Page 34 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)
Claire's humor faded and she glanced toward the tiny, determined fire.
"Then I suppose I shall have to not meet anyone more suitable, Mr Graham.
Or…" The thought struck her and she looked at Graham's brown eyes, suddenly embarrassed.
"Or are you trying to tell me in the kindest way possible that you prefer not to marry me?
I do think that you may perhaps still harbor feelings for Miss Hurst."
A dreadful twist of pain marred Graham's features.
"Miss Hurst has chosen her path, and in doing so made it clear that if I still have feelings for her, they are not something she has interest in returning.
Let us say that my sacrifice would certainly be no greater than yours, and perhaps much lesser.
It is, after all, myself and my sister's children you would be saving. "
"So we are agreed," Claire said.
"Miss Dalton…" Graham collapsed in his chair, gazing at her with troubled eyes.
He looked tired, Claire thought. More tired than she, who had gone sleepless the night before.
He looked as though he had carried a burden too long and that now, looking into the possibility of salvation was more than he could bear.
It was clear that he was both deeply appalled and enormously relieved by her proposal.
The struggle between choosing her virtue and her place in society or the future of his sister's children played out clearly across his handsome features.
"Yes," he finally said, dully. "We are agreed. But Miss Dalton, I think we should be…circumspect about our arrangement for some time to come."
"If only I hadn't announced it to a room full of Lads last night," Claire said with a rueful smile. "But very well, Mr Graham, I shall be circumspect and I will even ask the Lads to hold their tongues as well, assuming it's not already too late."
Worthington, from the door, as if offering a piece of information that had simply entered his mind without any relationship to the topic at hand, observed that the Lads were all well-known for sleeping late.
Claire, smiling, moved to set her now-empty teacup aside, found there was no table upon which to place it, and bent to carefully put it on the floor.
When she straightened, it was to say, "I believe Worthington is correct, which means we had best return home so he can send word to the Lads to employ discretion. "
Graham set his teacup on the floor, too, and stood as Claire did. Offering his arm, he escorted her to the front door, where, frowning, he paused. "Miss Dalton…"
The expression was too like what had crossed his face when she had asked him about Miss Hurst. Claire put her cold hand against his cheek, then smiled tightly in return. "Good morning, Mr Graham."
He bowed, murmured, "Good morning, Miss Dalton," and she hurried away with the valet close behind her.
They walked for some time before she gathered the nerve to ask a question. "Do you know where Miss Hurst lives, Worthington?"
He cast her a curious look. "Yes, Miss."
"Please direct me there," Claire said with sudden decisiveness. "I shall visit her while you go to…"
"Corral?" Worthington suggested without any laughter in his face, even if his voice somehow conveyed a great deal of it.
Claire smiled. "Yes. Corral. The Lads. Thank you, Worthington. I don't know what I would do without you."
"Soldier on, Miss. You would no doubt soldier on."
Although she would not be inclined to admit it to anyone, Miss Hurst was not especially accustomed to callers.
It was largely her own doing. Her remote persona did not incline people toward making friends with her, and it was, in the end, easier than trying to keep up certain appearances at all times.
So when her maid announced the second visitor in two days, this time in the form of Miss Claire Dalton, Miss Hurst wondered if this was what married life would be like: intruded upon by callers at all times, although in fairness she could probably not truly consider two visitors on separate days at all times.
With Mr Fairburn's visit she had known what to expect. With Miss Dalton's—Claire's, she reminded herself; she had been invited to call Miss Dalton by her given name. With Claire's arrival, she was curious, and that drove her downstairs without more than a cursory glance at herself in the mirror.
Miss Dalton awaited her in the drawing room, where she seemed a spot of warmth amongst the cool colors.
Indeed, dressed in layers of cream and brown overcoats, she seemed too warm, though when Priscilla took her hands, they were chilly indeed.
"Forgive me for keeping my coat on," Claire said.
"I've been unable to warm up properly this morning. "
"Then sit next to the fire," Priscilla insisted, though she herself took a seat slightly farther away. Its warmth, like exercise and high emotion, brought out blotches on her skin. "To what do I owe the honor?"
Claire, once settled by the fire, looked up with a smile. "You mean, why have I arrived on your doorstep unannounced?"
"I might," Priscilla admitted. "Usually people send cards first."
"They do, but I had a sudden thought and wanted to ask it before I quailed. It's inappropriate."
"I think we established that I enjoy the occasional inappropriate action," Miss Hurst said, then frowned. "Or was that conversation with Mr Fairburn?"
To Priscilla's surprise, Miss Dalton stared, then blushed an astonishing flaming red. Priscilla stared back, then realized with horror how that comment could have been interpreted, and felt her own face go mottled with color. "Oh no, Miss Dalton! I never meant—oh, no! "
"Of course you didn't, of course not!" Claire, who was perhaps as red-faced as anyone Priscilla had ever seen, clapped her hands against her cheeks, where they left white marks from the cold pressure. "What a terrible thing for me to even imagine you meant!"
"What a terrible thing for me to imply!" Priscilla said at nearly the same time, and suddenly they were both laughing. Claire held her hands out and, after a hesitation, Priscilla took them and joined Claire on the low, rose-patterned couch.
"You're right," Claire said, "your coloring is dreadful for blushing. Well, let me ask you this awful question while you're still flushed, Priscilla, for it may make you blush again. Do you—oh dear. I can't think of a way to ask it except boldly. Do you still care for Mr Graham, Priscilla?"
A soft breath escaped Priscilla's lips, much softer than she expected, given that her belly felt as if someone had pushed it hard. "He…told you about us."
"After the…" Claire was clearly struggling not to say scene , and avoided it only by beginning all over again. "After the party the other night, he came to apologize, and I learned some of your— his— story. I couldn't help but wonder if your current difficulties arise from…caring too much."
Priscilla released Claire's hands and went to stand at the window.
The view beyond was of a small park; if she turned her head just so, it seemed that the greenery was all that lay outside their home.
It filtered some of London's grime away, at least, and the occasional leaping shadow from branches shifting in the wind cut the sunlight and let it fall more gently on her face.
She could not imagine that it softened her, but she knew that it flattered; that was usually enough.
"You know I am engaged to Mr Fairburn," she finally said.
"I do."
"So perhaps you will hold what I tell you now in the strictest confidence," Priscilla said.
She ought not; she knew she ought not. But Claire Dalton seemed to be made of kindness and of concern for others, and Priscilla had been lonely a long time.
On the couch, Claire made a sound of desperately curious agreement.
Priscilla smiled, careful not to make any deep lines around her mouth as she did so.
"The truth, Claire, is that I believe I will never stop loving Jack.
He left me with no explanation and I cannot forgive him for that, but neither can I break free of the love he has shackled me with.
It has been four years, " she cried bitterly, "and I thought I had moved past him until I saw him with you at the park.
All of my anger and desire for him came to the surface.
I have no idea what he said to make me throw lemonade in his face," she confessed.
"I only wanted to do something outrageous, to insult and hurt him as he had me.
He makes me so angry, and yet somehow I only want to?—"
She caught herself just in time, knowing that admitting to carnal desires would be too much, but there was no judgment, only compassion, in Claire's gaze.
"Then why…?" the other woman asked.
Priscilla Hurst, who was proud of all things physical about herself, who kept her carriage strong and upright even in the worst of times, sagged in exhausted despair.
"My brother gambles, and gambles badly. We've lost nearly everything.
The house has not been stripped bare only because my father gave away a third of our family's company to keep us in it, to keep us looking wealthy.
If I don't marry Benedict Fairburn and his fortune, my family will lose everything.
Everything, Claire. So you see, I have no choice. I have no choice at all."