Clara admired the view stretching below her. The terrace walk meandered a short way down the hill, from which visitors could admire the views. A few pleasure boats had ventured onto the Thames, which curved below. One empty barge slowly made its way toward London.
When she turned her attention back to Stratton, she saw that he had laid a thick blanket on the ground. It billowed here and there atop the heavy grass and looked much like a feather mattress recently aired and fluffed.
She looked at that blanket, and him, and the wine emerging from the basket. She noticed how those trees shielded them from eyes as well as noisy children. Not that any of either currently existed up here. Other than the birds’ songs and her own breathing, she could not hear a sound.
She and the duke were thoroughly alone.
* * *
He watched her take in their surroundings and isolation. The trick was to keep her from marching to her horse immediately.
He eased the cork out of the wine and poured some into the two crystal glasses. He held one out to her. “There is good well water too, if you want some.”
After a considered pause, she walked back to him and took the wine. “What else is in that basket?”
He sat and poked through it. “Cooked fowl, cheese, bread, cakes and strawberries. And this.” He held up a nosegay of small crocuses and one yellow narcissus.
She took it and sniffed deeply, then sat, arranging herself so she faced the view, not him. “I am only staying awhile because it is lovely and peaceful up here. However, if we do not have company soon, we will have to leave, so do not unpack that food.”
“I will be happy for even ten minutes. Because of the peace, as you said.” And because he could look at her while she watched the river. She was lovely in any ensemble, even black, but this bright blue habit enlivened her beauty. The color matched her eyes, and its contrast with her chestnut hair made her appearance extremely vivid.
“I think a painter would be glad to have you for a subject right now, Lady Clara.”
Those blue eyes turned to him. “Why?”
“The colors and lighting enhance your natural beauty, and you in turn improve on that of nature. It would be a fine composition without any artistic license.”
She blushed and returned her gaze to the river. He sensed that the flattery confused her, as if she were not accustomed to compliments and did not know how to react.
“Before, when we spoke of my grandmother, I thought it sounded like you had been one of her victims,” she said. “Were you?”
“I was not. She does not turn her power on men, least of all men who will be dukes.”
“Was it your mother, then? I know Grandmother did not like anything or anyone French, but that was not unusual during the war. I know she said things on occasion, but I do not believe her words were given much weight.”
He debated whether to avoid this conversation. She gave him such an earnest look, however, that he found himself explaining. “The words that you heard are not what mattered, but others spoken long before. The dowager did not approve of my father’s marriage. It was not her business or concern, but back then she saw herself as the arbiter of society. And so when my mother first took residence in town, the dowager let it be known that this French duchess should not be accepted. Society fell in line because it was easier to do so than to fall out with your grandmother over a stranger. The campaign was most effective, and also very cruel.”
She hung her head and closed her eyes. “How difficult it must have been for your mother. She would have had no friends to rely on here. No circle where she felt welcome.”
“It made her very unhappy, that is true. It also did nothing to encourage our fathers to be more friendly.” Her empathy, as it had in the park, touched him. It was good of her to appreciate how hard those years had been for a woman whom she had never met. “Then, after some years of this, the dowager suddenly lifted her heavy hand. Perhaps she grew bored with the game. Invitations came after that, although with the war, very few women would claim her as a close friend.”
“I am relieved to hear that the worst ended, however. I do not understand why your mother being French should have caused so much grief either. She was not the only French émigré living in England.”
“She was not of the aristocracy. That was probably part of it.”
“Please do not tell me she was the sister of a revolutionary.”
“Her father was a scientist and not political at all. But they were of the intellectual bourgeois, and that class was associated with the trouble. So I suppose there were always those who wondered about her sympathies.”
She frowned. “After hearing this story, I am all the more confused as to why you agreed to meet with my family, let alone entertained a plan to bury the sword through a marriage. I would think you would much prefer to see my grandmother miserable and worried than contented.”
Her gaze sharpened on the view, then she swung it directly on him. “I am not part of your own plot, am I?”
“What plot could that possibly be?”
“Do not dissemble. The plan was for you to marry Emilia, but instead you turn your wiles on me. That alone would make my grandmother apoplectic and could be a revenge for what she did to your mother.”
“I do not seek revenge for my mother. Nor can I imagine why my proposal to you rather than your sister would matter to your grandmother. The same goal is achieved with either of you, isn’t it?”
