“With articles of your own clothing as the forfeits?” he asked.
She stared back at him, the implications of what he had said dawning on her. She felt heat mount into her cheeks. “No,” she said almost in a whisper. “But surely ...”
“So, my dear Claire,” he said, offering her his arm again, “you and I will go and admire art in the gallery. Shall we?”
She took his arm hesitantly. Had he spoken the truth? Surely even these guests would not behave with such utter—impropriety. Was it all an elaborate ruse to get her alone? Alone in an upper gallery for more than an hour? Surely she should resist. She should plead a headache and retire to her room. Or better still, she should just tell the truth and retire to her room.
But she remembered the titters and the comments at dinner when the game had first been mentioned. Besides, she thought, placing her arm on the duke’s and allowing him to lead her up the final flight of stairs, she wanted to go. And no, she would not feel guilty about it either. Good heavens, she was a woman, not a girl. And she was a woman with feelings and needs—and a longing to be part of the romance of St. Valentine’s Day for once in her life.
They wandered down one side of the gallery and back along the other, looking dutifully at the paintings while he held the candles aloft. They scarcely spoke a word. But Claire deliberately reveled in having her hand on a man’s firm arm, in being alone with him, part of a couple. Whatever might be happening downstairs, and whatever he might be thinking or feeling, she thought, she was going to enjoy this hour. She was going to pretend that they belonged together, that they were more than just valentines for three days.
“Unless we can convince ourselves that we are great devotees of art, Claire,” he said as they stood before the last picture—a painting of a single horse and rider and a crowd of hunting dogs, “we are going to have to find some other way to amuse ourselves for what remains of the evening.”
She stiffened.
“Shall we sit down on the bench beneath the window and exchange life stories?” he asked.
She seated herself obediently and he sat beside her, his knee brushing against hers.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Eight-and-twenty,” she said, looking at him, startled. “And why are you twenty-eight years old and unmarried, Claire?” he asked her.
Because no one had asked her, she thought. But she could not say that out loud.
“I have observed no defects of either person or character in you during the past day and a half,” he said. “Indeed, I would have to say that you possess some beauty.”
It was no lavish compliment, but it warmed her to her toes. “My father was an invalid,” she said. “He needed me. He died a year and a half ago.”
“Did he?” he said, and his dark eyes wandered over her face and hair. “So you are one of those too numerous females whose personal happiness is sacrificed at the family altar, are you?”
She said nothing.
“And as a reward you have been taken into the home of relatives, where you will live out your life making yourself useful and always feeling that you do not belong.”
Her hands clenched in her lap. “My brother and my sister-in-law have always been good to me,” she said.
“Of course.” He took one of her hands, unclenched her fingers, and curled them over his. “And so, Claire, you have not been allowed to learn anything of life.”
“I believe my life has been useful,” she said. All the joy of fantasy had gone out of her day. She was back to reality again. There was no romance after all.
“I am sure it has,” he said. “Useful to others. But to yourself?”
“There is satisfaction to be gained from serving others, your grace,” she said, lifting her chin and looking him in the eye. “Probably a great deal more than would be gained from wasting one’s youth in the ballrooms and drawing rooms of polite society in London.”
He set his other hand over the back of hers. “Is that how you have consoled yourself, Claire?” he asked.
It was. But in one sentence, with one question, he had shattered even that illusion, exposing to her view all the yearnings of years that she had ruthlessly reasoned away.
“You should not be here, you know,” he said. “You are about as at home here as I would be at the bottom of the ocean.”
“I know,” she said, her voice unable to hide her bitterness. “Naive spinsters of eight-and-twenty do not belong at a house party with people who know a thing or two about life and the world. I should be at home with my brother and sister-in-law.”
“That was not my meaning,” he said. “You should be in your own home, Claire, with your husband, your children abovestairs in the nursery.”
She pulled her hand free and got to her feet. She took a few steps along the gallery. No. She had closed that yawning empty pit years before. It was not to be, and that was all there was to it.
She had not heard him coming up behind her. She tensed when she felt his hands on her shoulders.
