Leslie LaFoy (33 page)

Oh, you were thinking that I might have fallen in love with her? How ridiculous. She's as poor as a church mouse, outspoken, opinionated, entirely too independent, and a borderline loyalist. I'm certainly grateful for the change she's brought to Rosewind. It's nice to be able to breathe without inhaling a lungful of dust. But I'm no fool. I'm fully aware of the difference between lust and love. And Claire inspires nothing more for me than the former. As Tidewater wives go, she's utterly unsuitable and I know it
.

What? Can you have her when I'm done with her? You most certainly may not!

Why? Because… Well, because…

Devon swallowed past the lump in his throat and focused his awareness on the countryside through which he was riding. Imaginary conversations were beyond inane and accomplished nothing. Except, he silently conceded, to reveal what a pathetically shallow and weak-minded man he was.

C
LAIRE STEPPED BACK
to consider the arrangement of red and yellow tulips she'd placed in the center of the dining room table and smiled, silently thanking whichever of Devon's ancestors had been inclined to plant thousands of Dutch bulbs. Outside, they were a well-planned, richly colored blanket wrapping around Rosewind. Cut and brought inside, they were bright and cheerful and somehow made the world seem new and bursting with promise.

Pleased with the effect the blooms had achieved in the dining room, Claire picked up the second vase. The parlor, she thought, heading in that direction. The peach
and pink flowers would be perfect for the most feminine room in the house. Mother Rivard would especially like them.

And, if time permitted before luncheon, she'd cut a bouquet for the library as well, she decided. Surely Devon and the Lee brothers—once they returned from wherever they'd gone—would appreciate the splash of color and a light, sweet scent while they argued politics and economics, smoked cigars and drank their brandy. It should be a striking, somewhat masculine combination, though. Maroon with creamy white, she decided as she entered the parlor.

The silence was sudden and strained, bringing Claire out of her thoughts and sharpening what had only been the vaguest awareness of conversation. She froze, holding the vase in front of her, and quickly surveyed the room. Mother Rivard and Elsbeth, overdressed and powdered as usual, occupied opposite ends of the settee in front of the window. Across the Persian rug from them, in the center of the matching settee, was another woman, her dark hair piled in an intricate arrangement atop her head, her shoulders bared by the daring décolletage of her gown.

Mother Rivard started, looking nervously between Claire and the stranger. Elsbeth smiled slowly, making the hair prickle on the back of Claire's neck.

“I'm sorry to intrude. I wasn't aware that you had a caller,” Claire offered, quickly taking the bouquet to the sideboard. “I'll leave these here and allow you to return to your conversation.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mother Rivard rise and smile at the guest. As the stranger also gained her feet, Claire glanced toward the door and tamped down the urge to run.

“Lady Claire,” Henrietta said smoothly, “allow me to introduce our neighbor, Lady Darice Lytton.” Claire obediently turned as Mother Rivard went on, saying, “She's just returned from Philadelphia and has come
over this morning to share all the latest news with us. Darice, this is Claire, Devon's wife.”

“Wife?” the tall, voluptuous woman repeated, the coolness of her voice belied by the sudden, hard spark in her dark eyes. She raked Claire from hair to hem, her brow arching ever so slightly as she did.

Despite the pounding of her heart, Claire forced herself to relax, to smile; she knew what kind of woman Darice Lytton was. It had been her encounters with the Darices of London that had driven her uncle to send her far away on business.

“The marriage was most unexpected,” Elsbeth put in sardonically. “Apparently, Wyndom owed money to her uncle, and she was foisted off on Devon in lieu of payment. They assure us that the marriage will be annulled as soon as they receive word that the debt has been canceled.”

“My,” Darice said with a dry chuckle. “Knowing Devon as I do, I can only imagine that he's being positively beastly about the whole thing.”

“I do think he's coming around, though,” Mother Rivard nervously hastened to assure her. “Lady Claire has been nothing short of a dervish in getting Rosewind prepared to receive guests. Have we mentioned that the Lee brothers are here? They brought poor Wyndom home from James City. He'd had an unfortunate encounter and they were kind enough to rescue him. He's been abed, recovering, since yesterday.”

The woman's brow had inched further upward at the mention of Devon's possible acceptance of the situation, and Claire knew that everything Mother Rivard had said after that had fallen on deaf ears. Predators were at least predictable. Claire waited for the thinly veiled insult.

“I suppose that if one is to have only limited talents,” Darice observed with an insincere smile, “housekeeping would at least be a useful and employable skill.
Would you happen to be available to clean my house? After being away for two months… well, it certainly could use a little dervish whirling through it.”

“I'm afraid you'll have to rely on your own resources, Lady Darice,” she replied with every bit of sweetness she could muster. She broadened her smile before she delivered a slap of her own. “Making a comfortable home for Devon fully and happily occupies all my time.”

The glint in her ebony eyes hardening, Darice practically purred as she replied, “Aren't you simply precious.”

“Precious? Ha!” Elsbeth snorted. “She wears breeches and boots about the house. For all we know, she's probably worn them out in public, too.”

“As a matter of fact, Elsbeth, I have. Frequently.” All three women gasped and stared at her, their mouths agape. Pleased with having succeeded at undermining the aplomb that Darice used to make people feel inferior, Claire grinned and quipped, “Precious and outrageous, too.”

Before they could offer any sort of comment, she added, “If you'll excuse me, ladies. I'm off to check with Hannah on this evening's meal. Will you be staying for luncheon, Lady Darice? Or are you hurrying home to try your own hand at being useful?”

“Of course she'll be staying,” Elsbeth snapped, her eyes glittering as hard and dark as Darice's. “We wouldn't hear otherwise, would we, Henrietta?”

Mother Rivard cast a quick look between Claire and Darice, opened her mouth to speak, and then apparently thought better of whatever it was she had been about to say. She pursed her lips, swallowed hard, and managed a weak smile. “It would be unconscionably rude not to invite her to stay.”

Elsbeth stared at Henrietta, and Darice blinked furiously.
Claire reined in her smile, and then dropped a quick curtsy before she turned and left the room. She ought to be ashamed of herself, Claire silently admonished as she made her way down the hall toward the foyer. She'd not only deliberately baited the woman, she'd matched her insult for insult. It was petty and childish behavior. Her mother had taught her better. Of course, Claire amended, her mother had never been backed into a corner by one of the Darice Lyttons of the world. She'd have sung a different song had her ladylike courtesy been repaid with an unprovoked mauling or two.

“A word with you privately, Claire.”

Claire stopped on the threshold of the butler's pantry and turned back, mentally bracing as she watched Darice advance and chiding herself for not having anticipated the woman's unwillingness to allow someone to walk away with the upper hand.

“If it won't take long, Darice,” she countered. “I need to let Hannah know we'll be having a guest for the midday meal.”

“Then for the sake of brevity, I'll be blunt. You're a very sweet little girl and far too innocent to play the game against someone like me. There's no sport for me in winning under such circumstances. So please, spare us both an unpleasant experience and quietly quit the field without the pretense of making it a contest.”

This was the woman's idea of blunt? At the rate she was going, it would take them a month to get to the meat of the matter at hand. “Are we talking about Devon?”

“Devon's the only reason I'd ever visit this pile of rubble,” Darice said contemptuously. “Are you aware that he and I are lovers?”

The declaration struck Claire hard, clenching her stomach and driving the air from her lungs. Part of her
brain refused to believe it. Another part did, but warned that she couldn't allow Darice to know how deeply she'd been wounded. “I can't recall his ever having mentioned your name, Darice,” she answered with a breezi-ness she didn't feel. “So no, I wasn't aware of any relationship between you. Telling me about it must have slipped his mind.”

Darice laughed softly. “Cattiness doesn't become you. You're not particularly good at it. And please allow me to disabuse you of any notion you might have about being good enough to draw Devon into your bed. Oh, you might be able to lure him there once. But while innocence is certainly appealing in its novelty, it lacks any depth. I can assure you that Devon is a man who very much requires and appreciates depth of experience.”

Struggling to contain her rising anger, Claire observed dryly, “Experience which you happen to have in abundance, no doubt.”

“Not only have I bedded more men than you'll meet in the course of your life, but I've also buried three husbands, each of whom was exceedingly grateful for my skills and rewarded me grandly for brightening the last days of his life.”

“Experience and wealth, too.”

“Can you offer Devon either of those things? Of course you can't. And you've been here long enough to know how important money is to Devon. You'll have to accept my word on how much he enjoys a talented woman in his bed.”

Standing there listening to another woman expound on Devon's sexual expectations… Reminding herself that Devon was her husband in name only didn't cool her temper one bit. “I can certainly see why he'd be motivated to take you to the altar, Darice. Which naturally begs the question… Why hasn't he?”

“My last husband has been dead for less than a
year,” Darice explained coolly. “I'm in mourning and can't wed for another two months. Devon's inordinately concerned about public appearances, which is why I went off to Philadelphia. People were beginning to suspect that we were involved, and it bothered him. Since he's powerless to resist temptation, the only kind and considerate thing to do was go away.”

“But now you're back and fully intending to take up with Devon where you left off.”

With a smile, Darice added, “And I will not tolerate any attempt on your part to stand in our way.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Claire managed to say lightly. Resolving to escape before she did the woman bodily harm, she forced herself to shrug and say, “Well, in case we don't have another opportunity to visit with each other before I leave Rosewind, allow me to extend my congratulations on your inevitable nuptials and wish you and Devon the greatest happiness you can hope to achieve.”

“I'm so glad we had this chance to set matters straight,” Darice said as she turned and walked away. “I'm sure that you'll someday find a man more in keeping with your ability to hold his interest. Henrietta mentioned that Hannah is back. Tell her I want pheasant breasts in Madeira sauce for lunch.”

Claire watched her go, wishing she had something in hand to throw at her. The woman was positively viperous. Not to mention presumptive and malicious and avaricious. Just out and out onerous.
Devon and I are lovers… A man more in keeping…
Fuming, her heartbeat pounding in her temples, Claire spun about and stomped off toward the kitchen.

Hannah, chopping vegetables at the central table, looked up at her stormy arrival. The knife went still and a gray brow arched up. “What's happened, child?”

“We have a guest for lunch,” Claire gritted out, her
hands fisted on her hips. “She told me to tell you that she wants pheasant breasts in a Madeira sauce.”

Hannah grimaced. “Lady Darice Lytton.”

“None other.”

Meg shoveled a loaf of bread into the oven and asked, “Who's Lady Darice Lytton?”

“Devon's lover,” she shot back angrily.

“Oh, sweet merciful saints preserve us.”

Meg's obvious shock and dismay at the revelation was somehow both a balm and a dose of salt on her wounded pride. Claire looked back and forth between the two women, her breathing ragged and her heart still hammering.

“Calm yourself down, Lady Claire,” Hannah said softly. “There's another side of the story that Widow Lytton woman hasn't told you.”

“Would that be Devon's side?”

“Yes. And when you're ready to hear it, I'll tell it to you.” Hannah picked up a cloth-lined basket and handed it to her, saying, “Eat a biscuit.”

“I've never in my life loathed another human being as much as I do her,” Claire admitted, obediently but absently taking a piece of the offered bread. “What could Devon possibly see in her? Why—aside from her baskets and baskets of money—would he ever consider marrying her?”

“Is that what she told you?” Hannah asked, her hands going to her hips. “That he was going to marry her?”

“Yes. And that I don't have a prayer of being
experienced
enough to… to …”

“Seduce him?” Meg supplied as she set aside the bread paddle and moved toward the open hearth.

“Thank you. Or keep his interest should I—ever so accidentally—lure him into my bed.”

With a deep sigh, Hannah reached out to lay her
hand on Claire's arm. “Put that whole biscuit in your mouth and chew slowly.”

Her mind still reeling, Claire stood there mutely un-moving. Biscuit? She wasn't the least bit hungry. She'd probably never be hungry again for as long as she lived.

“Now, Lady Claire. The whole thing.”

God. Why not? What else did she have to do? There was no earthly reason to pour any more of herself into pretending to be the mistress of Rosewind. Not when Darice Lytton was waiting in the wings to dance in and claim the title for herself. Claire took a huge, angry bite of the cold bread.