CHAPTER 8

He had to escape, and quickly. He looked at Juliana, then Clara, in mute appeal.

“Well, I...”

“You have done very well for a first attempt,” Clara said, sounding like his childhood nanny, “although you do look utterly terrified.”

To his inexpressible relief, she lifted Rory from his arms. Once Juliana had retrieved Rose he was free to stand, although his legs felt a little shaky. He made somewhat blindly for the door as though he could smell the fresh air and freedom.

“Thank you for the drive, your grace,” Clara called after him. “Shall we see you tonight at Lady Cardace’s Snow Ball?”

Fleet stared at her, trying to work out if he had heard the question correctly. He did not want to find himself accidentally agreeing to be godfather to yet more children or to something even more terrifying. He saw a tiny frown touch Clara’s forehead at the length of time it was taking him to answer.

“Had you not been invited?” she inquired.

“Yes.” Fleet took a grip on himself. “Yes, I shall be there.”

Clara gave him another of her melting smiles. Much more of this and he would be quiet undone. Clara and the twins between them had unmarried him.

“Good,” she said. “I shall look forward to seeing you tonight.”

FLEET TURNED the horses toward home. Some of the light seemed to have gone out of the day. Clara’s vivid personality had set the air between them humming with life. Without her, everything seemed more dull and grey. He dismissed the thought as fanciful. It was simply that the weather had turned. Dark clouds were massing on the horizon, promising snow. The wind was sharper now, with a cutting edge. Despite the fact that he told himself it was just the effect of the weather, he found he missed Clara’s warmth.

He remembered the twins with a shudder. He was not cut out to be anyone’s godfather. He was scarcely an example for the younger generation. If it had simply been a matter of presenting suitable large gifts on birthdays and Christmases then he might have fulfilled the requirements, but he was desperately aware that the role of godfather asked much more of him. It was a pity—Clara probably though more highly of him now than she had ever done in their acquaintance. That should not be permitted to sway him, however. He did not seek her good opinion. Nevertheless, it would be a shame to lose it so swiftly.

The snow was starting to fall. In London it fell with sooty edges, to lie in a dirty slush on the streets. For a moment he recalled the pure brightness of Fleet in the snow, the way the icicles hung from the branches and the river froze over in intricate icy patterns and the snowdrifts lay ten foot deep in the lee of the hedges. He ached to be there.

The panic was rising in his throat, as it sometimes did when he thought of Fleet in the winter. He dashed the snowflakes from his eyes and tried to think of something else. The twins... No, that was a bad idea. His panic heightened. Suppose something happened to Martin and Juliana? If he did not rescind his role as godfather he could conceivably end up with the care of two small children. The images crowded his mind. Babies crying, nursemaids fussing around... By the time he turned in to the stables at Fleet House he had got as far as redecorating one of the bedrooms as a nursery. He handed the curricle over to the grooms, hurrying inside, away from his fears.

The house was warm and quiet. The day’s newspaper were waiting for him in the library. He sat down, but instead of picking up the Morning Post his hand strayed idly toward the bookcase. His eyes fell upon an ancient copy of Sterne’s Tristram Shandy and he picked it up without thought. The book fell open at the title page, where there was an inscription in childish letters:

Oliver Fleet.

He shut the book with a sudden, violent snap that raised the dust from the pages. It had been about this time of the year that his brother’s accident occurred. He hated Christmas. He had never passed the holiday at Fleet since Oliver’s death.

He settled back in his chair. The silence was almost oppressive. He could hear the brush of the snow against the windowpane. It was nine hours until Lady Cardace’s rout. Then he would see Clara again. He tried not to feel too pleased and failed singularly. He liked Clara Davencourt immensely and that was his weakness; he found her hopelessly seductive and that was his danger. With her corn-gold hair, huge blue eyes and voluptuous curves, Clara was ridiculously pretty and the embodiment of every masculine fantasy in which he had ever indulged. He suspected he was not the only gentleman to have had such musings, but he was fairly certain he was the only man who admired Clara for the shrewd intelligence that lurked beneath her charming exterior. She had a sharp mind, and most men would dislike that; Seb Fleet adored it. He loved their conversations. Such admiration had proved his downfall two years before when he had nearly fallen in love with her.

He must gaurd against falling in love with Clara Devencourt now. He had no desire to marry and he could not have her any other way. And yet the day did seem darker without her presence. He had an unnerving feeling that he was lost in some way andClara was the only one who could save him. Total foolishness, of course. The business with the infant Davencourt twins had affected his judgement. He would regain his calm with strong coffee and the Morning Post. And when he saw Clara Davencourt that evening she would be just another debutante. A pretty debutante, a rich debutante, but like all the other pretty little rich girls. He rang for the coffee. He reached for the paper. But he could not banish Clara from his mind.

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