“I was happy with Jonathan,” she said.
“Aye, you were. Incandescently happy. And fulfilled. And busy. You two were good for each other,” Samantha said, her fervor growing as she spoke. “But, Clare, dearest Clare, Jonathan is gone. Through no fault of yours or his. Gone.”
“I know that.” Clare emptied the last bit of whisky into her mouth and swallowed against the tightness in her throat.
“I fear that, if you go on as you have been, I will see you dawdling around the square alone in twenty years. All in black, still mourning the loss of him.”
“Samantha,” she said. She stood and winced at the sound of her glass hitting the table’s surface as she placed it there. “You go too far now.”
“And you think too much, Clare.” Clare gasped at her cousin’s words. “Perhaps this man is not the one who will steal your heart after your great loss, but he may be enough.”
“Enough?” When she thought of Iain Buchanan, she would never think of him in such a minimalistic way. If anything, he was too much—too powerful, too physical, too dangerous, too wicked.
“Enough for now.” Samantha slid to the edge of her chair and turned to face Clare. “You had the extraordinary experience of marrying for love. Not many of us had the courage to do what you did, Clare. And now, I think, you are afraid to move on. Afraid that either you will never find such a love again, or that you will.”
“It has only been—”
“You have been his widow as long as you’d been his wife.”
That truth knocked her back. How could that be? Jonathan had been the center of her world since the moment they’d met. She’d been shopping along Princes Street and had dropped her reticule in the street. Jonathan had been meeting with several proprietors of the larger emporiums about contributing to his educational charity when he spied her trying to retrieve it.
He was gallant and handsome, tall with curly blond hair he wore a bit long. His clothing belied his wealth, everything from boots to his neckcloths always looked a bit worn. From the first words they exchanged, he spoke to her not as her parents or other male acquaintances did but as though she knew her own mind and she mattered. They met for tea, the first time to thank him for his help, and then contrived to meet at other gatherings or salons or even balls. Each time they were together, she fell a bit more in love with him.
By the time he asked for her hand in marriage, she would have stood against the Emperor Napoleon’s whole army to be his wife. And, with her parents’ reaction and opposition to his proposal, she did feel as though she had just might have. The one thing she never doubted was that he was the love of her life. And she’d walked away from her family and friends and her very way of life to follow him.
Now, surprised at Samantha’s words, a quick counting confirmed it—he’d died two years and six months ago, and they’d married two years and six months before that.
Clare stood and walked to her desk, her hand trailing along the smooth wooden surface until she reached the chair. Unsettled by the exchange, she shook her head.
“I did not think of it in that way.” She smiled even as tears gathered. “I have been so caught up in completing his work that I never took notice.”
Samantha walked over and wrapped her arms around Clare from behind. Her cousin always was an affectionate person. At least she was more recently and now Clare thought she understood what had changed Samantha’s demeanor and outlook.
“Well, if nothing else, this man has shaken you from your reverie of grief.” Samantha released her and stepped away. “He may or may not be a man with whom you wish to have a relationship, Clare,” she said with a knowing smile. “But Lord above, he is as devastating as Caro described and you should give him a chance.”
A knock interrupted the laughter that followed Samantha’s words and Poogan entered.
“Yes, Poogan?” Clare sat down.
“The footman is awaiting your reply, my lady.”
“The footman? A reply?”
“Sir Iain’s footman waiting on a reply to the message there, my lady.” Poogan nodded at her desk.
Clare looked down at the letter Poogan had given her just as Samantha entered. Lifting it, she broke the seal and unfolded the sheet of paper. She wanted to read the words slowly to give herself time to think but raced over them instead. He said she would hear from him soon and he had certainly done that.
“Clare?” Samantha said. “Whatever did you read to cause that expression of pure confusion to settle on your face?”
Clare looked from the words, the invitation, to her friend and back again.
“Is it something rude or daring then?” She moved closer to Clare trying to see the contents, so Clare handed the letter to her. “A ball at the Assembly Rooms this evening?” They both glanced at the clock.
“In five hours.” Clare glanced back at the message. “Three if I would like to join him for supper before the ball.”
This was a game to him, Clare understood that. He could not allow her challenge to him—and her refusal to sell to him—to go unanswered. Was this simply to gain some information to use as leverage against her or as some kind of bribe to encourage her?
Of course it was. Even knowing that, even knowing he was doing this for his own reasons and none of them had to do with her personally, she would accept. She must. For she must play the game and find out more about him.
