Courting Claudia (3 page)

“Well—”

“Of course she has room left.” Poppy nudged her friend in the side.

“Certainly. Where are my manners? I apologize, Mr. Middleton. I do believe I must be coming down with something. I'm simply not thinking clearly. It's been agitating Poppy all evening. Why, I was just saying that—”

Poppy nudged her again.

Claudia smiled sheepishly. “I have a tendency to ramble.” She handed him her dance card.

Her first waltz was unclaimed. Perfect. Only one other name appeared on her card—Richard Foxmore—and he was on there no fewer than three times. She certainly kept poor company.

“How do you know Richard Foxmore?” Derrick couldn't help but ask.

“He's courting her,” Poppy answered.

Claudia shot her friend a look. He couldn't interpret what it meant, but something about divulging that information made her uncomfortable.

“Indeed?”

“Pardon me?” A portly lady, late in her years, patted him on the arm with her fan. “Are you Mr. Middleton of
London's Illustrated Times
?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I thought that might be you! I know this is terribly rude, but I'm an avid reader of your newspaper, and I simply must ask you a question. In last week's issue of the Society Fashion Report, there was a picture of what I'm positive was myself—well, it just had to have been me, I mean the dress was perfect, as was the hair. I simply must know who the illustrator is. I would like to solicit him to do a painting of me for my daughter.”

It was then that she noticed Claudia and her friend.

“Goodness me, I nearly didn't see you two. Good evening, Miss Prattley, Lady Penelope.”

“Lady Springdale,” they said in unison.

“Did you see the illustration?” she asked them. “It was simply marvelous.”

“I thought the very same,” Poppy said.

Derrick met Claudia's glance, her soulful blue eyes pleading with him not to reveal her. “As it turns out, I cannot release that illustrator's name. My illustrators insist on anonymity, and I must honor their request. But I shall certainly pass on your praise.”

“I expected as much.” She pursed her lips.
“Those artists are a different sort. In any case, please pass on to him what I said. And if he ever wants to do portraits, I can be most discreet.” With that, she turned on her heel and huffed off.

“Discreet?” Poppy snorted.

“Is she not?” Derrick asked.

“She stops short of posting announcements in the
Times
,” Claudia said.

“If you will excuse me,” Poppy said. “I must go find my mother and check on her. She had the start of one of her headaches this afternoon.”

“
That
was a prime example of what I am put through nearly every time I venture into town,” Derrick said once they were alone. “Your work is highly praised.”

“Thank you for keeping my secret,” she said.

“I told you in my office that I would always keep your identity a secret. I don't make statements like that lightly. I believe this next dance is ours.”

She looked down at her card. “So it is.”

“Shall we?” He held his arm out to her.

She eyed him warily, glancing to her right and then her left. She held out her gloved hand, and he led her to the floor.

The music swelled, and he swept her up into the waltz. Her blond ringlets began well below his chin—so much so that she had to tilt her head to
make eye contact. The hint of peppermint tickled his nose, and he resisted the urge to lean closer and smell her hair.

“You must promise me that you'll never tell anyone I beg,” he said.

“I'm sorry?” Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Tonight. You mustn't ever tell anyone that I begged—it would ruin my bad reputation.”

“I promise.” She smiled up at him, and two dimples pierced her cheeks, causing him to miss a step in their dance. He quickly recovered.

“For what are you begging?” she asked.

“For you.”

“Oh.” A blush spread across her cheeks and down her creamy throat.

“I'm unfamiliar with it; let us see how I do.” He cleared his throat for added drama, which caused her to giggle. “My dear Miss Prattley, I must beg of you to continue your position with my paper. My very life depends on it.”

She scrunched her face. “I can tell you're unfamiliar with it.”

“Not very good?”

“Terrible. You should say something like, I'm a fine illustrator despite my sex, and your days would be darker without my drawings to look upon. Oh, and then add that no matter what, you'd protect my identity at all costs.”

“And if I said all of this, you would agree to continue working for me?”

“Probably not, but it sounds good.”

Those dimples again.
Focus, Middleton
. “Would you agree to work for me until I find a replacement for you?”

She turned her head so that it was a little closer to him and whispered, “You shouldn't allow people to think they're replaceable. Makes them feel less than special.”

“You're exactly right. You are irreplaceable. I should have instead asked if you would work for me until you marry. I'd like to keep your drawings running as long as possible, since I'll have to discontinue that section when you leave. No one will ever be able to do the job as well as you.”

She rewarded him with another smile, but this time he was mindful to keep his footing. There was something about Claudia Prattley. Precisely what, he wasn't sure. But he just might be curious enough to stick around and find out.

Her features straightened into an expression of concern. “Would you promise to continue to protect my identity?”

“You have my word on it. Even if they threaten to have me drawn and quartered, I shall not reveal you.”

He thought of the old show of promise he had
done in school—kissing his two fingers, then putting them to his heart. In this situation, it would be more rewarding to kiss Claudia's fingers, but she would surely box his ears.

“I don't believe they still draw and quarter people,” she said.

“Is that an agreement?”

She chewed at her lip a moment before nodding.

“I believe I shall give you a raise.”

“That won't be necessary.”

“Never reject an offer of more money, Miss Prattley. It's bad business.”

“Yes, of course.”

Their dance ended, and he led her off the dance floor.

“I shall call on you soon to arrange the details of our new agreement.”

With another kiss of her hand, Derrick left her to her thoughts while he strolled off to find a drink. A stiff one, preferably. Then he could retreat out of this stuffy ballroom. His presence was beginning to warrant stares.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd danced with a woman, especially in proper Society. Well, other than his aunt, but that hardly counted. An assembly of pretty maidens clumped together whispered and giggled as he passed. He wanted to stop and yell, “Boo!” simply to watch them scatter.

The tongues would be wagging that he'd been here and that he'd danced with Claudia Prattley.

She might be his only dance partner tonight, but Claudia would dance with another. One other. Richard Foxmore. He was here tonight. Somewhere. What was he doing with a woman like Claudia? Didn't he prefer simpleminded girls who allowed him to do as he chose? Although Claudia did seem bound by her sense of duty. Perhaps that was what he sought in her. No, that couldn't be it.

He must be drawn either to her money or to her father. Richard was still climbing the political ropes. Despite being out of the majority and out of the cabinet, Claudia's father must still have some leverage he could offer Richard. She probably had no idea what kind of man Richard was.

If Claudia married him, then that bastard would have played a part in ruining both his father's and his own newspaper. Not that the lack of Claudia's illustrations could actually ruin the paper, but it would decrease sales among the aristocratic families. And he wanted them reading when he introduced the new political segments.

Even as he made the argument to himself, he recognized he wasn't motivated solely by his ambitions for the paper. Certainly he didn't want Claudia to resign. But it was more than that. The
thought of innocent and lovely Claudia Prattley at the mercy of Richard Foxmore disgusted him.

Not only should he keep Claudia from marrying Richard so she could continue working for him, he should prevent her from entering into a miserable marriage. He knew about those all too well. Besides, it was the honorable thing to do, since he knew Richard's character. Surely she didn't love the bastard.

From one man's arms to the next—that rarely happened to Claudia in one evening. Richard twirled her around the dance floor, but hadn't said much of anything since the music began.

 

He didn't seem like himself tonight—usually he spent all their time together talking her ear off about all the latest political news. While she had never been particularly interested in his conversation, she'd always felt flattered that he considered her a companion. Since most men never said more than a word to her, Richard's conversations were his most attractive attribute.

“It's a lovely ball, don't you agree?” she asked.

“Most lovely.”

Mr. Middleton was a better dancer, she couldn't help but notice—smoother on his feet, with nice, strong arms to lead her about.

She glanced at Richard's face; pink stained his
cheeks, as if he'd spent the afternoon in too much wind. His pale blue eyes stared above her head, watching something behind her. Mr. Middleton was handsomer than Richard—darker and more masculine in every way. His mere presence demanded and dared you to stare, while Richard blended with the crowd.

He'd asked about Richard; perhaps they knew each other.

“What do you know of Mr. Middleton?”

Richard balked. His eyes met hers for a moment, then once again he looked past her to whatever he stared at behind her. “What I know of Derrick Middleton is not for the ears of a lady. You would be well advised to stay clear of him, Claudia. He is a dangerous man.”

Dangerous? He hadn't seemed dangerous. Wild. Exciting. Sensual. Her cheeks warmed, and she knew she blushed. Gracious, she shouldn't think such things. Especially in the arms of the man she was supposed to marry.

“He was very gentlemanly with me,” she said quietly.

“Any association with a man like that could ruin your reputation.”

Splendid. And she'd danced with him. Perhaps she'd yet again misjudged the situation, as her father always accused her of doing. Richard knew
so many people; he no doubt knew the truth. She would have to be very careful. Fulfill her agreement to the paper and then move on.

“I saw you dancing with him,” Richard said tightly. “I don't think your father would be pleased.”

She thought Richard had been playing billiards at the time. And no doubt he would tell her father. “It would have been rude of me to say no when he asked.”

“How did you meet him?”

Think quickly
. “Poppy introduced us. He's an acquaintance of her father's.” She hated lying, but she couldn't very well tell him the truth.

“I see. Perhaps in the future, Poppy will dance with him instead. I realize that we are not officially engaged, but you know that is my intention. I'm just waiting for the right moment.”

She smiled at him. “Yes, Richard, I know. I'm waiting for that moment as well.”

“As is your father, I suppose. Has he mentioned it again?”

“Briefly.”

“It will happen in good time, my dear. Once we marry, you can get out of this damp city and live in Westfield Hall and paint all the watercolors you want. Won't that be nice?”

“Well, yes. But I don't want to live in the country
the entire year. I enjoy London. Father and I have lived here since Mother died. It's my home.”

“You've just forgotten how wonderful country life can be. The air is much cleaner, and I will feel safer if you are there. I worry about you running about the streets like a common person. You don't consider the dangers, and you trust people that you shouldn't trust.”

How many times had she heard this speech? That he worried endeared him to her, but, honestly, she could take care of herself. It was not as if she wandered the East End alone. “I suppose we can discuss that more once we're married.”

“I'm sure your father will agree with me. I believe he would like to see you settled and safe in the country.”

And that epitomized the very thing she liked the least about Richard. He cared too much for what her father thought. She'd spent her entire life fretting about her father's perception of her and fantasizing about marrying a man who would free her from that.

Richard would never be that man. But he was all life had offered her. Women like her didn't get to pick any man they wanted. They married the first man who asked, because chances were he'd be the only one to do so.

If her father got the deciding vote about where
she would have to spend her remaining days, he would most definitely put her in the country. After all, how much trouble could she get into out there? She wouldn't be close enough to embarrass him in front of his friends in Parliament. Marrying Richard would ensure she had to quit her job at the paper.

Richard was a kind man, and he wanted her for his wife, but it wasn't the life full of love she'd dreamed of. It was the life she would learn to love.

C
laudia peeked out from her bedcovers. Never had she lain in bed all morning, but today she was desperate. “Is he still looking for me, Baubie?” She eyed her maid, who stood across the room hanging up dresses.

“Not at the moment, but he'll be looking for you again directly. You cannot hide from him all day.”

“I know.” She flipped to lie on her stomach with her head propped at the foot of the bed. “But he's going to want to discuss all the details of last night's ball, and I'm not sure I want him to know all the details.”

Baubie's eyebrows shot up, and she leaned against the armoire. “Do you have a secret, dearie?”

Not precisely a secret, but right then it certainly felt like one. Like when she was a child and her mother would buy her a trinket, and together they would hide it from her father so he would not get angry. It had been their little secret.

But this was different. This was not an issue, not anything that should even occupy a thought. Yet the dance with Derrick Middleton had consumed her thoughts since she had left his arms. She caught herself before she sighed.

Baubie cleared her throat.

“It's nothing. Really.” She tugged at an errant thread on the quilt. “I danced with a gentleman last night, and I'm not certain that Father would approve of him. I
know
Father wouldn't approve of him. He despises him, in fact. Thinks he's the worst sort of man.”

Her maid crossed her arms over her abundant bosom. “How daring of you,” Baubie said. Then concern crossed her face, and she took a step forward. “Is he the worst sort of man? You don't want to go and get yourself into trouble.”

“He was very gentlemanly with me, and Poppy as well. Polite and not at all discourteous.”

“He doesn't sound too bad then. Was he handsome?” Baubie asked in a casual tone.

Claudia rolled over onto her back. “He's undeniably the most handsome man in London.” She tilted her head and met Baubie's gaze. “I'm relatively certain every woman at the ball would have agreed with me.”

Baubie's smile widened. “Is that so?”

“Before you fancy something more, it was not a regular dance. We danced only to discuss something important.” She sat up, moving into a cross-legged position. “Business, nothing personal.”

“I just asked a question, dearie.”

“It was a dance, nothing more. Still, Father would not be pleased, and I'd rather not have that conversation with him. But he will ask as he always does after I've attended a party. He'll want to know who attended and what was said.” She frowned. “I don't even think he's interested in what I say, as he always probes for more, then decides to ask someone else. But he'll inquire about the evening nonetheless.”

“Well, I told him earlier that you were still asleep.” Baubie busied herself with the clothes again. “He said you, like all women, were content to laze about their beds all day.”

Claudia snorted. “Wouldn't he be surprised to know that I wake before he does practically every morning? Of course, if he did know that, I would have to eat breakfast with him, and I'm not posi
tive I'm prepared to do that.” Guilt gnawed at her stomach. She shouldn't say such things about her father. He had raised her on his own after her mother died. And while he might not be overt with his affection, surely he loved her. He was her father.

Claudia shook her head. “Listen to me. I don't mean to go on and on about him; you know he's not a dreadful man. He's simply strict, and he wants me to honor our family name. I just tire of hearing how I never manage to do that.”

“Listen here, dearie,” Baubie pointed a knobby finger at her mistress. “Never you mind about what you say about your father in front of me. I saw how that man treated your lovely mother, and how he treats you is no different. There is nothing dishonorable about you. He's the dishonorable one, and if it weren't for the fact that he pays my wages, I'd tell him that myself.”

Claudia smiled. “No you wouldn't. You're too kind. But I appreciate the gesture.”

Baubie hung all her dresses according to their color. It was the first time Claudia had noticed how many pink dresses she owned. Various shades of pink—coral, orchid, rose, blush—too much pink. She frowned; she wasn't even sure she liked that color. If only she could wear something bold like red or a deep violet.

“What are you going to tell him? About last night, I mean.”

“I don't know. I'd rather not lie to him. Perhaps I'll simply withhold some of the details. That's not the same thing as lying. Is it?”

“Not in my eyes. I think you do what you have to do to make yourself happy. That's what your mother would have wanted for you.” Baubie brought her hand to her breast. “Bless her soul, that woman adored you. It was as if she didn't start breathing until the day you were born. You made all the darkness in her life brighter.” She leaned in and kissed Claudia's forehead, then held her face. “You look just like her, you know. Simply beautiful.”

Claudia's eyes misted, and she hugged her maid. Baubie had been the only mother she'd had for so many years.

“I had better get back to work. I can tell your father that you're not feeling well if he asks about you again.”

“Don't bother. I'll have to talk to him eventually.”

Once Baubie had left, Claudia retrieved the drawing she'd been working on earlier that morning. Derrick Middleton's handsome features stared up at her. She'd not intended to include him in the drawing and wouldn't send this one in, but when she set pencil to paper, he'd been the first
image she'd created. Thank goodness, she'd only sketched on paper and hadn't started on the wood.

There was something not quite right in the likeness. It looked like him, but something was missing. Perhaps she'd gotten a feature wrong. His eyes, she realized. On paper, they didn't burn with sensuality and intensity. But how did one capture the subtle change in the shade of brown? Or the way his right eyebrow lifted in silent question?

She laid the drawing aside to begin another. One without Mr. Middleton. He probably wouldn't want himself featured in his own newspaper. And if she presented him with an illustration of himself, he would no doubt think she was smitten, which, of course, she was not.

Putting pencil to paper, she began another drawing. This time, a couple dancing. Amid faceless other dancers, the primary couple took shape. Sharper and sharper their features became, until…Mr. Middleton and herself.

She sucked in her breath. She'd never before drawn herself. And there it was, plain as the image on the parchment; while dancing with Mr. Middleton had made her feel pretty, the truth could not lie. No woman who looked as she did would ever catch a man like Derrick Middleton.

She paused over the picture, considering the
number of thoughts Mr. Middleton had consumed since she'd first encountered him. Gracious, some might think her a harlot.

She needed fresh air—time to clear her thoughts and then return to her drawings. Perhaps she should work on her watercolor in the garden. It was a lovely day.

Claudia donned a simple gown of the palest of lavenders, but opted to leave her bonnet inside. Feeling the sunshine on her face would be nice—and she would only do so for a little while, so as to not burn her skin. She'd been hiding inside her bedroom for hours. If her father remained in his office, she could easily sneak out into the garden without his seeing her.

She opened her bedroom door and peeked into the hall, listening for any sounds. All was quiet. Tiptoeing down the stairs, she caught sight of Baubie and waved. Opening the garden doors, she stepped out into the crisp air and took a deep breath.

Her mother had loved the garden. The garden at their country estate had been the most beautiful one in all of Avon. Flowers of every shape and color had surrounded the grounds, and she'd never been able to walk into it without smiling. She didn't even want to think about what that garden must look like today. After her mother's
death, they'd moved here and hadn't been back to the country since.

She sat on a bench and looked at the tiny enclosed space. A lovely garden, but so very small. Her mother would have hated it here in London—that was an area in which they differed. Claudia loved it here. Loved the bustle and the streets full of people.

Closing her eyes, she tilted her face up and reveled in the warmth of the sun bathing her skin. The breeze fluttered through the plants around her, while a pair of pipits chirped above her head.

She stood and set up her easel, then went to work on the painting of fruit. As she shaded the cluster of grapes, her mind wandered to a now familiar face. Derrick Middleton. Just the mere thought of him quickened her heart and shortened her breath.

Last night the most amazing thing had happened while she was dancing with the handsome devil. She'd felt almost pretty. Beautiful, if she was completely honest—the way Cinderella must have felt after a visit from her fairy godmother.

But she had no fairy godmother, and Derrick was no prince.

And it didn't matter how she'd felt in his arms.

“Honestly, Claudia,” she said aloud to chastise herself.
Forget about him
.

She needed to cease her daydreaming of Derrick Middleton. It was a tiny fancy, that was all—merely because he was so very handsome. And he'd almost flirted with her. It was for that reason and that reason alone that she was attracted to him.

Richard was whom she would marry. Shouldn't he be the man occupying her thoughts? Richard was steadfast and kind. Derrick, on the other hand, embodied a wilder and more impulsive nature. While that sounded vastly more interesting than a life in the country painting fruit bowls, she would marry Richard because her father had asked her to. Demanded was more the word, but that sounded so harsh.

Derrick would fade from her mind once she married Richard. Years from now, she'd remember the night she'd danced with the handsomest man in London.

“Claudia, I thought I'd find you out here.” Her father approached her with his I'm-more-important-than-everyone attitude cloaking him like a king's coronation robe. He did not look pleased.

“Yes, well, I came out to get some air and a little sunshine. It's a beautiful day, don't you agree, Father?”

He glanced up at the sky and shrugged. “Looks
like all the others.” He sat on the stone bench. “Come and sit and tell me about the Draper ball last night.” The multicolored flowers behind him gave the air around him a deceptively calm look. Everything looked better in the garden, she supposed.

She set her paintbrush down and joined him. “It was a lovely evening. I danced with Richard three times. Poppy and I played piquet with Lady Forrester and Lady Primrose. We left early because Poppy's mother was feeling ill.”

“How is Richard?”

“He's fine. He mentioned that he would probably be by to see you today. Something about a discussion he had with Lord Dryer.”

“I'm going to the club. I'll send him a note, and he can meet me there. What are your plans today?”

“I'm going to stay home. Perhaps paint here in the garden. It's so beautiful today.”

“Yes, beautiful,” he said absently. “Just be sure you stay out of trouble. I don't like all the time you spend with that Poppy. She puts wrong ideas in your head.”

“Poppy is a wonderful friend. She's from a good family. Even you can't deny that.”

He snorted. “The Livingston name was tarnished when that brother of hers lost all their money. And the whole lot of them are too liberal.
This country will be destroyed with all that reform.”

He puffed out a breath and stood. “I'll see you for supper.” He turned to go, then stopped. “I nearly forgot. I received a bill for pencils from some shop on Bond Street. Do you know anything about that?”

She had wondered what had happened with that bill. Next time, she would just pay instead of trying to set up an account. “Yes, Father, I ordered those. I tried to pay for them myself; they must have set up the account incorrectly. You can take the money out of my allowance.”

“I'm not worried about the money. What concerns me is your need for pencils. As I recall, I've instructed you on more than one occasion that you are not to be drawing. I'm assuming that this will be our last conversation about it. Unless you're ready to relocate out of London.”

“No, sir.”

“You paint, that is all, Claudia. Do you understand me? There is no place for a woman in the art world—it is dirty and dangerous and full of…Frenchmen. Watercolors is the only acceptable art for ladies of good breeding. I will not have my daughter fancying herself an artist.” He straightened his coat. “Remember: everything you do re
flects on me. We will not discuss this again. Is that understood?”

She nodded, and he turned and left her alone in the garden.

 

The butler looked surprised to see him. The skin on the servant's too tall, too thin frame stretched taut, barely covering his old bones. “May I help you?” he asked in a severe tone.

“I'm here to call on Miss Prattley. Is she available?”

“May I have your card, please, sir?”

Derrick handed him his card, and the butler eyed it cautiously, then turned on his heel. “Please wait here,” he said as he retreated down the hall.

Derrick did not have a long wait before the butler reappeared.

“She's out in the garden, Mr. Middleton. This way, please.”

Derrick followed the hollow-looking man down a long hallway, around a corner, and then out double doors into the small garden.

“Miss Prattley, a Mr. Middleton to see you.”

She stood at an easel, paintbrush in hand, her eyes wide. “Mr. Middleton.”

Derrick nodded at the butler.

“Jacobs, has my father left for his club?” she asked.