“Because there’s nothing to tell, I don’t even know who she is.”
Jack was intrigued. “Tell me more, I’m all-a-gog. We’ve got time as I hate shooting anyway, especially rabbits, I rather like ‘em. It’s dreadful weather as well, we should head to the inn. I’m thirsty.”
“The rabbits have been eating the crops,” Rook explained, before murmuring, “sorry about your throat, Jack.”
“I think the ladies will love the husky voice – will tell ‘em I fought a wild boar. It pinned me by the throat, but I managed to strangle it with my bare hands. What do you think?”
Rook laughed approvingly. “You are a rogue, Winterbourne.”
“I thank you,” the man replied with relish. “Now tell me all about your mystery woman.”
They walked deeper into the forest away from the distant sound of rifle shot, and Rook recounted the tale of his encounter in the sunken garden, that first night.
ΦΦΦ
It had been the most infernally boring day…ever, and Clara snarled at her reflection in the mirror. She knew she shouldn’t complain. There were people with no food, and here she was dining on the finest. There were people with no shelter, and yet she was ensconced in an elegant, pale blue bedroom, with the finest of cotton on the bed. But today, watercolours…of a bowl of fruit.
Before the damage to her hand, Clara had rather enjoyed painting, but her tastes had run to landscapes, and her aunt had told her that Clara’s inclination did seem to veer towards the more abstruse. Clara knew what that meant – her aunt had no idea what she was looking at. Now however, she couldn’t paint and looking at bowls of fruit made her hungry.
She thought to have a nice conversation with Hestia, but the poor lady obviously had something on her mind. When a delivery arrived, she’d disappeared, never to be seen again.
The men had come back very late and seemed half-cut. They had celebrated their ‘hunt’ by visiting the inn, but it certainly sounded more interesting than a bowl of fruit.
Clara rearranged a black curl. She had requested a bath this afternoon and spent most of the time luxuriating in the orange blossom smell, wondering if Rook still meant to organise for her to play chess with the wounded soldiers. It sounded like it could indeed be helpful to the soldiers, and she would cherish the opportunity to use the brain her Uncle Daniel had nurtured, for something a little more worthwhile.
Tonight, she had read on the list of events, was a musical evening. There was to be an orchestra playing during dinner and then, afterwards, guests could demonstrate their own skills. Clara felt nervous. Her pianoforte playing days for an audience were over, and her uncle had once told her that, although he loved her dearly, her singing sounded like a cat plying its trade. She should have asked what that meant – it didn’t sound polite.
She hoped to sit in a corner, or maybe Jack would concede to a game of chess? After Rook’s demeanour this morning, she could only presume he merely viewed her as another guest – so she shouldn’t expect his company.
Why had she been talked into attending this house party?
ΦΦΦ
Looking around the dining table, Clara was confused. She didn’t think anyone else had noticed, but all the dark-haired ladies were down one end of the table, herself included, and all the fairs the other end. Perhaps it was some type of game?
Truly, this house party had already been rather different. The masquerade on the first night was certainly unusual, and so perhaps this was another idea. It certainly kept the gentlemen on their toes regarding their dinner companions.
She looked to fair Hestia at the end of the table, and hence furthest away from Rook. She was wearing the most incredible gown tonight. It was a deep emerald, and it made her complexion glow in the candlelight. It wasn’t low, but it emphasised her magnificent bosom and elegant hairstyle. Hestia’s eyes, unlike Rooks, were green, and although Clara couldn’t see from her chair, she imagined the gown complemented them perfectly. Many men were giving her covert looks tonight, and her husband looked as though he may drag her upstairs at any moment.
To have such confidence to wear that dress must be thrilling, thought Clara. Her own lighter, mint green gown set off her hair colour well, but she always felt pale colours made her look rather lacklustre. She knew the dark blue she had worn last night was considered daring for a debutante, and she did envy the freedom to wear bold colours that marriage bestowed upon a woman. It did not seem fair, that merely because she was a maiden, she was expected to look mildly consumptive.
She looked up the table. Rookdean was several seats up, talking to the pretty wife of one of the men who had been placed farther down the table. He seemed to be enjoying himself. She herself had Dill on one side, who as usual was a pleasant dinner companion, and an old viscount on the other, with Jack opposite.
Jack seemed to be slightly more reserved tonight and was happily chatting to his female companions on either side. Every now and then though, she felt his gaze rest on her. It felt… speculative.
She heard him laugh huskily at something. Honestly, he sounded like he’d been smoking cheroots all afternoon at the inn – he probably had.
In between talking to Dill and the viscount, Clara admired the dining room. Most nights, she had been too busy fending off or laughing with her dinner companions, to admire it fully.
The room was painted a rich, deep red, but in no way did it feel dark. Candles blazed in a huge chandelier – every crystal droplet duplicated in the massive gold-framed mirror that hung over the unused fireplace. Paintings, mostly of classical myths, were hung around the room, giving it an intimate feel. A little too intimate, Clara thought, as she peered at a small canvas that appeared to depict a satyr seducing a coy-looking nymph.
Eventually, the dinner came to a close, and Hestia led the ladies to the music room. Clara noticed that many a man’s eyes followed the curvaceous blonde’s derrière out of the door – sometimes, men were so base.
Clara trailed along; she was just envious. If she had a derrière like that, she would sway like a siren as well. Clara’s curves were more neat and compact, and if there was anything she could change, it would be her height. Indeed, with Rook, her face only met the middle of his chest, although her slightness did mean he could lift her up, her toes not touching the ground, their mouths at exactly the right height for…
“Do look where you are going, Miss Lockwood,” huffed Lady Minkworth, as Clara bumped into the back of her. Clara could only agree with the woman, if only she had been looking where she’d been going the night of the masquerade!
ΦΦΦ
