Rook watched with narrowed eyes as the Lockwood girl and her chaperone, exited the breakfast room. For a moment he had thought…but no: too awkward, too young, and too self-conscious. If anything, he felt surprisingly protective of the girl. It wasn’t a natural feeling for him, except with Hestia of course, but the girl was pretty, and she seemed very unsure of herself. It would normally annoy him, but she took such pains to hide her gaucheness, as if she wasn’t used to being uncertain.
The girl next to him had gone quiet. Thank God for that – she’d talked of ribbons.
This morning, he had started on his list of possibilities for his masquerade woman. He was aware that he might be getting a tad fanatical, but lud, what else was there to do at a house party? Today, he had to show his male guests the stables. He agreed with Miss Lockwood’s chaperone – how dull!
Therefore, he had sat with a possible candidate this breakfast, and flirted lightly with the pretty debutante. It wasn’t her: the voice was too high pitched and up-close her lips were too thin.
Suddenly, he had noticed Miss Lockwood; a look of absolute satisfaction and delight on her face, as she drank her coffee. For a short moment, he had found it so affecting, he had imagined that face on his pillow, with exactly that expression. Her dark, shining locks spread out in abundance, her lips parted, her eyes closed, and her body arching…waiting... Then she had spluttered over her coffee, and he had realised how ridiculous he was being.
She was charming, but he wanted to find that receptive, passionate woman from the Masquerade…surely he only had to look.
ΦΦΦ
Clara stared into the mirror as she got ready for dinner, pulling a face as the borrowed maid fiddled with her curls. Aunt Agnes had predicted that the day would be dull; it had been.
Her needlework had been terrible anyway, but now Clara could no longer do it at all, and she didn’t have anyone to write to either. She’d only seen her friends Lucy and Rosalind three days before. Despite only knowing them since the beginning of the Season, Clara had come to love them both dearly, but the only thing to report was her meeting with Rookdean, and she couldn’t even begin to expressthosehappenings in a letter.
Initially, Clara had heavily resisted the invitation to the house party, and she wasn’t entirely sure why they’d been included, although a Duke was in her ancestry somewhere. The Lockwood family had an abundance of fecundity, and younger sons had begat even younger sons, until they were very much a diluted lot. Still, she supposed Ralph was relatively well-off, inheriting both her parents’, and then her uncle’s possessions – including her.
Previously, Ralph had badgered her about this party, and now she knew why, with the appearance of Sir Matthew Taylor. However, even her friend Rosalind had entered the fray, arguing that she would meet new people – well, Rosalind was certainly right on that point – rather too intimately.
Clara had spent the day looking at portraits and trying to avoid Sir Matthew. She had been quite successful until early afternoon, when he’d cornered her in the hall. Before he could even open his mouth, however, Rookdean appeared and told him in no uncertain terms that he was due in the stables on the hour. Sir Matthew had looked annoyed, but one didn’t argue with an earl, especially when he was your host, and he had walked off sulkily. The highlight to her day had been discovering a fascinating room tucked away down a passageway by the main stairs. It was relatively large and contained many hefty, locked cabinets with glass fronts. Travel curiosities, books and small sculptures lined the shelves, and Clara had spent some time perusing the room. Finding peace and tranquillity there, she had settled down to read.
“All ready miss,” the maid said, snapping Clara from her daydreaming.
“Thank you, Eliza. You have worked wonders.” She let out a deep breath and prayed she wouldn’t be seated next to Sir Matthew tonight: he made her nervous, and formal dining was a dreadful ordeal with her hand. If possible, despite etiquette, she kept her hands gloved throughout dinner. People, she found, were too engrossed in their food to notice, and she had become adept at hiding them under the table.
Inhaling deeply, she headed for the door.
ΦΦΦ
Clara fidgeted with the cut of her gown, feeling the eyes of Sir Matthew Taylor, seated to her right, follow the movement.
Opposite, her cousin Ralph, bless him, was trying to fill the silence with chatter about his coin collection. Her aunt, placed next to him, was occupied with a handsome, but bemused looking fellow, who was fending off feathers whenever her aunt’s head turned.
God hadn’t been listening to her prayers. If anything, he had been listening to her aunt about having someone handsome to talk to.
Clara acknowledged that it wasn’t anything Sir Matthew actually said: it was the feeling he gave. She suddenly tensed as he spoke.
“You are looking very pleasant tonight, Miss Lockwood.” He gave an easy, disarming smile, but it made Clara nauseous. “Although thin, you are rounded in all the correct places at least.”
Clara gasped, she was wrong – it was the things he said as well. That was not polite dinner conversation, and she looked up in appeal to her dining companions. Everybody was occupied: even her cousin had found an audience talking about the Aureus Roman coin that he’d found.
He continued lazily, “When Ralph told me he had a cousin on the marriage mart, I immediately sought you out. I am certain we would deal very well together.” Clara watched his handsome features twist into a smug, self-congratulatory grin.
The nerve of the man! she thought. He was handsome, of that there was no doubt. His hair was dark, and currently tousled in the Brutus style. Deep brown eyes were at present fixed on his wine glass, and he had possibly the longest eyelashes she had ever seenon a man. His clothes were always exquisite, and she had heard that many a lady succumbed to his outward charm.
He left her cold.
There was just something…wrong about the man. He was too charming…too glib, and Clara always felt very uncomfortable in his presence.
“Sir, I appreciatethe honour, you bestow. However, I am not presently interested in marrying anyone,” Clara stated, low and determined.
“Ralph has already given his permission, and he is your guardian.” He flashed white teeth at her, seemingly ignoring her words.
“I will speak to Ralph myself on the matter, but I say again – I will not be marrying anyone, and you are delusional if you think that I will change my mind.”
“Hmmm,” he replied, still seemingly unconcerned with her outright refusal. “Ralph is an enormously persuadable fellow, you know. He believes, as I do, that we men know what is best. I am sure you will come around.” And with that he glugged half his wine and started eating the turbot that had been placed in front of him.
