A Gentleman's Curse (Avenging Lords 4)

Emily squeezed Claudia’s arm and laughed, too. “I am not talking about Mr Lockhart.”

“I know you’re not, but one cannot help but admire such a virile male specimen.” And the man had a smile that turned her insides to blancmange.

“Are Monsieur Dariell’s eyes as kind as his voice?” Emily persisted. “I imagine they are.”

“They are indeed. Every mannerism conveys depth of character. And yet despite being slight of frame, he possesses a physical strength beyond that which I have seen before.”

On one of her daily walks with Emily, Claudia had witnessed Monsieur Dariell and Mr Lockhart out in the field practising some strange form of combat.

“What’s his most striking feature, do you think?”

That was an easy question, one Emily has asked before, but Claudia humoured her all the same. “I would say his hair. It’s as black as ebony and tied back in a queue.”

A satisfied smile illuminated Emily’s face.

They entered the house and made their way to the drawing room. A healthy fire blazed in the grate, candles flickered in the lamps. The welcoming sight was enough to chase the chill from their bones. Mrs Bitton had placed two small glasses of sherry on the side table ready for their return, and so they sank into their usual seats to reflect on the night’s event.

“How do you truly feel about Monsieur Dariell teaching me to dance?” Emily clutched her glass between her palms and took a sip of sherry. “Do you think it’s foolish?”

Claudia could not lie, but she did not wish to ruin a moment of happiness. “I think it is a wonderful idea, but it will take time and perseverance. No doubt Monsieur Dariell is a patient teacher.”

Emily sighed as she gazed at the fire. “To glide once around the floor in the arms of a gentleman would be a dream come true.”

“It would,” Claudia said, sharing in her sister’s fantasy.

They sat in silence for a brief time. Doubtless, Emily imagined a magical moment on the dance floor, while Claudia’s thoughts turned frosty as she anticipated Mr Thorncroft’s arrival the next morning. The man wanted money or her hand in marriage. She could give him neither.

“Would you mind if I went to bed?” Emily said, stifling a yawn.

“Of course not.” Claudia rose to her feet. Perhaps Emily wanted to dream of Monsieur Dariell without disruption. “Let me help you. Let me escort you to the first-floor landing.”

Emily stood, too. Gripping her glass with one hand, she batted the air with the other while searching for the side table. Claudia longed to offer assistance, but Emily craved independence.

After placing her glass down, Emily held out her arms and drew Claudia into their usual nightly embrace. “Very well. But then you must let me find my own way.”

“Agreed.”

Emily held Claudia’s arm as they left the drawing room and mounted the dimly lit staircase. Once safely clear of the top step, Emily tugged her arm free and whispered, “Pleasant dreams.”

Claudia lingered in the gloom and watched her sister edge her way along the wall as she navigated the corridor.

When Emily entered her bedchamber, and the house plunged into silence once more, Claudia returned to the drawing room and quickly downed another two glasses of sherry. Liquor was said to help people forget their problems. She slipped off her boots and stockings and stretched out on the sofa before the fire. In the morning she had the farrier’s bill to pay. Mrs Bitton had requested the funds to settle their account with the tea dealer, she had to approve the grocery order, and the footmen needed new shirts.

But the stress of household business was not the reason nausea roiled in her stomach. No, while Emily lay in a snug bed and pondered the prospect of dancing the waltz, Claudia closed her eyes and contemplated her fate. The thought of meeting Mr Thorncroft tomorrow filled her with dread. The man was a vile letch looking for any excuse to trap her into marriage. She could only keep him at bay for so long.

Who knew when he would tire of her excuses?

Who knew when the blackguard would strike?

* * *

Mr Lockhart had entered the drawing room. Claudia could not see him through the misty veil of her dream, but that did not mean he wasn’t there. The smell of his cologne filled her head—oriental rose infused with incense and the warm woody notes that gave the scent its masculine depth.

She felt the soft touch of his fingers trace the line of her jaw. Heat warmed her chest, the exciting sensation moving in a southerly direction as she imagined him climbing on top of her on the worn sofa in front of the fire.

The first thread of consciousness came when she heard her own soft hum of pleasure. The faint whiff of brandy and wine reached her then, dragging her out of her trance. A large hand took hold of her bare foot, forcing her to open her eyes and sit bolt upright.

A shriek caught in her throat as she noted the handsome gentleman staring at her from a kneeling position on the Persian rug.