Leslie LaFoy (10 page)

He simply couldn't be pleasant, Claire silently groused; to be kind and considerate just for the sake of being kind and considerate. For a brief moment he'd been a decent human being, concerned for the welfare of another. And then he'd destroyed the illusion by admitting to his own selfish motives for caring. It would serve him right if she did fall. With just the tiniest bit of luck she could break her neck and be put out of
his
misery.

As he reached the top of the stairs and drew her onto the porch and ahead of him, the massive front door opened as if by itself. Claire started and then recalled the first—and only—time she'd been permitted to use the front door of the Seaton-Smythe house. A servant stood
invisibly on the back side, waiting to take their coats. Given all that she'd been told of the family's dire financial straits, it was surprising to realize that they could justify the expense. But then, her beastly husband had made it quite clear that maintaining appearances was vitally important to their survival. Not to mention comfort, Claire added as she was guided into a white marble tiled foyer.

Her hand was abruptly released and, from behind her, she heard the door close and Devon Rivard say, “Good evening, Ephram.”

“Good evening, sir.”

She turned toward the voice and then froze, stunned by realization. Ephram was a Negro; more accurately, given the lightness of his skin and his features, a mulatto. Even as she blinked in shock, the impeccably dressed Ephram accepted Devon's coat and then bowed in a courtly manner to acknowledge her presence. She dipped her chin in return greeting, her mind reeling. The Rivards didn't have servants; they had slaves. There was a significant difference between the two statuses, and despite all of the traveling she'd done for her uncle and all the places it had taken her, she had never been able to comfortably accept the notion that it was all right for one human being to own another.

Hers was a decidedly uncommon perspective on the institution, she knew. Slavery was known in virtually every corner of the world; the American colonies had no exclusive claim to its practice. And while slaves were owned throughout all thirteen, she knew that the majority of those held in bondage were in the southern ones. She shouldn't have been so stunned to learn that her husband was an owner of slaves. It was logical that he would be, especially being a Virginian. But she was startled nonetheless and she couldn't help but think that it didn't speak at all well of his conscience.

Hearing steps behind her, Claire turned away from
Ephram and the doorway. Coming across the foyer— her wooden heels clicking against the tile—was a living, breathing embodiment of a dressmaker's most stylish moppet. Despite being unable to afford the latest in ladies' fashions for herself, Claire nevertheless knew that no one wore panniers and hoops that wide anymore except to the opera or an evening affair at Windsor Castle. And she could only hope that the impossibly high and intricately arranged hairstyle was a powdered wig that could be removed between public appearances. If it wasn't, the older woman had to suffer from a perpetually stiff neck.

“Devon,” the matron declared as she came to a halt so sudden that her hems swayed forward and then back. “I will have a word with you.”

“Later perhaps, Mother.”

Madam Rivard blindly gestured toward the wide doorway behind her. “Your brother is at this very moment on the verge of collapse from frostbite. He can hardly hold the brandy snifter he's shaking so badly from the chill.”

“But he is managing to hold it, isn't he?” the woman's son replied snidely, coming to stand beside Claire. As his mother blinked, he drawled, “Mother, may I present Claire. Claire, my mother, Madam Henrietta Rivard.”

Recovering with a start, Madam Rivard advanced, meeting Claire's gaze for the first time and smiling broadly as she gushingly said, “Welcome to Rosewind Manor, my dear girl. Wyndom has only been able to stammer a bit past his chill to tell us that Devon was bringing a guest.”

She stopped in front of Claire and took both of her hands in her own to add, “And since my oafish son,” she added, casting a quick, censorious glance at Devon, “has neglected to append your surname, I'm placed in
the embarrassing position of having to inquire as to which of Virginia's fine families you belong.”

Guest? Was the woman just very polite or didn't she know? Uncertain, Claire decided that wisdom lay in giving her the most general of replies. “I am not Virginian, Madam Rivard.”

“Ah, British,” the woman countered with a smile even larger than before. “I can hear our mother tongue in your voice.” She lightly squeezed Claire's hands, then released them and stepped back, saying, “Do let Devon give Ephram your cloak, and come into the parlor so that your bones can warm a bit.”

Her son obediently slipped around to stand behind Claire, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders. A warmth flooded into her and rippled all the way to her toes. Disconcerted by the pleasure in the sensation and feeling a desperate need to escape it, Claire held her breath and fumbled to undo the frogs of her cloak. It seemed to take an eternity and she was light-headed and weak-kneed by the time the garment was mercifully lifted away.

Seemingly oblivious to her discomfort, Madam Rivard tucked Claire's arm through her own and led her off in the direction of the wide doorway, asking as they went, “Where in England is your home?”

“I'm of London most recently, but originally from Herefordshire.”

“And what is it that brings you to our colony and out to Rosewind, my dear?”

The woman didn't know. The brother hadn't told her. Her stomach knotted with dread, Claire managed a weak smile and replied, “Nefarious scheming.”

From behind them, Devon Rivard corrected, “More like exceedingly poor judgment and then miserable luck.”

“Oh, I do hear a story begging to be told,” Henrietta
Rivard chirped happily as she drew Claire into a lavishly appointed salon. Devon's brother stood directly in front of the hearth, a large brandy snifter in his hand and the tails of his frock coat perilously close to the flames. Another older woman sat perched on the edge of a nearby chair, an embroidery hoop in her hand. Her panniers were every bit as wide as Madam Rivard's, her hair styled in a manner that was only slightly less extravagant. Elsbeth, Claire guessed. Henrietta's supposedly shrewish sister.

“It's been two years since anything even remotely amusing or interesting has happened at Rosewind,” Madam Rivard went on, guiding Claire toward the fire. “Devon is positively the most boring man in all of the Americas. Had I not given birth to him myself, I would swear that he wasn't my child at all. Life under his control has become just as stifled as he is. Wyndom, do move over to share the warmth with Mistress…”

Wyndom obeyed, his gaze riveted on his very full glass of brandy, and Claire was deposited beside him at the hearth, her mind reeling and her heart pounding. She saw no choice but answer, “Curran.”

Devon, standing in front of the buffet with a decanter in one hand and a crystal tumbler in the other, fixed his brother with a hard look and said, “You didn't send the message, did you?”

“I couldn't think of an appropriate way to frame the words,” Wyndom replied without looking up. He took a sip of his brandy before adding, “And, besides, you didn't leave me the time. Arranging for the carriage took all that you allowed.”

“You're a sniveling coward.”

“Devon!” Madam Rivard gasped, wheeling on him. “We have a guest in our home and you will exercise good manners.”

“Mother,” he retorted icily, pouring his drink, “You
should know that Claire is more than a mere guest. She's my wife.”

Claire couldn't see his mother's face, but it wasn't really necessary. Madam Rivard gasped, pressed her hands to her face, and staggered where she stood. Claire instinctively edged forward, preparing to catch her should she faint dead away.

“Had Wyndom stiffened his spine when instructed to do so,” Devon continued, his tone still flinty as he advanced toward the hearth with his drink, “you would have been accorded the opportunity to both receive such startling news and recover from your shock in private. The awkwardness of this moment lies squarely at his feet.”

“Nevertheless,” the woman with the embroidery hoop said haughtily,
“you
are the son who owes your mother the explanation.”

Claire watched fire blaze in his eyes, realizing that despite their sometimes strained and contentious exchanges, she hadn't seen him truly angry until now. With what appeared to be great effort, he deliberately turned his shoulder to the woman and addressed his mother. “Wyndom incurred a gambling debt and arranged a loan from an agent of George Seaton-Smythe in order to pay it.”

“I'm not familiar with the name. Is he a Virginian?”

“No, Mother,” he replied tightly. “He's British.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I would so dislike having our friends know that borrowing was necessary.”

Devon scowled at his mother and went on. “Mr. Seaton-Smythe apparently came to realize that my brother's promises aren't worth the paper on which they're written and that I represented the only hope he had of recovering the two thousand pounds sterling Wyndom had borrowed from him.”

“I hope that you didn't pay the man that kind of
money,” the other woman said, her tone no less imperial for having been pointedly dismissed just a moment before. “Your mother and I have repeatedly submitted our lists to you and have, despite that, done without a great number of necessities for far too long. We haven't had so much as a quarter yard of new cloth come into this house in over eighteen months. The quality of tea we've endured for the last six is positively wretched and we haven't attended—”

“I didn't pay it,” Devon snapped, pivoting to glare at her. “If I lack the money for fine tea, Aunt Elsbeth, you can be sure that I don't have it to pay an ill-considered debt that
I
didn't incur.”

Ah, yes. She'd been right; it was Elsbeth. And Devon's appraisal of her general manner seemed to be accurate.

“There is no reason to snap, Devon,” his mother chided. “I can only hope you stated your regrets to Mr. Seaton-Smythe in a more polite manner.”

His regrets? Madam Rivard had absolutely no idea how the larger world worked. Judging by the look in her eldest son's eyes, she was on the verge of getting a hard and brutal lesson on the subject. Claire held her breath and wished herself a thousand miles away.

“Mr. Seaton-Smythe isn't the sort of man to accept regrets,” Devon explained, his voice tight. “Politely stated or otherwise, Mother. Anticipating that I wouldn't have the funds, he offered to retire the debt in its entirety if I would agree to wed his niece. Hence, this afternoon, I most reluctantly married Mistress Curran.”

He'd
been reluctant? Claire's blood heated with outrage even as Elsbeth looked her up and down, her nose wrinkling in obvious disdain. Wyndom absorbed himself in taking a sip of his brandy. Madam Rivard turned to face her, her brow raised.

Refusing to be baited into defending her innocence in the fiasco, Claire straightened her shoulders and met
Madam Rivard's gaze squarely. “We've agreed to have the union annulled as soon as your son receives documents from my uncle canceling the debt. The sham should end by August at the latest.”

“An annulment?
An annul
—” Madam Rivard gasped, placed the back of her wrist across her brow, executed a half pirouette while fluttering her eyelids, then daintily crumpled backward.

Claire reacted instinctively, stepping forward and extending her arms to catch the collapsing matron. While Madam Rivard's faint was decidedly graceful, Claire's rescue of her wasn't. The combined weight of the woman's hair, the panniers, the gown, the embroidered petticoats and Henrietta Rivard herself was more than Claire had anticipated and she staggered, desperately struggling for balance. She heard Elsbeth squeak in shock. At the farthest edge of her awareness, she felt the younger brother skitter away, saw the embroidery hoop fall to the floor, and a blur of dark blue.

Then Madam Rivard's weight miraculously left her arms. Claire's hope of recovering her balance was only momentary, though. Even as she tried to get her feet squarely under her, she was abruptly wrenched forward and down. Unable to keep herself upright, she gasped, closed her eyes, and threw her hands out to cushion her certain impact against the floor.

Only it wasn't the floor she hit; it was a heated wall of blue wool and corded muscle. She opened her eyes to find herself on her knees, her arms flung around the neck of Devon Rivard and her breasts pressed hard against the broad expanse of his chest. His emerald gaze met hers and held it as he cocked a brow and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. She froze, her heart pounding furiously, traitorously, at the sight.

“I can manage, thank you,” he said softly.

Dear Lord, what he had to be thinking! With all the dignity she could muster, Claire awkwardly leveraged
herself against his massive shoulders and gained a respectable space between their upper bodies. But she simply couldn't move her lower limbs and go any farther. Neither could she let go of his shoulders without tumbling back fully against him. Glancing down, she realized the cause of her dilemma. They were both on their knees with Henrietta Rivard trapped between them, cradled in her son's arms with her panniers twisted and her skirts a bunched and crumpled wad held in place by a strong arm encircling her just above her knees.

Claire looked up to meet that unsettling gaze again. “You've caught my skirts in with your mother's. I can't rise until she does.”

“Oh, dear God,” Wyndom cried breathlessly from behind them. “Mistress Curran, your hem is on fire!”

Claire started and looked over her shoulder to see flames licking a trail along the edge of the only dress she owned. Twisting around, she thought to grab the fabric and haul the flames close enough to smother them with a portion of still-whole cloth.

She'd barely caught a handful when Wyndom stepped close and Devon bellowed, “No! Don't!” just before his brother flung the entire contents of his brandy snifter on her dress.