The image of her pushing Galbraith down onto the settee flashed through her mind again, bringing all its glory and agony. There hadn’t been any temperance or shy modesty about her that afternoon. On the contrary. She’d been indiscreet, forward, downright wanton.
If all that wasn’t enough to force her into sober reflection, she had also put her reputation at grave risk. If they had been caught, if her father and the doctor had come in, or if—God forbid—one of her father’s acquaintances paying a call had been ushered up to the drawing room, the sight that met that person’s eyes would have been a shocking one indeed.
She imagined it as a witness might have done—with her prone body shamelessly on top of Galbraith’s, her hands raking through his hair, her mouth taking his with hungry abandon.
It was a painful picture.
Had anyone walked in on them, the result for her would have been abject shame, disgrace, and possibly ruin. It had been a mistake of epic proportions, and she needed to make that fact plain to Galbraith at the first opportunity, lest he assume her brazen behavior had been permission for him to take further liberties in future.
Even as she took that stance of firm resolve, the memory of his body beneath hers and his strong arms around her made her pulse quicken and spread aching heat through her limbs. Even as she reprimanded herself for a fool, her soul yearned to experience it all again, to know, if only for a few more shining moments, how it felt to be a beautiful and enticing woman.
Heavens, she was in such a muddle, how could she ever face him? How could she sit across from him on a picnic blanket this afternoon and not think about the two of them on that settee locked in a passionate embrace? How could she be in the presence of his family and act as if he had not given her the most singular experience of her life? She’d been tempted to refuse the invitation, but she hadn’t had the heart to do that to her sisters-in-law, who were receiving precious few invitations this year. It would have been selfish, and cowardly, too. And ultimately futile, for she’d have had to face him sometime. They’d made a bargain. She couldn’t back out.
And as the carriage made its way down Park Lane, she knew she had only a few precious minutes to piece her wits together. Because unless she found a way to spend the afternoon in his company without showing the world what he’d made her feel, she’d spend her season pursued by him alone—a man who could only offer a sham courtship. Unless she wanted to become known as a flirt and a jilt when she refused his suit in two months’ time, she had to regain the cool façade of polite tolerance she’d originally decided upon. How easy polite tolerance had seemed ten days ago, and how impossible it seemed now.
“All right, that tears it,” Angela suddenly burst out, breaking the silence in the carriage. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I can’t tolerate the suspense a moment longer.”
She turned toward Clara, lively curiosity and expectation in her gray eyes. “What is going on?”
Alarm seized Clara’s insides, clutching like a fist. There was no way her sisters-in-law could know what had happened between her and Galbraith, but it was clear they sensed something was afoot, and she knew it was time to put on the mask of indifference she was supposed to be wearing. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Angie,” she said and looked away, pretending a vast interest in the tall elms around them.
This pretense seemed to exasperate Angela. “Really, Clara!” she cried. “You are like a sphinx when you choose. Days and days have passed, and still, you haven’t explained a thing. When are you going to tell us about it?”
She resisted the temptation to look down and see if she had a big scarlet A emblazoned on the front of her blue-and-white striped outing gown.They can’t possibly have guessed, she told herself, hoping she wasn’t engaging in mere wishful thinking as she turned again to the woman beside her. “But what am I expected to tell?”
“Everything abouthim, of course! Is he as charming as they say?”
At once, Clara’s cheeks grew hot, a reaction that did not go unnoticed.
“Ooh-la-la,” Sarah piped up, laughing. “See how she blushes, Angie, and you haven’t even uttered his name.”
“Shall I say it, and watch her blush deepen? Lord Galbraith is the man I’m talking about, Clara, you oyster! Viscount Galbraith, the handsomest devil in the entireton. So,” she added, nudging Clara’s knee playfully with her own, “do you intend to keep us on tenterhooks, or shall you tell us what’s between the two of you?”
“And don’t say there’s nothing,” Sarah interjected as Clara opened her mouth to say just that. “Because it’s plain as a pikestaff you’ve caught his eye.”
“Have I?” Had she put the proper amount of innocent surprise in her voice? she wondered.
Angela made a scoffing sound. “Oh, you know you have. First, he singles you out to open Lady Petunia’s ball, and then she invites you to sit in Leyland’s box at Covent Garden. And now, we’re off to spend the day with them.”
“It’s just a picnic,” she began, but Angela cut off her attempt to downplay it.
“One with a family we are barely acquainted with. The point is, all these things are because of you. As Sarah said, Galbraith’s interest is clear, and yet, for all you talk of him, he might as well not exist.”
“That will be enough, girls,” Carlotta put in, the rebuke severe enough to demonstrate how seriously the duke’s sister-in-law took her role as matron and chaperone of her unmarried companions. “Despite Lord Leyland’s scandal-ridden wife, his aunt is quite well-regarded in society, and if she is willing to help bolster our social position after your own mother’s unfortunate elopement, I shall not take issue with it. And, more importantly, if Clara doesn’t wish to confide in us or seek advice,” she added with an injured sniff, making it clear who she thought ought to be dispensing said advice, “then you’ve no right to press her.”
“It isn’t that!” Clara cried, her mask slipping a notch. She wished she could confide in them, for the feelings that had been plaguing her ever since that extraordinary afternoon were heady and overwhelming and wholly alien to her, and she’d spent most of the week torn between wanting to laugh with joy and wanting to die of mortification. She would have dearly liked to hear other feminine opinions on the subject, but she could not allow herself that luxury.
If she told her sisters-in-law that Galbraith had kissed her, they would surely assume an engagement had been made, and upon finding out that no such honorable proposal had been offered, they would be outraged on her behalf. Knowing Clara’s own father was hopeless at parental duties, Carlotta might even go to her husband, the duke’s brother, and honor would require Lord David to see Galbraith and demand he do right by her, a ghastly and humiliating prospect that Clara could not bear to contemplate.
She would then be obligated to take responsibility for her part in what had occurred, own up to the fact that she had been as much to blame as he, and how could she tell anyone that? How could she make the humiliating admission that she had allowed a man to whom she was not affianced an unpardonable liberty? More than allowed it—she had enjoyed it, reveled in it, pushed him down on the settee and shamelessly demanded more of it. Clara could no more have confessed such things than she could have turned herself into a frog and croaked out a mating song.
She swallowed hard and made herself to say something. “It’s just that there’s nothing to tell,” she said. “I hardly know the man. Yes, I danced with him at his aunt’s ball, as you saw for yourselves. And as I told you at the time, I didn’t think much of him.”
“A feeling that is obviouslynotmutual,” murmured Sarah, giving her sister a wink across the carriage, and Angela’s responding giggle only increased Clara’s dismay.
“His great-aunt is a friend of my grandmother,” she reminded them. “As I told you before the ball, Lady Ellesmere prevailed upon Lady Petunia to help bring me out. That is the reason for all these invitations, I’m sure.”
“That explains Lady Petunia’s attentions,” Carlotta put in dryly. “But hardly Galbraith’s.”
