Clare winced. If there was one thing Rawcliffe disliked it was drawing attention to his movements so that ‘vulgar’ persons could come and stare. At least, that was the reason he’d given her for not putting an announcement of their marriage in the papers.
So it came as a shock when he calmly followed the manager across to the stairs and added his name to the list of previous visitors, rather than giving him a sharp set-down.
The manager, too, appeared to have sustained a shock when he read her husband’s name.
‘My lord,’ he wheezed, as though all the breath had just left his lungs in a rush. ‘I am afraid we have very few notable people staying at present. Nobody suitable for introductions…’
Which immediately put her out of charity with him. For she knew very well that nobody notable ever stayed in Peacombe. It simply wasn’t fashionable enough.
‘And the season has not really begun. The first concert is not planned for several weeks, and as for dancing…’
‘It is of no consequence,’ said Rawcliffe dismissively. ‘We have not come here to attend balls or concerts, but to enjoy the walks and the views.’
Had they? Well, that was news to her. Especially since he’d told her he’d chosen Peacombe because of its proximity to Clement. But then, he wouldn’t want to share that bit of information with a virtual stranger, would he?
‘The walks and the views are indeed excellent,’ said the manager with evident relief. ‘This part of the coastline, with its rugged cliffs and sweeping moorlands, has vistas second to none. The cliffs, angled as they are, also shelter Peacombe from the most intemperate weather. And of course,’ he cleared his throat, ‘the Three Tuns is open to serve refreshments whenever you desire. Please, do come and see the facilities we have to offer the discerning traveller,’ he said, bowing and making a sweeping gesture with one hand. As Rawcliffe nodded in acceptance of the invitation, the man set off along a corridor that led them deeper into the bowels of his architectural abomination.
‘We take the London newspapers,’ said the manager over his shoulder, ‘and a selection of all the best periodicals for the edification and amusement of our visitors.’ With a triumphant sort of flourish, he flung open the door of what looked to Clare exactly the way she imagined the interior of a gentleman’s club would look. It was all leather chairs and little tables piled with various periodicals, and a hearth containing a gently smouldering fire which made her want to remove her coat and bonnet straight away.
‘Coffee, tea, chocolate?’ The manager looked from one to the other as he ran through the beverages on offer.
‘Ale, for myself,’ said Rawcliffe, strolling over to one of the tables and flicking open the topmost newspaper as though he couldn’t wait to start reading it.
‘My lady?’
‘He means you, my dear,’ said Rawcliffe after a short interval.
‘Oh, yes, um, tea would be lovely,’ she said, her cheeks burning. She made for the fire which gave her the opportunity to give her prickly husband the distance he so obviously needed to preserve, pulled off her gloves and held out her hands to the fire as though warming them was the sole reason she’d gone there.
But she could feel him, watching her. Waiting, no doubt, for her to turn round and launch into a barrage of complaints about the way he’d just rebuffed her, in the street.
Well, for once, she wasn’t going to do any such thing. He wanted to keep her at a safe distance, physically as well as emotionally? Fine!
She’d give him distance.
And plenty of it.
* * *
Rawcliffe kept on mechanically turning the pages of the day-old newspaper, though he wasn’t taking in a single word printed below the date. He was aware of nothing but Clare. Clare, who’d stalked across the room to the fire so that she could stand with her back to him, under the pretext of warming her hands.
Clare.
He could still feel the imprint her arms had seared into his treacherous back when she’d flung them round him. Because he’d told her a pack of lies about his reasons for coming to Peacombe.
If she knew, if she only knew…
But she didn’t. Nor did she understand why he’d flung her from him with such horror. She couldn’t know that, once again, she’d rewarded him when he least deserved it.