A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)
“Victory is ours.” The smile that curved his lips had nothing to do with charm and everything to do with intent.
Her lips curved in response, one of her elusive, subtly taunting half smiles.
He released her fingers; sliding his hands lightly up her arms, he reached for her—
They both heard the hurrying footsteps outside the door a second before someone tapped.
Swallowing a curse, Jack moved to the end of the desk as Clarice shifted to lean against the chair. “Come.”
One of the upstairs maids poked her head around the door. “Mrs. Connimore sent me, m’lord. She said as to tell you and Lady Clarice that the young man’s stirring. She thought as you might want to come, in case he regains his wits.”
“Yes, of course.” Clarice straightened from the chair and headed for the door.
Smothering a sigh of frustration and disappointment combined, Jack muttered an oath, and followed her.
Griggs looked out of the estate office to ask him a question; Jack caught up with Clarice as she entered the sickroom and approached the foot of the bed. Upon it, the young man lay lifeless and still, as he had for the past two days. His eyes were closed; there was no animation in his face.
Mrs. Connimore heaved a gusty sigh. “He was restless, shifting—I thought for a moment he could hear me, then…off he went again.”
Jack glanced at Clarice. She was studying the young man’s pale face, a definite frown on her own. He looked back at Mrs. Connimore. “At least it shows he’s not beyond the reach of consciousness yet. With some injuries, the body decides sleep is what it needs and refuses to allow anything else. His stupor may be for the best—his bones will be setting, if nothing else.”
Mrs. Connimore accepted his words with a nod. Clarice seemed barely to hear them.
Jack bent his head to better see her face; she looked up and met his eyes. “What is it? Have you recognized him?”
She shook her head. They looked back at the young man. Clarice gestured at him. “The more weight he loses, the more gaunt his face, the more I’m sure I should know which family he hails from. But I just can’t place the resemblance.”
They both stared at the young man for a minute more, then Jack jogged her elbow. “Standing here trying to force your memory to cooperate isn’t going to work. Come on—I’ll walk you back to the rectory.”
She sighed and turned away. He escorted her down the stairs, waited while she picked up her hat from the hall table and with no fuss set it on her head, then he opened the front door for her and followed her through.
Together, they stepped down onto the graveled forecourt. Instead of heading down the drive, Jack touched her arm and pointed to the lush lawns rolling down to the stream. “Let’s go that way.” He glanced up at the sky, a pure cerulean blue unmarred by any clouds; at least the weather was cooperating. “It’s a nicer walk, especially on a day like this.”
Clarice acquiesced with a nod. She seemed absentminded, presumably still thinking of the unconscious young man.
His hands in his pockets, ambling beside her as they descended the lawn to the path beside the stream, Jack set h
imself to redirect her thoughts. “The last time I spent any length of time here was over thirteen years ago.” He glanced at her. “Is it still quiet socially, or did the arrival of a marquess’s daughter in this sleepy backwater spark a frenzy of balls and dinners?”
She lifted her gaze, looking ahead to where the stream rushed and gurgled between its green banks; the curve of her lips was wry. “Initially. But”—she glanced briefly at him—“the truth was I arrived here entirely out of charity with tonnish society. The last thing I wished was to plunge into a round of balls and parties, being introduced to every eligible male within twenty miles. Of course”—her tone turned cynically resigned—“there was no help for it, but once the first rush of novelty faded, and I showed no signs of wanting to be the lynchpin of an active social circle, that, indeed, my interests were entirely otherwise, the pace slowed to what I suspect is its normal rhythm, and I was largely left in peace to do as I prefer.”
“Organizing and managing, specifically my estate. I know, I know”—he caught her gaze as she glanced at him and smiled to take any sting from his words—“you were here and I wasn’t.” They walked on in silence for a moment, then he added, his tone less flippant, “I’m actually very grateful.”
The fleeting glance she threw him, one dark brow arched, told him she was perfectly aware he had good cause to be so. “Reluctantly, but sincerely?”
Wryly, he inclined his head. “Just so.”
They reached the narrow path that followed the meandering stream and turned along it; it would lead them through the manor’s fields, under the bridge over which the road crossed, then on into the fields attached to the rectory.
He studied her profile as they strolled along, neither hurried nor dawdling. How was he to learn what he wanted to know? “And so after that first rush you’ve lived quietly here?”
“I doubt much has changed in the years you’ve been gone. Local society remains peaceful and undemanding.”
“Perhaps, but I’m finding it difficult to accept that the local gentlemen are all such slow-tops. Surely they come calling?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Unfortunately, they do. Too frequently. You’d think after seven years they would have realized…”
Her words faded. When she failed to go on, he evenly supplied, “That you’ve no intention of marrying any of them?”