They stopped when they reached the ancient wreck of a boat, almost disappeared into the wet sand.
“It was there even when I was a child,” she said. “I believe it was something as unromantic as a fisherman’s boat that had outlived its seaworthiness, but we used to weave tales of pirates and treasure about it. We used to hunt for that treasure at the foot of the cliffs. We were convinced that there must be a cave there that had always escaped our notice.”
“And I suppose,” he said, “you want to take me cave hunting and treasure hunting?”
“No.” She laughed and turned to him and set her arms up about his neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “We found it centuries ago and spent every penny of it. It was the treasure of childhood.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, and he had a strange and fleeting image of the small children—her own—to whom she should be telling this story. He could almost see them scampering off to find the treasure for themselves. Her children and h—Herchildren.
“Gerard.” Her smile softened. “It is beautiful here, is it not? I always feel most the wonder of creation when I am close to the sea. A little fear and a whole lot of awe.”
“It is beautiful,” he agreed, and he circled her waist with his arms and kissed her. And smiled at her. And that was another thing he could not remember doing before, he thought. He could not remember kissing a woman purely for the pleasure of her company, her friendship. But their kiss was no more than that. And no less.
It was a good thing, he thought as she lowered her arms and they turned to stroll back the way they had come, their arms about each other’s waist again, that Florence’s party was not to be a week-long affair or a two-week-long one. Three days of this intense, unreal type of romance were quite long enough. Even now it was going to be difficult . . . But he would not think of that yet. There was the rest of the day to enjoy and all of tomorrow.
“Florence and Mullins were walking off in the opposite direction,” he said. “But there is no sign of them. Do you suppose they have gone back up to the inn already, Claire? What poor-spirited creatures our fellow guests are, are they not?”
“Yes,” she said. “Inside a stuffy inn when they might be out here.”
“Getting cold and windblown,” he said, “and having their complexions and their boots ruined.”
“Very poor-spirited,” she said.
And they were off again, talking nonsense and laughing and finally puffing their way up the cliff path and to the inn, which they would not for worlds have admitted was warm and cozy and welcome.
All ten of the others looked at them, when they came inside still laughing over some nonsense, rather as if they had two heads apiece, the duke thought. Claire’s cheeks, he saw at a glance, were apple-red, as was her nose. Her hair beneath the bonnet looked as if it had not seen a comb for a month. He looked down at his boots and grimaced. At least, that was what he would normally have done. Actually he did not—he grinned instead. And Claire had never looked more adorable.
The evening passed quickly. Indeed, it was not a long evening after the return to Carver Hall, several of the ladies pleading weariness after the afternoon’s excursion and Sir Charles Horsefield declaring quite candidly that he was not averse to going to bed before midnight, though not necessarily to sleep, of course.
But they were not allowed to escape too early. They must all provide some entertainment to set the mood for St. Valentine’s Day on the morrow, Lady Florence insisted. And so there was singing and reciting, one very short story, two off-color jokes, and one solo dance—by Olga Garnett.
Claire played Beethoven and closed her eyes and thought of the sea, not as she had seen it that afternoon, but at nighttime with moonlight across the ripples and a strong arm about her waist and a broad shoulder against which to rest her head. And the Duke of Langford sang one of Robert Burns’ songs— to Claire’s accompaniment. He had an unexpectedly fine tenor voice, she thought, listening to him even as she concentrated on her own part. And Burns had never sounded so romantic.
“Why, Gerard,” Lady Florence said after the applause, “I had no idea you were hiding away such a talent.”
“A relic of boyhood evenings spenten famille,Florence,” he said, his eyes hooded, his hand straying to the ribbon of his quizzing glass. To Claire he sounded a little sheepish. “It was either sing or play the violin. The only time I tried that, my father offered to bring up the cat from the kitchen so that we might play a duet.” He spoke in the languid voice that Claire had not heard all day.
Sir Charles Horsefield yawned loudly. “Well,” he said, “now that we are all in the mood for tomorrow’s festival, Florence, may we retire to sleep on the expectation?”
“You may, Charles,” she said. She tittered. “And so may you, Olga.”
Claire felt uncomfortable again as all about her guests rose in couples and stretched and seemed to feel it necessary to pretend to tiredness, although it must still be earlier than eleven. She did not know if she should rise with them or stay quietly at the pianoforte. It was the first time all day that she had felt awkward, except briefly that morning when she had entered the breakfast room.
“Claire.” The duke was bending over her. “Shall we stroll into the conservatory?”
She smiled up at him gratefully and got to her feet.
But the awkwardness remained even after they had reached the conservatory and wandered among the plants there and looked out into starlit darkness beyond the windows. The day was over—the day of romance—and it was nighttime again.
He set an arm about her waist and turned her against his body. “Claire,” he said, kissing her briefly on the lips, his voice low. “You know what this party is all about. Last night you were willing.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes. But she was glad it was out in the open again. The tension had been too great to bear.
“And tonight?” he asked. “You are still willing?”
The silence lasted only a moment. And yet it was the most fateful moment of her life, Claire felt. “Yes.”
“You know what it will mean to you, do you not?” he said. “For you it is a far more momentous decision than it is for me.”
