Leslie LaFoy (11 page)

A ball of bright blue flame exploded upward. Driven by the heat, Claire dropped her skirt to shield her face with her arms as she instinctively turned away. In the same heartbeat, her world careened out of control. Sensation and realization tumbled through her awareness, fractured and elusive, there and gone before she could react. She felt herself roughly jostled and thrown off balance. Steel bands clamped around her upper arms and she heard herself cry out as they lifted her up and then drove her entire body hard against the wooden floor. For a long second there was only the ache that
bloomed in her head. As the edge of it slowly faded, normal perception returned.

She was on her back, staring up at the ornately plastered ceiling. Turning and lifting her head, she found Devon in the vicinity of her feet, using her skirt to smother the last of the flames. Wyndom stood beside the hearth, his empty glass in hand and a decidedly regretful furrow between his pale brows. Madam Rivard was sprawled on the floor to Claire's left, her skirts, panniers, and hoops forming something of a tent that the woman was desperately trying to keep from flipping back over her head. The task was made even more difficult by the fact that she had only one hand free. The other was engaged in an equally desperate effort to keep the mountain of hair from falling off her head completely. Elsbeth was trying to help, but her own hoops, panniers, and wig made it impossible for her to bend over and preserve her modesty at the same time.

“Jesus, Wyndom! You're a goddamn idiot.”

Claire looked back just in time to see Devon come to his feet in one smooth, flawless, almost feline motion. He wasn't looking at his brother, though. He was looking at her, doing a quick head-to-toe appraisal. Claire found the wherewithal to sit up and quickly smooth down her skirts.

“I was only trying to help,” the younger man answered quietly, staring into his empty glass. “My instincts said to throw liquid on it. It never occurred to me—”

“It never does.” Devon stepped forward and extended a hand to her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I'm fine,” she assured him, gratefully placing her hand in his and accepting his assistance. “And thank you for acting so quickly.” She glanced over her shoulder to see what damage had been done to her dress.

“Only your outer skirt is burnt beyond repair,” Devon supplied. “Your petticoats are a bit singed, but still quite serviceable. Mother, how are you?”

“Rather rudely handled, I'm afraid.”

“Your sensibilities will recover,” Devon countered, releasing Claire's hand slowly, clearly watching to make sure she had her balance before he withdrew too far. His gaze lingered on hers for a moment, then he deliberately tore it away to look at his mother. “Are you physically injured in any way?”

“It would appear, at first appraisal, that I am not.”

“Wyndom?” he said coolly, “Would it be asking too much of you to help our mother to her feet?”

“Oh!” Wyndom said with a visible start. “Of course not.” With his empty snifter still in hand, he dashed to his mother's side and then paused to consider his glass, clearly in a quandary as to what he ought to do with it. His mother flailed her arms as he tried to reach a decision.

Devon groaned quietly and Claire looked up at him just in time to see him roll his eyes. She could honestly understand his frustrations. Wyndom was a generally likable fellow, but he didn't seem to possess even the tiniest sliver of common sense. She was extremely grateful that Devon had been present to put out the fire. Had her life depended on any of the others, she wouldn't be standing there with only a bit of charred fabric to show for the harrowing experience. She'd have been seriously injured. Or dead. The latter, she suddenly realized, would have made Devon's life much simpler. That he'd acted against his own best interests in the situation said something about his sense of decency and honor.

He was certainly a bundle of contradictions, she decided, studying him. Noticing that curls of burnt fabric clung to the sleeves of his frock coat, she reached out to gently brush them away. It seemed the least she could do for him, considering what he'd done for her. She felt his
gaze come to her, felt the warmth of his assessment. It was oddly calming, and from the farthest corner of her brain flitted the silly notion that a lifetime of such moments would be rather nice.

She deliberately shoved the thought away and concentrated on brushing a particularly large bit of scorched fabric from the left cuff of his coat. Her hand grazed his in the process and he jerked it away while drawing a hard breath through clenched teeth.

“You've burnt your hand,” she declared, reaching for his arm, angry with herself for not thinking of the possibility earlier. He didn't fight her, but stood stiffly as she turned his hand over so that she could see the palm. The skin was a sickly white and she knew that the burn went deep. It needed to be tended immediately.

“A little butter on it and it will be fine,” Devon said quietly, seeming to read her mind.

She looked up at him and just as quietly disagreed. “Butter will only seal in the heat and make the pain more intense.” At his cocked brow, she glanced over her shoulder to see that Madam Rivard had been righted and that Elsbeth was busily smoothing her sister's skirts. Wyndom was standing there looking as though he was at a complete loss for what to do next.

“Wyndom,” she said, drawing his attention to her. “Your brother's hand is injured. Please go out the front door and gather some snow.”

Even as Wyndom nodded, Ephram stepped into the doorway, bowed, and said, “Dinner is served.”

Wyndom sagged. “Dashedly poor timing.”

“Never mind the snow,” Devon snapped, easing his hand from Claire's gentle grasp. “I've suffered worse burns and survived. Let's go to the table before we have to add cold' to the other shortcomings of the meal.” Presenting Claire with his arm, he added, “Wyndom, please try to escort Mother to the dining room without losing her on the way.”

T WAS THE ODDEST THING
, Devon mused as Claire walked arm in arm with him into the dining room. She'd fallen into step immediately and so they moved as one, their progress even and comfortable. It required no thinking at all and he couldn't help but wonder if she'd be as easy to squire on the dance floor. He'd never in his life considered the possibility of public dancing without offering up a silent groan. But the mental image of partnering with Claire Curran made the prospect not only bearable but inexplicably attractive. Yes, it was most odd. Odd and intriguing.

“Lacking a full household staff,” he said as he took her to the buffet against the south wall, “we dine rather informally, serving ourselves. I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all.”

Soft and utterly sincere. Considering all the foot stamping and complaining he'd endured since he'd been forced to reduce the staff, her acceptance of the situation was an incredibly welcome change. He gently
surrendered her arm and picked up a plate, saying, “Allow me to fill your plate. Do you care for potatoes? I can't vouch for what kind of sauce they're swimming in.”

She looked in the chafing dish and caught her lower lip between her teeth. After a moment, she replied, “It would seem to be something cream based. And I'm willing to try anything once. Please fill my plate as you would your own.” She glanced up at him to smile and add, “Only smaller portions, of course.”

She had the prettiest eyes. When she smiled, they sparkled like sapphires in candlelight. When she was angry, he recalled, they darkened to the color of a midnight sky. She arched a brow in silent question and Devon started with realization. He was staring. And his pulse was tripping through his veins at a ridiculously quick rate. Forcing a smile of his own, he deliberately fixed his attention on the chafing dishes and what passed for food at Rosewind Manor. He carefully picked up a silver serving spoon, mindful both that it needed to be polished and that the movement intensified the throbbing in his hand. He gritted his teeth and focused on the task of serving, determined to fill his mind with something other than the awareness of pain.

He was trying to pry out of the serving dish a slice of what—under the layer of black ash—might be beef when he saw Wyndom escort their mother into the room. Elsbeth trailed behind, looking none too happy about having to walk into the room without chivalrous male assistance.

Claire, standing at his side, was so very different from the other two women. Her figure was trim yet nicely curved. And it existed without the benefit of the outrageous panniers and hoops his mother and Elsbeth strapped around themselves each and every morning of their lives. And her hair… It was real, golden and shiny in the lamplight. Thank God she didn't wear it powdered or hide it under a ludicrous wig.

Of course, wigs and hair powder, panniers and hoops were expensive things, and it was obvious that she couldn't afford them. Still, there was something about Claire that suggested that she'd forgo them even if they were within her financial means. Although going without them put her well outside the bounds of social expectations regarding appropriate feminine fashion, he couldn't help but appreciate her unconventionality. It made her seem so much more real; more flesh and blood than an untouchable, fragile china doll. And that was nice. Very nice. Having to always be the courtly gentleman was such a draining way to go through life. He had the unmistakable feeling that, with Claire, a man could actually relax and be himself from time to time without risking the complete collapse of civilization. All things considered…

Devon scowled down at the green mush that had at one point been individual green beans. Just a handful of hours ago, he'd been cursing his luck, Wyndom's stupidity, George Seaton-Smythe's conniving, and Claire Curran's outrageous behavior. And now he was standing at the buffet, scooping and scraping bits of dreck onto a plate for the same Claire Curran and thinking that she was a lovely bit of unexpected fresh air in his life.

Good God Almighty, he'd taken complete leave of his senses. When had it happened? It certainly hadn't been in the carriage. He'd climbed out wanting to strangle her. That same feeling had been with him when he'd drawn her up the icy front steps and into the foyer. But in the moment his mother had advanced on him, berating him for Wyndom's pathetic shivering…

Yes, that's when he'd begun the slide into insanity. He'd been challenged on every front, and in dealing with all the expectations and unpleasantness, he hadn't been able to keep himself from admiring the poise Claire
was displaying in the difficult circumstances. He'd forgotten how much he resented her, how deeply she'd angered him in the course of the day.

And then his mother had fainted and he'd found Claire pressed up against him, her arms around his neck. His admiration for her had instantly slipped to an entirely new plane. Then her skirt had caught fire and, when the flames had been put out, she'd taken his hand in hers and asked Wyndom to get some snow so that she could ease his pain. So genuinely caring. So gentle and yet determined. Yes, now that he thought back, he remembered that he'd felt something in his brain snap in that instant.