Little Love Affair (Southern Romance 1)

“Yes.” There was sadness there, and her hand came across the table to rest on his. “Sit up, Mister Perry. Drink your tea. Think on it, and you will see that I am right.”

“I know you’re right, but I...”

“You two should never have met.” Her voice was soft. “In another world, you would not have.”

“In another world, it wouldn’t have mattered!” His throat was raw. “Five years ago...”

“So what would you do? Fight both armies for my daughter?” Her voice was like a whiplash. “You know it’s not possible.”

“Where is Clara?” He must see her, or he would go mad.

At this, she sighed, and her eyes drifted closed for a moment. “In the company of her betrothed.”

The words hit him like a blow. “She has no betrothed. Cyrus—”

“Cyrus Dupont is a good man, and I’ll hear nothing bad about him, least of all from you. More than that, he was her brother’s friend. He’ll care for the farm. He has loved Clara since they were children.”

“But she does not love him,” Jasper said passionately.

“Love may come. Far better to marry a good man and lack passion, than risk her life for desire. Even Clara will see it in time...when you are gone.”

“Then why has she not married him before now?” Jasper whispered.

“She is young and headstrong, as her father was. As I was. I was lucky—I was never tested so. My parents would have had me marry Henry Sinclair, but they accepted Horace because I loved him. Clara, wants something that is beyond my power to give.”

“She cannot marry him.” Jasper saw the man’s unfriendly gaze in his mind’s eye, the possessive way Cyrus looked at Clara, and he thought he would go mad. “He’ll never love her like I can.”

“She can.” Millicent’s face was implacable. “And she will. Now you must go.”

Jasper hardly remembered the walk across the fields. He had fled without a goodbye, his manners gone in the face o

f his misery. She was right. He must leave before he saw Clara marry Cyrus. He would go mad if he saw that. His feet moved without his volition, and when he staggered in the door of the cabin, he saw Horace’s face go grave.

“What is it? What has happened?”

“I’m leaving,” Jasper snarled. “Come or not, I don’t care.”

“I...”

“Before I go,” Jasper said, cutting his friend off. “You tell me why I sent away the woman I love. You will tell me, Horace, or I swear I’ll—”

“You still haven’t seen it, have you?” Horace had gone grey, and he gave a despairing laugh. “But who would know?” he asked quietly. “Who would guess?”

“Guess what?” He was going to throttle the man.

Horace leaned against the door, too weak to stand, his face screwed up with pain. When at last he looked up, Jasper took a step back. The man looked haunted.

“I’m Solomon Dalton,” Horace said quietly. “Solomon Horace Dalton.”

Chapter 14

“You look lovely.” Cyrus leaned close as Clara ducked under his raised arm. “You’re the most beautiful woman here.”

For a moment, Clara could believe it. The music was quick and light, and she was dizzy from whirling about the room. With her breath coming short from the dance and her blood burning with sips of wine, Clara wanted nothing more than to lean against Cyrus’s arm and take another turn about the room. She knew now the look of desire in a man’s eyes, and it was intoxicating. If Cyrus desired her as Jasper did...well, perhaps one day she might desire him as well.

The music ended with a flourish, and the revelers along the walls cheered for the dancers. They left the floor flushed and laughing, punch ladled into cups and mugs with a hearty wink from Mr. Miller, who had poured a liberal dollop of bourbon in for good measure.

“For you,” Cyrus said, holding out the first cup.