The Magic of I Do Page 6

  “I don’t know,” she said, allowing her eyes to close.

  “Back home?” He let the soft fall of her hair slide between his fingers.

  “Can’t go back there until the moonful, if then.” Her shoulders began to relax a bit, and she shifted lower in the chair.

  “If you’d wanted to see me, you could have just come to the front door like a normal person.” A grin tugged at his lips.

  “What makes you think I wanted to see you?”

  “Why else would you be here?”

  “Because I have nowhere else to go.” She sat up straight and took the brush from his hand, laying it on the dressing table with a clatter. “My land is not a good place for me right now…”

  ***

  And it wouldn’t be, not once her secret became known. Once people knew she’d coupled with a human.

  “Everyone you know is there.” His eyes appraised her in the looking glass. Too closely.

  “That is my problem, you see.” She got to her feet and crossed back to the fire. “I can’t stay there. Not right now.”

  He was an amateur detective. Sophia had told her. He liked to solve riddles and puzzles, and find things out about people. Perhaps she could appeal to that side of him.

  “About what happened between us,” he began. He stopped for a moment to cough into his closed fist, clearing his throat.

  “Must we discuss that now?” She sighed heavily. She didn’t want to discuss it. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to deal with it.

  “I think there are some things we need to say to clear the air.”

  “You’ve been in my bed,” she said with as casual a shrug as she could manage. “It’s really no great event.”

  “It was for me,” he said quietly.

  It was for her too. But he bedded a different woman every night. She would wager on that. “It was but a moment.”

  “Were there consequences of our actions? In your land?” He probably wanted to know if they’d snipped her wings. Or punished her in some other way. She was being punished, but not by the fae. She laid a hand on her stomach.

  “No,” she replied. “They were not aware of our indiscretion.”

  “Good,” he said softly. “I was worried for you.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice was no more than a breath.

  “Will you be here in the morning?” he asked. He looked deeply into her eyes. As though he searched for the truth. If she told him the truth, he’d run screaming from the room. Or do something equally as foolish, like try to marry her.

  “If it’s all right with you.”

  He nodded. Nothing more. Just a nod. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She nodded in return. He would see her. She would let him shelter her while she figured things out. If that was at all possible.

  The door snicked softly behind him as he left the room. Claire heaved a great sigh and looked at herself closely in the looking glass. How the devil had she gotten here to this place, to this time, in this predicament? Why had the door brought her to Phineas Thorne? And what on earth was she going to do now?

  Ten

  Finn rose with the sun the next morning, tossing the counterpane off quickly as he got to his feet. A tiny voice in his head warned if he didn’t move quickly, Claire would vanish like the wind. Gone before he could get an opportunity to settle anything with her.

  He dressed and let Simmons shave him quickly, then stepped out into the corridor. He adjusted his clothing, feeling for certain like a debutante at her first ball. Was his cravat tied tightly? Was the sapphire pin stuck in the center too ostentatious? Were his boots polished to a shine? How did his arse look in these breeches?

  Claire would hardly care about what a fine figure he could turn out. She was probably gone, anyway. He heaved a sigh, took the stairs quickly, and went toward the breakfast room. His lungs deflated when he stepped into an empty room. He turned around and ran straight into her.

  “Oof,” she grunted, reaching for his shoulders to steady herself.

  “Bloody hell,” he grunted, his hands landing on her shoulders as he reached for her. “Are you quite all right?” She blew a lock of hair from her eyes.

  “It’s not every day a lady gets hit by a battering ram. But I’m well.”

  Claire had a way of stripping Finn down to the bare bones. He wasn’t the younger brother of the infamous Duke of Robinsworth when he was with her. He wasn’t a wealthy man. He wasn’t a consummate lover of women. He was that idiot who’d just run into her. “My apologies,” he managed to say.

  “Where were you rushing off to?” she asked, her head tilting a little to the left as her eyes narrowed at him.

  I was going to look for you. “To call for more coffee.”

  She pointed toward the footman who stood at the ready in the breakfast room. “He couldn’t manage that for you?”

  “He’s in charge of the sausages.” The corners of her lips began to tip up. “But I assume he could manage coffee.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the servant said, as he bustled from the room.

  Claire laid a hand on his chest, and he feared his heart would jump out to greet it. “If you wanted to get me alone, you had only to ask.”

  “I’ve had you alone before,” he grunted.

  Her brows arched in response, but she chose to ignore his response. “Do you have plans for the day?”

  Aside from dogging her every footstep? No. “Yes, I have several appointments. What did you need?”

  “Nothing,” she said with a shrug. She tugged at her clothing, and it was only then that he realized what she was wearing.

  “Where the devil did you get that dress?” It was more like a sack than a dress. He reached out and ran the fabric through his fingers. Her skin would be chafed by the end of the day.

  “I think it belonged to the housekeeper. Your grandmother didn’t have anything that would fit me.”

  That thing she was wearing didn’t fit her either. “You have nothing else to wear?”

  “You saw what was in my hands when I arrived.” She snapped her fingers to get his attention. “I have nothing.”

  “That is where you are wrong. You just happen to have me.”

  ***

  Claire’s heart tripped a beat. For a minute, an hour, for a day, she might have him. But not longer than that. “I’m not certain what you mean,” she said, hating the hesitancy of her own voice.

  “Clothing is the first thing we must do, because I cannot bear looking at you in that much longer. Shall we send for the modiste? Or go directly to her shop? Since you’ll be in a hurry for something to wear, we probably should go to her shop to see if she has something already made.” He motioned toward the door. “Shall we go?”

  “Shall we have some breakfast first?” she asked instead. The idea of being in a closed carriage with him was even worse than sitting opposite him at the breakfast table. She’d have to converse with him. And breathe the same air as him. And not wonder if he was remembering what they did together. Heat crept up her face.

  “Shall I have someone bring a fan, Miss Thorne?” He waved a hand, stirring the air in front of her face.

  “Shall you not be quite such an arse?” she retorted.

  He chuckled lightly. It was an endearing sound, really. And it made her want to laugh with him, but only for a moment. “I will endeavor not to be an arse if you will try your hardest not to erupt into flames at the mere thought of spending the day with me.”

  “That wasn’t what happened,” she began, but his smile grew, and she realized that sparring with him was too enjoyable for him. It gave him too much pleasure. “I’m famished, and I might keel over from starvation if you don’t allow me to break my fast soon.”

  He motioned her toward the sideboard, where several covered dishes lay. He picked up a p
late for her. “Shall I choose for you?” A servant lifted the lid on the first dish, and the rich smell of cooked, greasy sausage reached her nose. Her stomach revolted. She’d thought she was past this point, but such was not the case, because not only did her stomach revolt, but her head began to swim as well.

  “Will you cover that, please?” she bit out, looking away as she breathed in and out through her mouth. Her mouth filled with saliva, and she pressed a hand to her lips. The plate in his hand clattered to the top of the sideboard as he dropped it and reached for her.

  “What’s wrong, Claire?” he asked as the servant maneuvered a chair beneath her bottom, which was fortunate, since it happened just as her knees gave way. She flopped into the chair. The nausea was passing, but not quickly enough. Finn shoved her head down between her knees and instructed her to breathe deeply. If she breathed deeply, she might smell that disgusting sausage from across the room and that would just make things worse.

  His hands toyed with her hair as he held her head down. It was almost amusing, the position she was in. “You can let me up,” she said, but the sound must have been hidden in her hair or her skirts or something, because he was suddenly kneeling before her, his hard gaze assessing her face as he looked into her eyes.

  “What did you say?” he asked. His brows were drawn together, his eyes wary.

  “I said, ‘You can let me up.’” She said it louder this time, and he scrambled to help her sit up.

  “I’ll never make you wait before feeding you breakfast again,” he declared, a sparkle lighting his eyes. “Does sausage always make you want to cast up your accounts?”

  “Not typically,” she admitted. But she certainly couldn’t explain it, could she? “Perhaps I could just get some toast?”

  He got to his feet and let a servant fill a plate for her, overflowing with toast. “Jam?” he asked.

  “Just toast,” she clarified. She couldn’t stomach jam any better than she could sausage. And the very thought of eggs…

  “Just toast,” he repeated as he placed the plate laden with toast at the table and helped her into a chair.

  She batted her eyes at the footman. “Could I get some tea, please?”

  The man turned to retrieve a cup of tea for her. “Don’t bat your pretty little lashes at my servants,” Finn warned.

  He thought she had pretty lashes? “I did no such thing,” she denied. She had, but only because she could. She hadn’t expected Finn to notice. “And they’re not your servants, are they? They’re Robinsworth’s.” That little jab was unnecessary, she knew, but she didn’t like to be told what she could and could not do. Not in the least.

  “Right now, they answer to me. Robin hasn’t been home in months.”

  “Do you have any idea when he and Sophia will be returning?”

  “Nothing definite.”

  She hoped it would be longer than a fortnight. She had at least a fortnight, maybe longer, before people would begin to notice. Before she’d have to find somewhere else to stay. Perhaps she could make some female friends by then and find a safe haven.

  She picked up a piece of plain toast and nibbled delicately on the edge. She’d learned in the early days of her condition that some things would sit well with her stomach, and some would not.

  The butler—she thought his name was Wilkins, but she couldn’t remember for sure—appeared in the doorway, where he stood at attention until Claire elbowed Finn in the side. “What is it, Wilkins?” he said with a heavy sigh.

  “I wanted to inquire as to whether or not Miss Thorne will need a maid of her own.”

  In other words, he wanted to know how long she would darken their doorstep. “That won’t be necessary,” she began.

  But Finn cut her off. “Yes, please. She will need everything one needs when one travels. It appears all her luggage was lost.”

  Wilkins nodded and said, “I’ll begin to make arrangements.”

  Claire chewed her toast slowly, afraid her stomach would revolt, but when she finished the piece, she looked up at him. “Have you eaten yet?”

  “I am quite afraid to. If the smell of sausage does that to you, I’ll wait until later.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. He was the reason she was in this condition, so she supposed he could suffer somewhat, couldn’t he? Without her feeling remorseful? Her stomach was feeling much better, but she still didn’t think she could tolerate that smell. She pushed her plate in his direction. “Would you like some toast?”

  He smiled and raised a piece of toast to his lips. His eyebrows drew together like he was wondering about her. He’d better not wonder too much. Or he would find out much more than he wanted to know.

  Eleven

  The bell over the door of the modiste’s shop tinkled as Claire walked through the door. The entryway was clean and classical with a large settee, some high-backed chairs, and damask walls. It looked… expensive. Claire suddenly realized that she had no money with which to buy new clothing.

  “Finn,” she breathed, turning around quickly to go out and find him, but he’d stepped into the shop behind her and she ran directly into his chest. Claire stopped for a moment to inhale the clean scent of him. He smelled like morning in the forest in her land. She took a deeper breath, her nose pressed against his chest.

  “Claire?” he questioned as he took her shoulders in his hands. “What’s wrong?”

  Nothing was wrong. Not when he was nearby. She completely forgot her qualms about money, until the modiste bustled into the shop. “Good morning,” the woman chimed.

  “Good morning,” Finn said. His glance toward Claire worried her for a moment, but he quickly composed himself. He bent and took the lady’s hand. “Colette,” he said smoothly, drawing her knuckles to his lips. “Lovely to see you.”

  Colette? He knew the lady? Intimately, if the way her eyes warmed at the sight of him was any indication.

  She was really quite lovely, with long, dark hair and a willowy body. But then she snapped her fingers at Claire’s face and said, “The maid can wait in the back.” She arched a brow and ruffled her fingers to move Claire along.

  Finn’s face colored. “She’s not a maid.”

  “Oh,” the woman said, a sudden irritation flashing in her green eyes. “Of course, she’s not.” She turned to Finn and laid a hand upon his arm. “Where did you find your new ladybird?” she asked.

  She watched as Finn’s back went ramrod straight. “I found this one in Lord Ramsdale’s parlor. She just happens to be his daughter.” That wasn’t the truth, not the part about finding her in the parlor—she hadn’t even seen her father’s home yet—but the look on his face made it seem indisputable.

  “Oh, I thought she was your new mistress,” the lady breathed, laying an amused hand over her mouth.

  “She’s the new Duchess of Robinsworth’s sister,” Finn said, his voice full of hauteur.

  That got the lady’s attention. She swallowed so loudly that Claire could hear it. “I assumed because of her attire…”

  “Her luggage was lost. Carriage accident.” The man could lie with a straight face. Claire didn’t know if she should be jealous of his ability or in fear of it.

  “The poor dear. So, you’ll need everything?” The modiste looked to Finn and he nodded.

  “Everything.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “And to whom should I send the bill?”

  Finn’s back grew even straighter. “To her father. Who else?” He looked down at Claire. “I will leave you in very capable hands, Miss Thorne.” He bowed and started for the door.

  Certainly he wasn’t going to leave her here. “You’re not staying?”

  He smiled indulgently. “I’ll return for you in an hour.” He arched a brow at the modiste. She shook her head and held up two fingers. “Two hours, then.” He nodded again and quit the room.<
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  The modiste rang a bell, and two women appeared from the back of the shop and led Claire toward the rear. They spoke in rapid-fire French, and she had no idea what they were talking about. But when they started to unfasten her clothes and then threw them into the fire, she got the feeling that they didn’t approve of them. Not at all.

  She stopped them when they got to her chemise. With the fashionable high waist of gowns, she could keep her secret for a while, but not if people started measuring her waist.

  ***

  Finn looked down at his watch fob again and checked the time. He’d been gone for an hour, and he wanted to return to be certain Claire was all right. But he didn’t want to seem overly involved in her care and set tongues wagging.

  When he’d been to the shop with Katherine, his former mistress, he’d stayed the whole time, watching her preen over silks, lace, and other fripperies. And she’d tried on clothing for him to be certain he liked it. It didn’t matter if he liked Claire’s clothing. He wouldn’t be helping her out of it. Or squiring her about town in it. And if he paid any undue interest, the modiste would get it into her pretty little head that they had a closer relationship than he intended to portray. Then Claire would be ruined. Ruined before she’d even stepped into society for the first time.

  He supposed he could waste some time at White’s for a bit. He ambled down the street and entered the establishment.

  He perused the room, happy to find that most of his consorts weren’t about. It was much too early in the day. Only a few older gentlemen sat about, drinking tea and looking through the Times.

  “Lord Phineas,” a voice called. Finn turned and groaned inwardly when he saw Viscount Vinceberry motioning him over. The viscount was a middle-aged man, still sharp as a tack and as randy as a bull. He was everything that Finn hated in a gentleman. “Come and join me,” Vinceberry suggested.