.
Which she might have done, if not for the timely entrance of her rescuer.
“Noah!” she greeted him with undisguised relief—but the tall and reassuringly solid figure striding into the room was not her brother’s. “Jonathan?” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“I believe I was summoned,” he answered coolly and came to stand beside her chair. “Evidently to engage in a discussion of conduct befitting a Duchess of Rathborne. Have I got that right, maman?”
Though Claire was glad to see Jonathan—as well as the return of his normal coloring—he brought her more distress than joy or relief. With a sinking heart she noted his full satchel and impatient air, and that his eyes were still flashing with anger.
The duchess’s eyes, meanwhile, were drinking in the sight of her son—her first glimpse of him in a year. She was plainly overwhelmed. Claire could see all that she felt laid bare upon her face: hurt, indignation, even fury.
But these were mere whitecaps atop an ocean of longing.
Claire also saw love and hope and a palpable desire to leap from her chair and scoop her child into her arms. Her grace seemed to tremble with the effort of remaining in her seat, unless it was out of fear that her son would leave her again. She clung to Rousseau like a life preserver, appearing unable to marshal her powers of speech.
Which was actually irrelevant, since Jonathan’s question had been rhetorical. “Perhaps you haven’t considered,” he continued without awaiting her answer, “that as the Duke of Rathborne, I have the final say on this matter. And in my present humor I find it more appropriate to discuss conduct unbefitting a duchess of my house.” His jaw tightened visibly. “Consider, for instance, a duchess brazenly trespassing upon a gathering to which she was not invited.”
His mother was stung into a reply. “I came to you on a matter of urgency!”
“And how did you know where to come?” he demanded. “Are you having me followed?”
She scoffed. “Mais non, must you be so dramatique? I learned your whereabouts from Andrews.”
Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “You couldn’t have; he didn’t know I was here.”
