The making of his marchi.., p.12
The Making of His Marchioness, page 12
‘Thank you, Aaron.’ Roger removed his riding gloves and coat, handed them to the butler and then bent down to give Sammy a good rubbing behind both ears. ‘It’s good to be home.’
Glancing towards the doorway to the drawing room, a unique sense filled him as his gaze met Clara’s.
She blinked slowly, glanced the other way, and his gaze roamed over her. A sharp, hot, flame of desire shot through him. She had on her green dress, the one with the sash around the waist that highlighted the perfection of her womanly figure. She was a remarkably beautiful woman.
Her hair was pulled back, and she was smoothing one side with a hand.
He braced himself against the ache of desire, walked closer. ‘Hello, Clara.’
‘Hello.’ She drew in a breath that caused her breast to rise and fall. ‘We—I didn’t know you were coming home today.’ A blush covered her cheeks, even as she lifted her chin. ‘Supper will be served shortly.’
‘Good. I’m hungry. It’s been a long ride.’
‘Doger!’ Abigail said excitedly as she toddled out of the room and ran on short legs towards him.
Roger scooped Abigail up into his arms. ‘You learned how to say doggie while I was gone.’
‘She’s not saying doggie,’ Clara said with her cheeks turning rosy. ‘She’s saying Roger.’
He looked from her to Abigail, then chuckled. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’
Clara cleared her throat.
‘Oops, sorry,’ he apologised for the curse word, yet was amazed by the warmth that filled him as Abigail hugged his neck.
‘Doger,’ she said in her cute little voice.
That may have been the moment his life changed for ever. Then again, it may already have changed and he just knew it for certain at that moment.
Not sure how to deal with that epiphany, he glanced around. There was a large vase of flowers on the side table in the hall, a table he didn’t remember being there, but other than that, the house looked the same. It was always neat and clean, yet it felt different. Flowers couldn’t make a place feel different.
People did that.
Certain people.
Once again, his gaze locked on Clara’s and a few of the thoughts flashing through his mind should probably make him blush, but he wasn’t embarrassed. He’d thought about bedding her before. More than once.
She, however, would be mortified to know that’s what he was thinking.
‘There are seedlings,’ she said.
‘Excuse me?’ he asked, trying to clear his thoughts.
‘Seedlings. In the glass house. Several of the seeds sprouted. They weren’t dead, just dormant and needed a little coaxing to come back to life. Would you care to see them?’
‘I would.’
She hesitated slightly, as if afraid to step closer to him, then took a step forward.
He pivoted on a heel to walk alongside her. She walked evenly as they moved forward, yet Roger sensed a nervousness in her, as if she’d like to bolt away from him. It took all he had to not reach over, take a hold of her hand and tell her that she had nothing to be nervous about, nothing to fear.
Or did she? Was she afraid of him learning she’d told the doctor they were married? What purpose would that serve? She’d told him more than once her goal was to return to America. To the farm she’d owned with her husband. Being married to him wouldn’t increase the chance or the speed of that happening, because if they were truly married, her place would be here, beside him, in England.
Had he misunderstood what Dr Murphy had said? Had the man meant his mother had summoned him? But his mother wasn’t due for days yet, and she was now married to a viscount, and no longer used her marchioness title. The servants here still referred to her as such, he’d heard that on occasion, but he was certain Murphy had said Lady Clara.
As they moved down the hallway, he noticed more vases filled with colourful flowers, and he noticed that each room they passed had the drapes pulled open, filling the rooms with the glow from the setting sun.
The doors and drapes were normally closed, the rooms unused. The entire house had been more unused than not for the past several years. When he was here, it was usually only for a few days, or a week at most to check in on the tenant farmers. Or on the rare occasion that he’d been requested to visit by his mother.
He couldn’t put off the inevitable, so he simply said, ‘My mother will be making a visit to Clairmount soon.’
‘We know,’ Clara said. ‘She’ll arrive on Friday. A message arrived a few days ago.’
‘Is that why you are so nervous?’
She glanced at him, shook her head, and then huffed out a breath. ‘It does make me slightly nervous. It is her home and—’
‘One of her homes,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s also my home. You have no reason to be nervous. My mother is a very kind person.’ That was true. No one had ever said a bad word about his mother. He was the only one who’d had issues with some of her actions. Mainly those that had included finding him another father. He’d never wanted that.
Clara gave a nod. ‘The staff has assured me of that.’ A grimace filled her face. ‘Oh, dear, I nearly forgot to tell you about Mrs Mills. She had a slight accident. She will be fine, but the doctor suggested that she not use her leg for at least a week. Perhaps more, depending on how the bruising heals.’
He withheld the fact that he’d met the doctor along the road. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘She was attempting to collect an empty basket off the shelf in the storage room for Anita to make a trip to market, and the entire shelf tipped over. She became trapped beneath it.’
That sounded worse than the doctor had made it out to be. ‘Goodness! How severe are her injuries?’
He listened intently as Clara related the tale of Mrs Mills’s absence and how she was discovered in the food storage room. Needing to check on his employee himself, he asked Clara to wait a moment and opened the door to the kitchen as they passed. Aaron was there as expected and he asked the man to let Mrs Mills know that he would like to call upon her in her room.
‘We can look at the seedlings later,’ Clara said.
‘No, the light will be gone in a few minutes, and I’m sure Mrs Mills would like a few moments before I enter her room.’
Clara’s smile included a knowing expression. ‘I’m sure she will, but she can’t leave her bed.’
‘That’s why I asked Aaron to let her know in advance. I would never enter her room without her permission.’ That was true, but he questioned if he’d explained that because his subconscious wanted her to know that would include her bedroom. Yet, if invited, he would be there in a heartbeat.
The way she looked up at him, with a gaze that was soft and tender, made him want something that went beyond desire, yet was simple. He wanted her to look at him like that for ever.
She blinked and looked away, as if she too realised there was more in her gaze than she’d wanted.
‘Well, um, I chose seeds that, from your father’s journals, were fast growing,’ she said, moving down the hallway. ‘Some haven’t sprouted yet, but I’m still hopeful.’
Abigail squirmed in his arms. He set her down and followed as she ran after her mother. Full understanding struck when they entered the growing room and the little girl ran to a corner that had clearly been set up for her to play in as her mother worked. There were several pots and old spoons, cups, and other items for her to play with in the dirt.
Here, like the rest of the house, he felt a change. Not because it was neat and organised, or even with the way the setting sun gave the entire room a warm glow. There was a life in the room that had never been there before, one that he couldn’t attribute solely to the tiny green seedlings.
He inspected the plants that Clara was so proud of, and commented on their growth, all the while paying more attention to how the glow on her face was more enchanting than that of the room. He’d never wanted to kiss a woman more than he wanted to kiss her in that moment. That want had been there since he’d walked in the house, and he wondered how long he was going to be able to live with it. He doubted it would kill him, but it was torturous.
‘You’ve done an amazing job, Clara,’ he said, doing his best to sound normal. ‘It’s clear how much you enjoy gardening.’
‘I’ve always loved watching things grow.’ She glanced at Abigail in the corner and at Sammy lying near the door. ‘Growth is an amazing process, in everything.’
He nodded, although he’d never paid that much attention to things growing, but she was right. It was an amazing process. He’d seen her grow over the past couple of weeks—in strength and confidence.
‘Mr Goodale has agreed to take care of the plants after Annabelle returns and we go to live with her,’ she said.
Her going to live with Drew and Annabelle had been his goal, and there was no reason for him to not be looking forward to that happening. No reason whatsoever. Except for the fact that his life had changed. ‘Will Donald have time?’ Roger asked. ‘I know he still helps his son with their farm.’
‘He assured me it wouldn’t be a problem,’ she said. ‘But if it will be for you, I can make other arrangements.’
Roger wondered what those other arrangements might entail, but chose to not question it aloud. ‘It won’t be a problem for me. If Donald has agreed, then he’ll do it.’ The room was growing darker now that the sun had slipped beneath the horizon. ‘Shall we go check on Mrs Mills?’
Chapter Nine
Clara knew full well that it wasn’t her place to stand beside Roger while he visited with Mrs Mills, but he’d asked her to join him, claiming it would make the housekeeper feel more comfortable, and Clara knew that was true.
She also knew that it wasn’t her place to be overseeing his household staff, but there again, she’d been asked, and had wanted to help in any way she could. Mrs Mills had insisted that everyone else had their own duties to see to, and overseeing that those duties were completed was impossible for her to do while in bed.
Clara had been overseeing households her entire life, for her father and then her own. Granted, both homes had been much smaller and there hadn’t been servants at either place, but she’d been responsible for everything. Things were more complicated here, complex due to the staff and the rules of society that she’d never encountered before, such as strict guidance as to the division between family and staff. Guests were to be treated along the lines of family, which she attempted to abide by as much as possible, but some things were just too rigid. If there were things that needed to be done, and she was capable of doing those things, then she did them. Including cleaning. She’d been cleaning her entire life and knew how to use a broom and mop, and numerous other household tasks.
Mrs Mills repeated how her accident had come about to Roger and claimed that everything was ready for his mother’s visit, all because of Clara. Mrs Mills also insisted that if not for Clara and Sammy, she might still be lying in the storage room. Which was clearly untrue—someone would have found her—but Clara didn’t rebut the woman’s claims. Roger’s smile said he knew the truth.
As he had been while she’d been ill at the inn, he was very caring about Mrs Mills’s injury, and assured her that her health and healing was the utmost of everyone’s concern.
Clara’s nerves leaped beneath her skin as he questioned the doctor’s orders. She hadn’t told anyone how the doctor continued to assume that she was Roger’s wife, and had hoped that no one else had noticed. Hopefully, no one would ever know and she wouldn’t have to explain why she hadn’t corrected the man. She wasn’t overly certain why she hadn’t.
Upon exiting Mrs Mills’s chamber, Roger said, ‘Thank you, but I do apologise for you having to take on so much.’
‘Mrs Mills makes it sound like I’ve been doing much more than what I have. With so much help, it’s barely been any work.’
‘It’s clear that Mrs Mills appreciates it, and so do I,’ he said.
Clara’s heart thudded due to the way he looked at her. Or maybe, just because he was here. She had missed him. That concerned her, and though she told herself it was only because of all he’d done for her, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was more than that.
She would have to think about that, and about what to do about it, but at the moment, a kitchen maid appeared in the hallway and requested a moment of her attention.
‘Excuse me,’ Clara said, and stepped away from away from Roger. ‘What is it, Anita?’ she asked. At one time she’d wondered if she’d ever remember the names of so many different servants, but now she not only knew their names, she knew them. And liked them, including Anita, who was the cook’s young niece and had only been working here for a few months.
‘Forgive my interruption, ma’am,’ Anita said. ‘Mrs Wells is wondering if you’d like supper delayed a bit longer, giving the marquess time to freshen up after his ride home.’
Clara felt the heat of chagrin for having not thought of that herself upon his arrival. Then again, she hadn’t been able to think about much when he’d stepped in the house. All she’d done was stood there, ogling him. A part of her had wanted to rush forward and greet him much like Abigail had. Her daughter hadn’t stopped looking for him, each and every day, as if she was sure that she’d find him sooner or later.
She didn’t want to admit it, but Clara had known that he’d come home sooner or later, too, and there had been an excitement and a comfort knowing that he would be home. That she would see him again. ‘Yes,’ Clara said to Anita, ‘please ask Mrs Wells to wait half of an hour before serving the meal, and do thank her for me. I know how difficult it is to keep things warm.’
With another curtsy, the young girl said, ‘I will, ma’am. Thank you.’
‘Is something amiss?’ Roger asked as Anita hurried towards the kitchen.
‘No. There’s enough time for you to freshen up before the meal is served.’ Clara held her arms out to Abigail. ‘And enough time for me to clean up this little one.’
Abigail shook her head and leaned closer to Roger.
He chuckled and kissed the top of Abigail’s head before handing her over. ‘Off you go, baby girl.’
Abigail wasn’t impressed and her frown showed it, as did the way she said, ‘Doger?’ As if questioning how he dared hand her off.
He laughed again and tickled Abigail under the chin until she grinned. ‘That’s better.’
Then, he winked at Clara and moved towards the stairway.
It was a moment before she could move due to the commotion his wink caused inside her. Goodnight and God bless, but that man did things to her that were not right.
Simply not right.
‘Doger,’ Abigail said.
‘Yes, Roger is home,’ Clara replied with a sigh and headed down the hallway.
She ended up taking Abigail up to their rooms to wash her face and hands because that way Clara could also check her appearance in the mirror. Just to make sure no pins had come loose in her hair. She wasn’t checking to see if she looked pretty or not. There was no one here that she wanted to look pretty for, it was just that...
The air in her lungs was so heavy it hurt as she heaved out a sigh.
Mark was the only person she’d ever wanted to think that she was pretty. The only man she would ever want to think that, and she was mad that he’d died.
She shouldn’t be, because it hadn’t been his fault, but she was, because if he hadn’t died, she wouldn’t be here. She’d be home, with her husband and their daughter, living the life she was supposed to be living.
A life she was used to, one she knew.
Instead, she’d become used to living here, in a palace with servants, and this life was nothing like her life used to be. It was also a life that she would never fit into. It was too foreign. Living like nobility wasn’t for her. She was meant to be a farmer’s wife. An American’s farmer’s wife.
‘Doger.’
Clara let out another sigh, picked up her daughter and left their rooms, all the while trying to convince herself that she couldn’t wait to return to America. To her farm.
Roger and Suzanne were already in the dining room, and during the meal, Roger told them about London and the balls that were happening right now as well as the upcoming exhibition.
Suzanne was totally enthralled, and had a plethora of questions, which Roger kindly answered, and although Clara didn’t want to admit how interesting the things that he talked about sounded, in truth, she was quite captivated by it all.
He had a way of making things sound bigger than life, yet simple at the same time. He also had a way of making everyone laugh, especially when he told them about the ball that Drew had hosted shortly after Annabelle had arrived. It had been a masquerade ball, and some of the costumes he described were outlandish, especially when he said that one woman had worn a giant teacup on her head.
‘Now, I know you’re jesting,’ Clara declared as they made their way into the drawing room after eating.
‘No, I’m not. You can ask Annabelle when she arrives.’ A sheen of teasing made his eyes twinkle.
‘I will,’ she said.
‘I will be there,’ he said.
She lifted a brow. ‘So you can convince her to go along with your story?’
He laughed. ‘No, so I can see your face when you learn I’m telling the truth.’
She shook her head, but couldn’t stop from giggling.
‘She’ll also tell you that I was the genius who came up with the idea to have the masquerade ball.’
Clara laughed louder. ‘A genius?’
He pretended to be hurt, made a show of giving her a frown. ‘You don’t think so?’
‘That you are a genius?’ she asked, playing along with him.
