His niece pulled in a breath through her nose and pursed her lips as she straightened her spine. She then pivoted and marched from the dining room.
Preston turned to a footman. “Please have tea delivered to the library.”
He followed Miss Claywell from the dining room then paused in the marble entry and watched until his nieces had disappeared above before joining her.
“I fear you may have difficulties with Delia,” he stated what was likely obvious.
Miss Claywell offered a slight smile. “It is not unexpected for a girl her age, and some latitude should be allowed.”
“Within reason,” Preston warned, or Delia would gain the upper hand and not relinquish it easily.
“Yes, of course.”
They paused in their discussion as a footman delivered the tea service and Miss Claywell leaned forward to pour, asking his preference. The scoop of her bodice afforded him the opportunity to gaze on the swell of her breast. It was quite seductive, though he was just as certain that had not been the intent of her posture as all women needed to bend as such when pouring and he’d never been stirred by such a glimpse of cleavage until now.
When he accepted the cup and saucer from her, their fingers brushed ever so slightly, yet the contact burned, and Preston was reminded that his attraction to Miss Claywell began with lust. It was something he mustn’t give into. She was not in his home to be seduced but to be courted.
It had been lust and desire that drove him to offer marriage. One should not choose a wife with their loins as no doubt many miserable marriages had likely begun quite happily in lust.
His decision had been rash that day, and he was thankful that Miss Claywell did not know the truth. But how long could he keep it from her?
“I’ll be honest. I don’t know what I’m doing.” He didn’t know how to approach Miss Claywell as a woman, as one would in courtship, but that was not what he wished to confess.
“After I sold my commission, I returned here and spent months spoiling my nieces.” He took a sip of his tea. “Then my brother and sister-in-law were killed in a boating accident, and I was suddenly no longer an uncle who could spoil and leave, but their guardian and the newest Viscount Melcombe.” Preston wasn’t confident that she had even noted his absence in London, but if she had, Miss Claywell now knew the reason he had disappeared.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she murmured.
“Delia has taken on the role of mother and governess. I’d like her to return to being fifteen.”
Althea nodded.
Preston stared at Miss Claywell, then frowned. He was so worried about his nieces, especially Delia but didn’t voice the depth of his concern. Simply stated facts. “When I arrived, she’d already taken her sisters in hand, nurturing and caring.”
“Stoic,” Miss Claywell suggested.
“Yes.”
The concerns were so much more than Delia becoming everything to her sisters. There was a pall of gloom hanging over them. Of course, it was natural as they’d lost their parents, but that had been nine months ago and other than Winifred and Lila, the other three were serious and quiet most of the time. It wasn’t natural given their ages.
He voiced none of this to Miss Claywell as he wasn’t in the habit, nor comfortable confiding internal turmoil and concerns, or emotions. He found he was comfortable explaining the facts of a situation to her, which was a relief as he’d barely been able to do that last spring in London. Perhaps there was hope that when the time came to discuss something more personal, he’d not trip over his words.
“When did their former governess leave and how long had she been with the family.”
“Miss Halton had been with the family for a year,” he answered. “She was let go a month after the funeral.”
He wished that she’d ask another question that he could answer, but an uncomfortable silence began to stretch between them and the hope he experienced began to deflate.
“Is there anything else that I should know?” Miss Claywell asked after she finished her tea.
Why didn’t he possess the silver tongue of a dandy? Then he could speak with her for hours.
“I have nothing further,” he finally admitted.
With a nod, she stood and quit the room and Preston rose to pour himself a brandy.
What the blazes was wrong with him? He had no difficulty talking to men, especially when issuing orders, but while sitting alone with Miss Claywell, he was at a loss as to what to say that did not involve his nieces. If only courtship was like a battlefield, then he’d know exactly what to say and do, but Miss Claywell wasn’t a soldier, she was a desirable miss.
Althea tried to settle into her new surroundings but had been unable to fall asleep.
