"Why not both? They're not mutually exclusive, as you're so fond of pointing out."
That drew a small smile from him. "Go to your room, Clara, before I decide to bar the door and refuse to allow my aunt in at all."
"That would rather defeat the purpose of proving your competence."
"I'm perfectly competent at quite a number of things, none of which I can demonstrate with my aunt present."
She kissed him once more, quick and sweet, then fled to her room, her heart racing and her lips tingling. Three weeks, she reminded herself. Three weeks of this careful dance between public propriety and private passion.
It was going to be the longest and shortest three weeks of her life.
CHAPTER 11
Gabriel stood at his study window, watching the drive for any sign of his aunt's carriage while simultaneously trying to calm the restless energy that had plagued him since Clara left his bed. The memory of her warmth, her scent, the way she'd looked wearing nothing but his shirt was enough to drive a man to madness.
And he had to spend the entire day pretending she was nothing more than an employee.
"Your Grace?" Peter appeared in the doorway with the studied invisibility of a well-trained footman. "Lord Hartley has arrived and is waiting in the morning room."
"Of course he is. The man has a supernatural ability to appear whenever I'm trying to maintain some semblance of dignity."
Peter, to his credit, didn't react to this observation. "Shall I bring tea?"
"Bring brandy. I have a feeling I'm going to need it."
"Miss Whitfield has instructed that no spirits are to be served before noon, Your Grace."
Gabriel turned to look at Peter, who maintained an expression of perfect innocence. "Has she now? And whenexactly did Miss Whitfield assume control of my beverage consumption?"
"I believe it was Tuesday, Your Grace, though she's been quite subtle about it until today."
"Subtle? The woman hid my best brandy behind a collection of agricultural treatises that haven't been touched since my grandfather's time."
"A clever hiding place, if I may say so."
"You may not. Bring tea, and tell Lord Hartley I'll be there momentarily."
Peter bowed and retreated, leaving Gabriel to contemplate the various ways his life had been reorganized without his explicit permission. Clara had been systematically imposing order on his chaos, and the most disturbing part was how little he minded.
He found Edmund in the morning room, examining the now-clean windows with theatrical amazement. “Mercy! Gabriel, you can actually see through these. I'd forgotten there was a garden out there."
"Your powers of observation remain as acute as ever, Edmund. Yes, the windows are clean, the floors are polished, and I've even managed to dress myself appropriately for my aunt's inspection. Behold the miracle of domestic transformation."
Edmund turned, taking in Gabriel's appearance with raised eyebrows. "You're wearing a cravat. Properly tied, even. What sorcery is this?"
"It's called having a competent housekeeper who threatens bodily harm if I don't present myself appropriately."
"Threatens you, does she? How delightful. And here I thought you were the master of this house."
"I am the master of this house, but even masters must occasionally bow to superior tactical knowledge, particularly when that knowledge comes wrapped in gray wool brandishing a feather duster as one might a sword.”
Edmund grinned. "Gray wool? Not anymore, from what I've heard. Margaret mentioned seeing Clara at the drapers yesterday, purchasing some rather fetching blue fabric."
"Your wife's surveillance network rivals anything the Crown has established. Does she have nothing better to do than monitor the shopping habits of my housekeeper?"
"When that housekeeper is the first woman to capture your interest in the three years since you returned from war. No, she has nothing better to do. In fact, I'd say it's become her primary occupation."
Gabriel moved to pour himself tea, needing something to do with his hands. "Clara hasn't captured anything. She's an employee performing her duties admirably."
