Adam watched Lady Clara ride away.
What a provocative woman. Bright-eyed and vivacious still, but also more lovely, with a creamy complexion and strands of flame mixing with her brown hair.
Spirited. Too spirited, most men would say. He was not one of them. He liked highly spirited, self-possessed women. He preferred if they did not treat him with disdain, of course. He would excuse her. This time. The dowager’s plans had taken Lady Clara unawares—as they had him—and the enmity between their families made her rudeness understandable.
He would also excuse her because he had wanted her immediately on seeing her under that tree, and more by the time they parted. Desire always encouraged generosity.
He mounted, but rode east, not back to Marwood’s house to the west. There was no need to return there and to the road. If he continued this way for several miles, he should soon be on his own land.
He crossed well-tended farms and passed through one hamlet of houses. Was this still Lady Clara’s property? If so, her father’s legacy had been significant. No wonder Marwood spoke of it with resentment.
Only when he crested a low rise in the land did he realize just where he was. He recognized the town he approached from its mill. He could barely make out the wide stream that snaked north and south. Marwood’s property met his own in places along that stream.
He trotted his horse forward, thinking about the dowager’s offer, as dictated by the late earl. The earl had reasons for seeking a peace treaty. Adam thought he knew what they were. But even near death, a man’s character did not change, it appeared.
The last earl had schemed to ensure he won an old contest, even while having his mother offer an olive branch in the hopes of protecting his son.
* * *
Clara tied a ribbon around Althea’s essay, and tucked her page of notes on top. Althea was a fine writer. However, when she cared deeply about a cause or event, she veered from opinion into polemic. It would not take much to change this so it did not display that failing.
She set it into a low drawer in the writing table she used in the library. While she did, her brother Theo entered the chamber, saw her, and glared. Then he went to the decanters and poured himself some brandy.
“You ruined it,” he said through clenched teeth. “All was well in hand, and you had to insult him to the point he forgot everything else.”
She had seen neither Theo nor her grandmother upon returning, so this was the first chance her brother had to upbraid her. Not that she would allow that.
“If you had told me you would be receiving Stratton, I would have kept well away, I assure you.”
“It was Grandmother’s idea, but sound in its own way.”
“Papa would never have approved. If there is to be a rapprochement between our families, let them take the first step.”
He smirked down at his brandy, then at her. “You have not been in London much the last half year. You have not been partaking of society at all while in mourning. So you have not heard about him, have you?”
“I would not have paid attention anyway, because he has nothing to do with me. With any of us. That is how it has been since at least Grandfather’s time.” She had been raised with the lesson. Her father—dear Papa—had not had to speak of it much to pass on the tradition of family acrimony.
“Unfortunately, he is not like his father. Or any of the others. He is . . . dangerous.”
She laughed. “He did not appear dangerous to me.” Except he had. All that brooding had a lot to do with it. If she ever saw him again, she would be tempted to tickle him until he laughed like a fool, just to defeat the power of that dark mood he carried.
“He is not dangerous towomen.” Theo’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
Well, now, she was not sure she agreed with that either.
“He duels, Clara. He has killed two men, and almost a third one. In France. The slightest provocations and he calls men out. He will not stand down. It is rumored he had to return to England because the French authorities told him to leave their country.” Theo threw back the rest of his brandy. “He is a killer.”
Theo’s posture shrank while he spoke. His brow furrowed. His blue eyes took on a distant gaze toward nothing. Clara was older than Theo by three years and had watched him grow up. She could tell that her brother was afraid.
She stood and walked over to him. “He is hardly going to killyou, Theo. Not over some old family argument begun before either of you were born.”
“What better way to win that argument? One wrong word, one bad look, and he will have his excuse.”
“You are being too dramatic.”
“Grandmother agrees. Mock my judgment if you want, but will you so quickly mock hers?”
Stratton’s explanation of his visit made sense now, but in a most ridiculous way. Grandmamma’s grief had taken an unfortunate turn if she saw such a threat in the duke. As for Theo . . . He was brave when there was little danger, but less so when threats flew.
