Lady in Blue (18 page)

The cat was a bad idea.

From the covered basket on the hackney seat, the outraged feline yowled its own displeasure as Bryn slid another inch away, regretting the impulse that had saddled him with this monster.

The ride back to London, on horseback with the basket nestled between his legs, had been even more unnerving. Sharp claws raked at the woven straw, perilously close to sensitive portions of his anatomy, and the stallion, spooked by his irate passenger, was nearly impossible to control.

Bryn had spent the day at Richmond with Claude Howitt and his family, hoping to distract himself while Clare met with Maude Beales. But everything reminded him of what he’d set out to escape, especially Alice, swollen with her fourth child. He kept looking at his watch, imagining what Clare was doing every minute. Had she arrived at Clouds? Was she disgusted by Mrs. Beales’s lecture? Did she despise him for putting her through that ordeal?

The children had played at his ankles and eventually managed to entice him into their games, although he was, as usual, stiff and uneasy in their company. Except for his infrequent visits to Richmond, he never encountered children and had no idea how to relate to them. Still, they seemed delighted when he lost at a game of jackstraws, and even he was laughing when they declared him a horse and took turns riding on his back. He pranced around the room on all fours, now and again rearing up to the sounds of excited squeals while they clung to his neck in mock terror.

Claude watched from his wingback chair, a knowing smile wreathing his face as he puffed on his pipe. Bryn could not help but envy the man. Whenever he visited this house, so filled with contentment and love, he was all too aware how little of either existed in his own life.

After lunch, everyone adjourned to the barn where the children were anxious to show off the newest litter of kittens. Mandycat produced a batch at regular intervals, and the youngsters had strict orders to find homes for them before her progeny overran the small farm—which had given Bryn his bad idea.

He often worried that Clare was lonely, with only servants for company when he was not with her. Perhaps she would like a cat.

When he asked the children to select a candidate, they immediately chose an odd-looking specimen . . . for his personality, they said. The kitten was all white, except for four black paws, black ears and privates, and black splotches above his mouth that resembled an unkempt mustache.

Alice lined a small covered basket with rags and handed it up when he mounted his horse for the ride home. That was when his troubles began.

He was still amazed that such a tiny creature could make so much noise. When he’d arrived at St. James’s Square late that afternoon, he ordered his appalled butler to feed the kitten and adorn the basket with satin and ribbons. Any gift to Clare merited splendid presentation. Then he dispatched a footman to Clouds with a message to expect him at eight o’clock. Tonight he had to win himself back into Clare’s good graces, assuming he’d ever been there, after which he would track down Robert Lacey and apologize.

He had skipped dinner, figuring he’d have his fill of humble pie in the hours ahead. And now, as the hackney drew up in the alley behind the house on Grosvenor Square, he felt perspiration gather on his forehead.

Would she appreciate his peace offering? For all he knew, Clare didn’t even like cats.

A footman took his hat and gloves, directing him to the salon where Clare was waiting. She wore a simple pale-blue gown and had once again woven her hair into a thick braid that reached to her waist. He could not decipher the glimmer in her eyes as she looked up at him from a deep curtsy.

Not angry, he thought. Nor precisely critical, even after her session with Maude Beales. Her gaze was speculative, perhaps, with a welcome touch of her ironic sense of humor. He bowed in reply and held out the basket. “I’ve brought you a present.”

Immediately her face shuttered. “You have given me too much already,” she murmured. “Far more than I’ve earned.”

He stood awkwardly, unsure what to say, and finally set the basket on a table. For once, the kitten was quiet and immobile. “I shall take it back, if you don’t like it. To tell you the truth, we are both well rid of the thing.”

That seemed to pique her interest. She moved closer, fingering the ribbons that held the lid in place. “More jewels?”

“Open it and see.” Then, recalling the animal’s belligerence, he held up a hand. “No, allow me.” With some effort he untied the ribbon and removed the lid.

Immediately the kitten bounded onto the table, pausing only long enough to rake its claws over the back of Bryn’s hand before jumping to the floor.

“Bloody hell!” Bryn stared at the blood oozing from five long welts. Then he looked up to see the demon climbing one of the duchess’s expensive Gobelin tapestries. Finally he glanced at Clare, who appeared mildly concerned behind a wide grin.

“Cat scratches can turn putrid,” she advised, moving to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Bryn used the time to swear fluently at the kitten, which glared back at him from the frieze rail just above the tapestry. The cat was no larger than his hand, but the fur on its back was raised in a gesture of defiance and two malicious yellow eyes challenged him smugly from well out of reach.

The cat, he reflected once again, was a
very
bad idea.

Clare returned with a tray, which she placed on a low table before asking him to sit next to her on a divan. She had removed her gloves, and he was very aware of the scars on her palms as she bathed his hand with warm soapy water.

“This will sting,” she cautioned, pouring something that smelled of alcohol over his wounds.

Bryn bit his bottom lip. It burned like hell. When his jaw unclenched, he managed to say, lightly, “You appear to have some experience as a healer.”

“I’ve treated my share of scrapes and scratches,” she acknowledged, dabbing a soothing salve over the throbbing welts. Then she wrapped his hand with a length of soft cloth and tied the ends in a knot. “If you have any serious swelling, and especially if lines of red begin to run up your arm, see a physician immediately.”

He studied the bandage for a moment. “Obviously I cannot leave the cat with you. He’s a menace.”

“I expect he was annoyed after being shut up in a basket. And who wouldn’t be?” Crossing to the tapestry, she gazed up at the kitten. “What an absurd little face he has.” Immediately the cat began to purr and knead at the ornate rail under its paws.

“You want to keep him?” Bryn asked with some surprise. “I had hoped he might be company for you, but you’ll do better with a pet not possessed by the devil. This one has the disposition of a rampaging Hun.”

“In that case,” she said, tugging a chair to the wall, “I shall name him Attila the Cat.”

Bryn helped her climb onto the chair, and she lifted her arms to Attila, still several inches out of reach. In a low voice, she spoke nonsense while the kitten regarded her curiously. After a few moments, he risked a descent down the tapestry until she was able to take hold of him.

Both of them purring, Bryn thought as he watched her gather Attila into her arms. The kitten curled against her breast, altogether content, and for once he respected the fiend if only for its excellent taste. He also wondered if Clare would ever hold him with as much affection.

Thunderation. Now he was jealous of an irascible cat!

Clare returned the placid kitten to its basket, where Attila curled up and promptly went to sleep. Then she placed her hands on Bryn’s shoulders, stood on tiptoe, and brushed her lips across his mouth.

“This is quite the nicest present I have ever received,” she told him with a smile. “Thank you, Bryn.”

Pleased and astonished, he struggled to regather his wits. “I’m glad you like him,” he muttered. “But if he becomes too much trouble—”

“I shall deal with it.” She chuckled. “I am accustomed to difficult males.”

“I expect you are,” he said in a serious voice. “Was your encounter with Mrs. Beales altogether repellent?”

Her lashes lowered, but not before he saw the speculative, amused look return to her eyes. “It was most educational. I only hope I remember what to do the first few weeks. After that, so long as I drink the potion she fixed up for me, it seems I can put away the sponges and vinegar.”

Her voice grew faint on the last words, and he could tell she found the whole business confusing, and probably repulsive, although she was trying valiantly to hide it.

“Forget sponges and vinegar,” he said, drawing her into an embrace. “Drink the herbal mixture, but for the first month or so I shall take responsibility.”

She leaned back in the circle of his arms, staring up at him from wide eyes. “But Mrs. Beales said that you could not. You told her so.”

“And so I thought. But I will control myself somehow.” He grinned. “If nothing else, Clare Easton, you are teaching me discipline. Already I want you so desperately I cannot sleep at night, and my temper . . . well, I have many fences to mend, with all my servants and most of my friends. Nevertheless, until Mrs. Beales tells me there is no longer fear of conceiving a child, I shall do what is necessary.”

“But—”

He placed two fingers on her lips. “Let me take care of you, butterfly. I want to. Coping with that demonic cat is difficulty enough. And now I must leave you and go in search of Robert Lacey. If he is still speaking to me, perhaps I can find out when Clouds will be ready for you to move in.”

“I had thought Sunday.” Her voice quavered. “Tomorrow.”

The apprehension in her voice chilled him. How she dreaded their first night together. “There may be a delay,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry, my dear. I promise not to seize you the moment your trunks are unpacked.”

She pulled away. “I am ready whenever you are, Bryn. Do not put things off on my account.”

WHY ELSE?
HE thought as the hackney took him to St. James’s Street, where he found Robert Lacey at White’s, playing whist for high stakes.

A glass of brandy in his hand, he pretended to watch the game until the rubber was done, still thinking about Clare. How ironic, to want her so much that her needs had become more compelling than his own. That had never happened before, with any woman.

After years of tending his dying father, he had quite determined to put his own interests first. Certain sacrifices would be required to keep the promises he’d made, but those he had already accepted. For the rest, he fully intended to enjoy himself.

And so he was, more than ever before. Her pleasure in the cat, her delight with the opera, her relief at being spared the sponges and vinegar . . . hell, one smile from Clare was almost more rewarding than making love to her.

Almost.

Sometimes he had the terrifying certainty that he could only make her happy by letting her go, without ever taking her to bed. Almost, the anticipated pleasure of her joy when he freed her was overwhelming. Now and again he fantasized about it. A part of him wanted to do it.

But in the end, he could not let her go. That much generosity was beyond his strength.

Swearing an oath, Lacey rose from the table and took the glass from Bryn’s hand, draining it in a single swallow. “Lost again, damn it all.”

With relief, Bryn saw no antagonism in his eyes. “In that case, I’ll buy you supper.”

“Thanks, but I have to get up early tomorrow. One more drink and I’m off to bed.” He drew away from the table as another player took his place.

After signaling to a waiter, Bryn regarded his friend somberly. “I owe you an apology, Robert.”

“Belay it. I’d rather keep you in my debt for a while, if only for the free drinks. And here’s some good news for a change. Except for the main bedroom and one or two details I’ll handle in the morning, Clouds is ready. The bed won’t be delivered until Thursday, but meantime Clare could move into the smaller bedroom across the hall. Assuming you are in a hurry to get her out of Ernie’s house, of course.”

“I am not, but she’s uncomfortable there. And anything will be better than the nun’s cell she now occupies.”

Lacey raised a quizzical brow.

The waiter’s appearance saved Bryn from explaining how he knew where she slept. He signed for the decanter of brandy and settled onto a chair.

Lace sat across from him at the small table and clipped the tip from a cigar. “Somebody named Max Peyton is looking for you. Who the devil is he? Never saw him before.”

“Just one more rotter I’m indebted to,” Bryn said sourly. “Where is he?”

“In the next room, playing backgammon with Alvanley. So, what do you think? Shall we leave Clare where she is?”

Bryn considered for a moment. “No. I’ll bring her to Clouds tomorrow afternoon. That will give her time to settle in until the bed—er, the rest of the furniture is delivered. Thursday?”

With a laugh, the viscount lit his cigar. “Why not sleep with her tomorrow night, Bryndle? A smaller bed has some advantages, as I recall.”

“Perhaps I will,” he said amiably, although he knew he would not. Everything had to be perfect for Clare.

Five days until Thursday. More time to court her, with kisses and flowers. More time to make her want him the way he wanted her, which would probably require a miracle.

He came to his feet. “You’re a good man, Lace. I’ll make this up to you. Finish the brandy while I go find Peyton and see what he wants.”