for thinking you were a pirate or some other disreputable sort. Did you meet her onboard ship?” Camille asked.
“I met her on English soil. On a woodland path, in fact.”
Camille’s fingers remained poised over her brother’s beard. Claire could not see her face, but guessed what she was thinking.
“Then she thought you a hermit, and only swooned when you spoke to her, for I understand they are silent fellows.”
Lord Wentworth seemed to study his sister’s sightless eyes, perhaps contemplating her scars or the long-ago circumstances that brought them to this point.
“How do you know I spoke to her?” he asked softly.
Camille once again caught his beard and playfully tugged. “Because I doubt any lady brave enough to venture alone on a woodland path would let you walk within ten feet of her without grilling you as to your identity, your reason to be traveling the same route, and your intentions for the immediate future.”
Good heavens, was she such a harpy? Camille would have her brother believe their houseguest was both formidable and thoroughly annoying.
Claire must have made some small sound, for brother and sister turned to where she stood at the door. Camille’s expression was one of pure pleasure, and there seemed nothing to suggest she truly bought her own description of her friend. And in one brief moment of recognition, Claire realized Lord Wentworth did not buy his sister’s description, either.
He studied her with an intensity that suggested there was much more between them than a few hurried words in the woodlands could possibly allow. His gaze caught hers, making her suddenly aware of how she must look in her well-fitted blue day dress with its deep V neckline, and its barely concealing lace. Through the mass of his ridiculous beard, she saw his lips were slightly parted, as if he could not bring forth the words of common courtesy and greeting. And though Camille sat at his side, and one of the servants refreshed the tray of breads on the sideboard, it seemed there was no one else in the whole wide world but the two of them, confronting each other in the well-ordered propriety of a breakfast room, but with no greater reason than if they still stood in the woods, wondering about the identity of the other.
“It is Lady Claire, is it not?” Camille asked quietly. “But of course it is, for I would know your footsteps anywhere. It sounds as if you are favoring one foot, however.”
“I am. I should have heeded your advice about wearing sturdy shoes when walking about the property. Instead, I foolishly wore my slippers, and lost one along the path,” Claire said.
Lord Wentworth finally remembered his manners and rose from his seat. “I am sorry to hear you had a mishap on my land. I will replace the slipper for you if the gardeners do not find it.”
“Both the mishap—if such it was—and the slipper are trivial, my lord.” Claire decided to stop right there before she said something about the nature of mishaps and the more serious consequences that could occur. And in any case, they had not yet been introduced in this setting. She looked at Camille, who somehow read her mind.
“Lady Claire, allow me to present my brother, Maxwell Brooks, the Marquis Wentworth. Maxwell, this is my dearest friend, Lady Claire.”
“The Dowager Countess of Glastonbury, as I recall. Indeed, we have met before, if only briefly.” He came around the side of the long table as he spoke and reached for her hand in greeting.
Claire gave it unwillingly, so unsure was she that she scarcely recognized herself. But she recognized him well enough, even through his facial hair.
“Yes, it was so brief I would scarcely imagine I might recognize you again, especially as your appearance is so dramatically altered,” she said, but in fact it was not. She recalled with perfect clarity how tall he was and how he somehow managed to seem both lean and strong. She remembered those eyes that were so dark she could
“I met her on English soil. On a woodland path, in fact.”
Camille’s fingers remained poised over her brother’s beard. Claire could not see her face, but guessed what she was thinking.
“Then she thought you a hermit, and only swooned when you spoke to her, for I understand they are silent fellows.”
Lord Wentworth seemed to study his sister’s sightless eyes, perhaps contemplating her scars or the long-ago circumstances that brought them to this point.
“How do you know I spoke to her?” he asked softly.
Camille once again caught his beard and playfully tugged. “Because I doubt any lady brave enough to venture alone on a woodland path would let you walk within ten feet of her without grilling you as to your identity, your reason to be traveling the same route, and your intentions for the immediate future.”
Good heavens, was she such a harpy? Camille would have her brother believe their houseguest was both formidable and thoroughly annoying.
Claire must have made some small sound, for brother and sister turned to where she stood at the door. Camille’s expression was one of pure pleasure, and there seemed nothing to suggest she truly bought her own description of her friend. And in one brief moment of recognition, Claire realized Lord Wentworth did not buy his sister’s description, either.
He studied her with an intensity that suggested there was much more between them than a few hurried words in the woodlands could possibly allow. His gaze caught hers, making her suddenly aware of how she must look in her well-fitted blue day dress with its deep V neckline, and its barely concealing lace. Through the mass of his ridiculous beard, she saw his lips were slightly parted, as if he could not bring forth the words of common courtesy and greeting. And though Camille sat at his side, and one of the servants refreshed the tray of breads on the sideboard, it seemed there was no one else in the whole wide world but the two of them, confronting each other in the well-ordered propriety of a breakfast room, but with no greater reason than if they still stood in the woods, wondering about the identity of the other.
“It is Lady Claire, is it not?” Camille asked quietly. “But of course it is, for I would know your footsteps anywhere. It sounds as if you are favoring one foot, however.”
“I am. I should have heeded your advice about wearing sturdy shoes when walking about the property. Instead, I foolishly wore my slippers, and lost one along the path,” Claire said.
Lord Wentworth finally remembered his manners and rose from his seat. “I am sorry to hear you had a mishap on my land. I will replace the slipper for you if the gardeners do not find it.”
“Both the mishap—if such it was—and the slipper are trivial, my lord.” Claire decided to stop right there before she said something about the nature of mishaps and the more serious consequences that could occur. And in any case, they had not yet been introduced in this setting. She looked at Camille, who somehow read her mind.
“Lady Claire, allow me to present my brother, Maxwell Brooks, the Marquis Wentworth. Maxwell, this is my dearest friend, Lady Claire.”
“The Dowager Countess of Glastonbury, as I recall. Indeed, we have met before, if only briefly.” He came around the side of the long table as he spoke and reached for her hand in greeting.
Claire gave it unwillingly, so unsure was she that she scarcely recognized herself. But she recognized him well enough, even through his facial hair.
“Yes, it was so brief I would scarcely imagine I might recognize you again, especially as your appearance is so dramatically altered,” she said, but in fact it was not. She recalled with perfect clarity how tall he was and how he somehow managed to seem both lean and strong. She remembered those eyes that were so dark she could
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