Sir Teakle kept up his unwanted perusal. There seemed to be nothing for it. Claire pushed her bowl of soup onto his lap. “Oh my. Please forgive me, Sir Teakle. Your white breeches.”
Sir Teakle jumped from his chair in foam of lace. “Look what you’ve done.”
“My bowl slipped.” Claire pasted on an innocent expression. Everything set into motion. Servants ran to assist Sir Teakle, Lily smiled, Jarvis’s face turned red then purple. Mary ordered more servants to clean the mess, and the rest of the room’s occupants sat aghast, expectant of Claire to give response.
Instead she looked to Devon. His eyes twinkled, holding hers in frank approval. For a moment, she let play the slightest corners of her mouth, owning a secret camaraderie then hid it quickly to show perfect contriteness.
“The soup and dinner arrangements are fine Mary; however did you pull it off?” Lily intervened, breaking the awkward silence by changing the subject. The dinner ended and the music started for the dancing to commence.
Claire danced with a young officer and looked down at the end of the dance floor. Devon lounged insolently against the wall, scorn for the young couple dancing together. As her partner took her hand and turned her, Devon caught her eye. She missed a step in her dance, and she bridled from his mirth at her discomposure. He glanced from her to Teakle who had returned with a fresh change of breeches, dancing at the head of the set. Devon raised his glass in a mocking toast, as if to wish her well on her future.
She scoffed at how he still held his torch for revenge. He darted glances at her over and over again, and as he watched her, a smile melted the severity of his expression. Claire whirled around the ballroom. Oh the cad. Hadn’t he had enough of a challenge with her uncle and Sir Teakle? Did he have to maintain a private war with her?What is he plotting in his head now?
She needn’t worry about his attentions again, she told herself, for there would not be another opportunity. She shook her head. She remembered the touch of his lips upon hers then blushed from the memory. So many emotions spun in her mind. Shame. Embarrassment. He read her mind so easily from across the room. There was a moment’s pride at the way his eyes had run over her when they met, and when she had deposited her soup in Sir Teakle’s lap. And then again, the way his eyes roved over her before raising his glass. He made her feel like a woman, vanishing the girl.
His studied relaxation conveyed that he could show her what she wanted to know better than the fledgling youth she was dancing with. The governor’s wife called his attention. He sent a frosty nod in Claire’s direction, the picture of arrogant male omnipotence, and left. Claire lifted her nose into the air and danced and danced the hours away.
After waltzing for most of the evening, Claire grew tired and longed for fresh air. She exited the room, and hurried down the stairs out onto the terrace.
Mary had done miracles arranging the gardens. The paths were lit with tiny lanterns, and benches had been set out for the guests to enjoy. The light of a half-moon rippled on the surface of an ornamental pond. It was a beautiful night for a walk, a fragrant ambush of sweet gardenia and spicy pimento trees drifted with the warm breezes off the sea, lifting her hair and cooling her skin. So caught up in the loveliness of the night, she strode farther, beyond the lanterns.Was it safe to venture this far?Of course. There was nothing to fear on the governor’s properties. She continued farther, the moon lighting her way well enough until an errant rose branch caught her bodice.
Done with settling Mary’s megrims, Devon retired to the far end of the gardens. The rum’s warmth couldn’t melt the chill inside him. What was his wife doing now? Was she entertaining that English bastard?
When he recalled the number of covetous gazes following his wife’s every movement, he seethed with a renewed fury, wishing to put a sword through every man who dared to look at her. He could not breathe when she had descended the stairs. He had never seen her dressed like that and he seethed as every man in the room was affected as much as he. It took every ounce of effort on his part to stay put.Was she planning to seduce every man on the island?
Yet he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Everything about Claire shimmered as if her gown had been woven by fairies out of scarlet sunbeams. He wanted her in every way a man wanted a woman, possessing her until she depended on him for the very air she breathed.
So he had stood apart from the revel, and watched and waited, unable to touch what he knew bone-deep belonged to him. She spent too much time dancing with the fop. Rank, title, family, money, freedom. Sir Teakle’s hand slipped to touch her body, caressing the curve of her waist. Teakle had pretended not to notice the liberty he had taken, so it might appear accidental, but Devon did not. The image of that aristocratic bastard grunting over Claire’s pale naked beauty became too much. Cursing beneath his breath, Devon threw his glass into a garden wall where it shattered in a thousand pieces.
He saw Claire run down the steps and rush into the garden away from the crush of people. Perhaps a designation to meet a paramour? Devon sat in the darkness, nurturing a world-weariness, which both annoyed and intrigued him. It almost made him wish...
He shook himself. He wished nothing other than to be free, away from enslavement, aristocrats and their progeny. Tomorrow, if the opportunity presented itself, he would seek out Tom Dooley, the debtor whose prison sentence he helped waive to see if his cryptic gratitude offered real merit. The eventuality of escape spun in his mind.
He saw her get caught on a rose bush, a painful thorn digging into her flesh.
He moved from the shadows. “Allow me to assist you.”
Devon’s appearance surprised her.
“Please be careful,” she pleaded, her head still bowed in a position both awkward and embarrassing. “My gown might be torn.”
“We can’t have that,” Devon teased, his voice intimate and cordial, making her blush as if this were the sort of secret encounter she devised, but wanted to avoid.
She raised her eyes, observing the man in front of her. Dark brows slanted over quizzical eyes. Any other girl would have had her breath taken away by such maleness. Not Claire. She refused to be like Maybelle Meriwether. He seemed to take overlong in removing the thicket. Her insides began to churn like a northern sea, and he stood next to her as if he hadn’t a care in the world. But even as she tried to ignore his proximity, his deep voice and the warmth of his breath on her neck sent shivers down her spine−although not of fear. Of something else. Something primal…and dangerous. He managed to free her. Claire exhaled.
“I’ve performed a surgery, separating you from Mary’s roses.” He brushed her hair away from the nape of her neck in a gesture like a caress and she pushed him away.
He laughed from her outrage, his face showing his concern. “Do you have a scratch? Perhaps beneath your gown−”
“You’re not looking beneath my gown.”
His lips curved up in an amused, yet gentle smile that made her heart race as if she’d run for miles. “As a physician, I assure you I am only looking out for your well-being. Scratches can be dangerous and fatal if not treated.”
“You are not free to exercise your trade on me,” she snapped.
“But it is true, Madame.” He picked up her hand, kissed it−and she snatched it back. “I am the least dangerous.” He assured her.
Claire snorted and backed away from him. “There is speculation in that.” She put up a great show of indifference, but some link…some invisible thread tugged her toward him. Strange things happened to her when he was close. She needed to get back to the party.
