Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (7 page)

“His mother is a woman of considerable position and power in society, and he has the income of this estate, but for the life of me, I’ll never figure these empty surfaces all about. It’s a poor excuse for decoration,” Mrs. Gower noted.

Claire flipped the throw pillow. “Yes, there’s that, too.”

“Aye. A woman’s influence over the furnishings is sorely needed, but you’ve no cause to mix yourself up in such a muddle.”

Not for a second did Mrs. Gower fool Claire. She knew the old woman was making her defend Flavian, yet the more she thought about him, the less important her complaints appeared. “It’s not such a terrible house. New drapes and a few pieces of chinaware would brighten it.”

Mrs. Gower smiled, rubbed her hands together and pulled her chair closer. “Here’s my advice,” she said, conspiratorially. “Next time he looks like he wants to kiss you, kiss him before he changes his mind.”

Sitting bolt upright, Claire stared at her chaperone. “But he would think me forward.”

“Nay. I’ve seen the look in his eyes. He’d not think at all, and that’s precisely the effect you want.”

“Mrs. Gower, you shock me.”

Instead of being abashed, the woman cackled. “Yet, I’ve placed many deserving young women with highly suitable husbands.”

“By doing … that?”

The woman started to look put out. “You’ve spent a lot of time healing the sick, yet you don’t seem to know much about human nature. I’m not suggesting you compromise yourself entirely, mind you. But a good, ripe male will know a great many things that can be done besides that.”

“Mrs. Gower!”

“Oh stuff, how do you think I got your cousin to marry me? I was the simple daughter of a country vicar, whereas you are the more-than-appropriate daughter of an earl.”

Claire sat back on the chaise. If she brazenly kissed Flavian, whatever would he think?

• • •

A wheel of the curricle had broken and no one else had the strength to lift the carriage to prop it up for repairs. It was the sort of work Flavian loved, and his steward, Mr. Betteridge-Haugh, never hesitated to ask for assistance. Other gentlemen carried logs to and fro, or trotted up and down a field to exercise their muscles, but Flavian preferred real work — lifting rocks to mend a wall, slashing hay in the field, or carrying back the prize from a hunt.

Under the shelter of the carpenter’s shed, the rain droned against the roof, a steady din that sent Flavian’s thoughts back to the bluff overlooking the sea. Claire’s cloak flew open in the wind, pressing the yellow flower-patterned dress she wore between her thighs. The exposed ‘V’ between her legs caused an ache to shoot to his groin. He’d gripped the opening in his own cloak for fear the wind would reveal his reaction.

Betteridge-Haugh’s voice banished the image. “So what say you, my lord?”

“Just repeat the last part for me.”

“It’s like this, my lord … cattle … butter … ”

If he did kiss Claire, of course then he’d have to marry her, but if he could kiss Claire, her lips would probably be quite soft. They
looked
soft … rosy and moist, but not wet. Not sloppy. And her breasts — how perfect they were — round and smooth as polished marble.

Really, it was a pity marriage was impossible because when would he ever meet another woman like Claire? Women such as she came once in a lifetime. At thirty-one-years-old, he’d learned that lesson. But, alas, even her gentle nature couldn’t bear what he had to offer. He shook his head and sighed.

“Then you disagree, my lord?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Betteridge-Haugh tapped his fingers impatiently on the carriage. “A few Guernseys will do nothing but improve the cattle herd. They’re a solid investment.”

“Oh yes, arrange it.”

“You’ve no objection if I contact the dealer?”

Just to kiss her once
…

The estate steward coughed. “You may lower the curricle, my lord, and I’ll see to buying the cows right away.”

Would that be dishonorable?

The hillock wasn’t that steep, but Claire held out a hand to Flavian as they picked their way up the rocky incline. Hiding her smile, she noticed he accepted her request for assistance. The touch of his slightly chilled fingers on her palm sent a feeling like a stone dropping through her body to her nether regions. Relegating her thoughts to the task at hand, she paused to sniff the wind. “I smell it, I just don’t see it.”

“Valerian is fern like, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s a little plant tucked next to those rocks that might be it.”

Claire looked where he pointed. “Why, Lord Monroe, you’re a born herbalist.”

He grinned. With regret, Claire took her hand from his and passed him a spade. He scrambled sideways, sending pebbles skittering down the hill, until he was above the little patch of green valerian root.

“Halve the plant so it will keep growing,” she told him.

He cut into the soil, prying the shallow roots from their rocky anchor. She admired the way he plunged his hands into the dirt. Soil between the fingers was a marvelous sensation, especially moist, warm soil. The stone dropped again, heating the place between her legs. She adjusted her thoughts and posture, standing straight as a soldier on parade. But her gaze quickly retreated to Flavian.

As if it were a baby bird, Flavian nestled the valerian in a wicker basket Claire held out. “Whew,” he said, “it smells like cat water.”

An unladylike laugh burst from her lips. “There is a distinctive tang, and yet it actually calms people.”

“So it will help Abella, you think?”

“I do, and it certainly can’t be worse than what they prescribe in asylums.”

“Excellent. Now what else do we need?” he asked, dusting his hands.

“Lavender is good, as is St. John’s wort. We’ll find those herbs in the meadows.”

“Then we’re on the hunt,” he said, starting down the hill without her.

They partly slid, partly ran down the hill until they hit the thick grass in the field below. Unable to stop her momentum, Claire leaped into the verdant green then pretended to stumble and fall.

“Oh dear,” she cried, laughing.

“Are you all right?”

“I’ve tripped on someone’s burrow.”

He arched a brow. “Or fell into a fit of glee.”

Claire clapped a hand over her mouth, but she could not suppress her giggles.

He squatted beside her. “I’m sorry,” she said, laughing harder, “the way I dove into the grass nose first.”

He pursed his lips in mock anger. “If you’d hurt yourself, I could never forgive you.”

“Well, I’m just fine. And isn’t the smell of this fresh grass a wonder?” She pressed a few stalks to her nose.

Lowering himself cautiously, he sat beside her, his long legs before him, one ankle folded over the other. After putting the basket of valerian aside, he picked a fistful of grass and sniffed deeply.

“Do you know when my favorite time of year is? Harvest,” she said. “My three sisters and I help each year now. It’s exhausting, but the scent of cut grass is inspiring. The next day you wake, so sore, yet sweetened by steeping in that lovely perfume.”

“I like field work, too.” He brushed a few spires of grass aside to look at her. Self-conscious, Claire smiled, squinting into the sunlight. It was nice here in their little green nest. She eased a blade of grass from its sheath and stuck the sweet end into her mouth, then rolled onto her back to get a full view of the sky.

He touched her face. “Beautiful Claire.” His troubled brown eyes pierced her heart. “I’m so glad you’re here. You make me feel strong and good.”

“You’re all those things, Lord Monroe.”

“Oh, don’t call me Lord Monroe.” He dropped into the grass, but propped himself up on one elbow. He took her hand and put it to his breast. “My name is Flavian. Repeat after me, Flavian.”

“Flavian,” Claire said, stiffly.

“Again.”

“Flavian,” she repeated, letting music form in the word.

“Once more.”

“Flavian,” she whispered, turning on her side to face him.

He trembled, and torment suffused his face. Before he could withdraw, Claire leaned forward and put her lips to his. “Flavian,” she breathed into his mouth.

Tentatively, he returned the kiss. “Flavian. Flavian,” she said, kissing him harder.

Beneath her hands, his muscles tightened, growing hard and unyielding. And then he broke — his body surging toward her in a flood of heat and desperation. With powerful arms he clutched her to him and covered her mouth with his own. He devoured her, forced his tongue past her teeth, and explored her mouth like a thief searching for gold.

The blue sky narrowed to a patch as he rolled on top of her. Eyes closed, the sweet salt of his mouth on hers, she pushed her fingers through his curls, traced the outline of his ears, then down his neck to his shoulders where her hands gripped the blades, sharp and alive, beneath the layers of his coat.

A rush of triumph rumbled through her veins.
Am I afraid? Am I ashamed?
She could have laughed because the answer roared through her body with such power that she wondered how any woman in history had preserved her maidenhood.

Unable to stop herself, Claire pushed her breasts against his chest, longing to feel his flesh against hers. The warmth of his hand entered her bodice. Her mouth opened wider, she closed her eyes, and the last patch of blue sky went black.

As they walked back toward Bingham Hall, Flavian forced his blood to cool. When Claire turned, laughing and throwing wild flowers at him, he caught them and tucked them out of sight in his pocket. He did not throw flowers back. He did not allow her smile to glow in his breast, or permit the shape of her ankles revealed by an unexpected zephyr, to move him.

Lancelot had left the estate in crushing debt. Abella was ill. His mother longed to travel and couldn’t because they lacked the shillings for coach fare. This was no life for Claire. He could not permit himself to ruin her future.

By the time the manor house came into view, a crease had formed in Claire’s brow. The animation in her eyes had quieted, and the confidence she’d displayed by kissing him in the meadow had disappeared behind lowered lashes.

She was sad and ashamed, and he felt terrible for making her feel that way. But better, far better, that she learned not to love him, not to trust him, now, before it was too late.

• • •

“Ah ducklings,” said Mrs. Gower, as Claire and Flavian entered the conservatory, “What a fine time you must have had. The roses are blooming in my charge’s cheeks, my lord.”

Claire’s face went hot and Flavian’s expression grew darker.

He shifted away from her. “Lady Claire is here as a healer, nothing more. I’ve invited her to help my ward.”

His words sent shards of ice through her heart. Had he not just kissed her in the meadow? Had he not just touched her with the worship of a deity? Men could control their emotions when it came to matters of the flesh, she’d heard people say. Love didn’t have to be part of the equation, and apparently Flavian — no, Lord Monroe — was adept at that sort of mathematics.

“We were collecting herbs,” Claire said, matching his remote tone. She narrowed her gaze at the man who had so recently availed himself of her breasts. “Nothing more.”

Mrs. Gower pursed her lips. “Is she about that doctoring again?” Turning on Claire, she added, “Did I not tell you to leave off making those remedies?”

Dropping the basket bursting with herbs, Claire smoothed her skirt. “If he hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t have come.”

Alarmed, the elderly woman drew close to Flavian. “She can do a lot more than stir potions, my lord.” Clutching his arm, she pulled him a little aside. “The apothecary in Exeter makes a marvelous elixir. One spoonful and my nerves are calm as a dull day in the country. Send away for that, my lord. It works miracles.”

“That elixir is pure whisky, Mrs. Gower,” said Claire, losing patience, “and not very good whisky at that.”

“It’s nothing of the sort. There’s good solid science in every bottle.”

“You dosed yourself with a quart of it before the Baskenwick’s assembly and slept through the whole dance.”

“I think my ward needn’t be subdued to that extent. We’ll give that basket of greenery a try, eh?” Flavian nudged Mrs. Gower with his elbow and winked. “Let’s see what Lady Claire’s spells and incantations can do.”

As Mrs. Gower emitted a peal of relieved giggles, Flavian gave Claire a stiffly formal nod. Her gut twisted, and she longed to whack him over the head with the basket.

At that moment Abella drifted in, a vision in white muslin, her curls dangling in corkscrews about her face. Every trace of her morning displeasure had disappeared. “What’s the fun I’m missing?”

“Oh they’ve a special treat for you,” Mrs. Gower said, shaking a finger at her. “Beware — the cauldron bubbles.”

Abella’s eyes widened. “Cauldron?”

Flavian rushed to the girl’s side. “It’s nothing, Bella. Just a little joke.”

“A joking of me?”

Watching him hover over Abella, Claire realized her hands were in fists. “Don’t worry,” she said, pasting a generous smile to her face. “I’m very good at healing.”

• • •

What’s come over me?
Claire wondered as she cut roots and dead leaves from the herbs she’d collected. Not having a still room at Bingham Hall, Apple Bess, the cook had cleared a place for Claire in the kitchen under a window too high to see out. It made sense that Flavian told Mrs. Gower nothing happened in the meadow. But the way he had said it:
Lady Claire is here as a healer, nothing more.
How those words rankled!

Her sisters Ellie, Peggity, and Snap were all given to emotional outbursts. Claire prided herself on her reserve, but she couldn’t seem to hold back her galloping anger. “Take a deep breath,” she told herself.

“What’s that?” asked a red-faced scullery maid.

Claire whirled around. “Nothing.”

The girl blinked. “Well, if you need some’at, just ask.”

“Thank you.”

Turning back to her herbs, Claire found that she’d thrown them all, trimmed and untrimmed, into the large pot Apple Bess provided. She hauled them all out, tipped the heavy vessel on its side, and began wiping it clean with her apron.