It wasn’t until her second show of amusement that he noticed her laugh was different. It had always been boisterous and unbridled, almost to the point of indecorum, had she not possessed the charm to carry it off.
But now she laughed with restraint, with modesty. With a demure hand hiding her mouth.
Her posture, too, seemed different: upright and conscientious where it used to be elegant and natural. Her manner was all civility, no color. No spark. The change in her was striking—just as Noah had reported in his letter.
Well, not exactly as reported. When Noah wrote that his sister was in a bad way and, on her account, he must urge his friend’s swift return, Jonathan had feared the worst. Bed-bound with melancholy, perhaps, or a dangerous thirst for strong drink. Or the corrupting influence of a seducer.
But here she was, out of bed and apparently untarnished. When she turned, her face was as lovely and blooming as ever, her smile serene. She didn’t look ill, or depraved, or even unhappy.
But nor did she look like herself. She looked…less. Less Claire than before. As though she’d somehow grown smaller, or more indistinct, or farther away.
Was Jonathan to blame for this alteration? He knew the events of last Christmas had changed him profoundly; that she may have been likewise affected was not implausible. But for now he could only guess at her feelings, since his informant had been unable to give assurances.
That Noah suspected Claire still loved him, Jonathan did not doubt. But he saw no evidence of such love at the moment, engrossed as she was in another man’s attentions. And since brother and sister were not in each other’s confidence, he had to take Noah’s suspicions with a grain of salt.
Unsure though he was of Claire’s feelings, Jonathan knew his own: He still loved her. He wanted to marry her. He’d come to Greystone not just in response to Noah’s summons, but also for himself—to see if he could persuade her to give him just one more chance.
Claire turned her head. Upon her first sight of him, her placid countenance betrayed nothing. She excused herself from the fair-haired young man, coming forward with a hostess’s smile. “Welcome to Greystone, your grace.”
She curtsied, and he bowed, striving to match her composure. “I’m pleased to see you, Lady Claire.”
Something flickered in her eyes. “Won’t you take some refreshment?”
“Gladly.” With relief he followed her to the sideboard—for despite the sincere yearnings within his breast, he hadn’t lost sight of that enticing spread since the moment he’d entered.
After directing a footman to make up Jonathan’s plate, she turned back to him brightly. “We asked Monsieur Laurent—our new French chef, you know—whether we might do something memorable for our first meal, so what do you think he suggested? Instead of oranges in our Christmas Eve baskets, we have a whole luncheon of oranges! Goose in an orange-wine sauce, orange mincemeat pie, orange-and-lemon-zested parsnip…”
Jonathan didn’t hear the rest. He was too busy bailing out his sinking heart. By Jove, everything looked delicious. Succulent goose, steaming hot pie, oysters—oh, and lamb as well!
Too bad he couldn’t eat a single bite of it.
How could Claire have forgot his citrus curse? Eating or touching the fruit had always given Jonathan a terrible rash, as she had certainly learned last Christmas Eve when they all received their baskets.
She’d made a big fuss, ordering everyone to eat their oranges in their own rooms lest the insidious juice should find its way to Jonathan. Then, the next morning, he’d awakened to find a fresh-made basket hung on his door, beautifully woven out of little scrolls of paper and filled with all new gifts: Claire’s handiwork.
He looked without listening as she explained the rest of the menu, scrutinizing her face for any symptom of cunning. Had she grown so indifferent as to forget all she knew of him? Or was this intentional?
Regardless, propriety dictated only one response. “What a delightful spread,” he said, accepting the plate. It would be rude to refuse or request alternate fare.
But he reckoned he could get out of eating it.
“If it’s no imposition,” he added, mustering all the self-consequence of a duke, “might I take luncheon in my chamber? I should like to settle in directly.”
“By all means.” Claire signaled Mr. Evans, who sent his footmen to collect the demanding guest and the lunch things. Jonathan discreetly slipped the butler a shilling.
Noah stopped Jonathan on his way out. “That seemed a pleasant meeting,” he murmured, nodding toward Claire.
Jonathan followed his friend’s gaze to find its object conspicuously looking elsewhere. He would have disagreed with Noah’s interpretation, but he had yet to figure out his own.
And when briefly, seemingly in spite of herself, Claire met his gaze, Jonathan could not glean any more. Which was odd in itself: the Claire he’d known had been an open book, too assured of herself to bother hiding what she felt.
“It could have been worse,” he finally replied.
Apparently satisfied with this, Noah stepped aside. “I’ll not keep you from your luncheon. But would you join me in the billiard room afterward?”
Jonathan glanced at the longcase clock. “Will there be time for a game before dinner?”
“Two or three, I should think. I’m afraid along with the vogue for French cooking, my sisters brought fashionable hours back from London. We dine at seven.”
