“I thought you had the same relationship with Claire that you had with my grandmother.” Daniel looked over his shoulder to make sure his elderly relation had not followed him outside.
“Claire and I are friends,” Daniel said defensively as Georgia undid another fold on his necktie and then stuffed it into her mouth.
“No you’re not,” the duke and duchess said in unison. “In fact,” Daniel added, looking smug, “I believe she said you made her feel like she was wearing a hair shirt.”
“Did she say that?” Simon removed his necktie from Georgia’s mouth, but she just fixed her gums on one of the buttons of his jacket.
“For pity’s sake, man, everyone knows it. You two are like two stray cats when you are near each other, all hackles and hissing.” The duke now leaned on the balcony, obviously enjoying his friend’s discomfort.
“Rubbish,” Simon said. “Claire and I are always polite to each other. We are friends.”
“Polite, yes—friendly, no.”
“Ah well, the rest of society loves me, Stratton, so I’m sure I shall cope without Miss Belmont’s adoration.”
The duke snorted at that. “I don’t adore you, and I’m pretty sure my wife only tolerates you.”
“Don’t listen to him, Simon. Of course we both adore you.” Eva patted his hand.
“Dukes do not yell in the streets, Grandson. Must I constantly remind you of your position in society? With whom are you conversing in such a loud voice?” The Dowager Duchess of Stratton appeared behind her grandson.
“He is sadly lacking in manners, your grace. Please have stern words with him whilst we depart,” Simon said, acknowledging the elderly lady with a bow that made Georgia giggle as he tipped her upside down then righted her again.
“Goodbye, Grandmother,” Eva said as Simon urged her into the carriage and climbed in behind her.
“Look after my women!”
Simon lifted a hand at the duke’s words, and then a footman shut the door behind them.
“Lady Carmichael told me Miss Lydia Simpett has eloped, Claire. Of course her father is refuting the claim and saying she is laid low with a stomach ailment, but Lady Carmichael is quite sure of the accuracy behind the rumor.”
Murmuring the appropriate response, Claire let her mother rattle on as she did most mornings at the breakfast table. Mathew, of course, was buried in the paper.
Claire had not slept well. Upon returning from the ball, she’d washed and changed into her nightdress. She’d then brushed her hair and sipped the tea Plimley had left for her, going through the preparing-for-sleep rituals she had been enacting since Anthony’s death. Her bed had been turned down and the lavender scented sheets should have been inviting, yet upon climbing into bed, she had felt her body grow rigid. All tiredness had suddenly fled as thoughts bombarded her.
Relax, Claire–deep breaths, she’d reminded herself when her thoughts had gone to Anthony and what he had left in France. Closing her eyes, she had willed herself to sleep, but restfulness hadn’t come, so she’d tried to occupy her mind with thoughts other than her inability to sleep. She’d counted all the people who’d worn purple at the ball, including Lady Bellwater, whose dress had been a nasty, violent shade that clashed horribly with her orange slippers. Then she’d recalled all her dance partners, of which there were many, due to her determination to avoid Simon. That thought had made her think about Simon and why he was so intent on finding out the reasons for her behavior today. Eventually, after forcing herself to lie in the dark, she had thrown back the covers and stalked from her room into the next one. Plimley had, as usual, laid the fire and placed a lamp. Choosing a book she had already read twice before, Claire then lay on the sofa and dozed and read for the remainder of the night until the sun began to rise. She had then slipped outside and walked through the gardens, inhaling the coming day and the clean fresh scent of nature. It was out there she missed her brother the most.
When Anthony was sick, they had sat in the gardens for hours, especially to watch the sun rise. She would wrap him in blankets and they would walk slowly about until, exhausted, he would sit and say, ‘Go to bed now, Claire, I can manage,’ to which she always shook her head and then laid it on his shoulder, and together, they would silently wait for the new day to arrive.
“You look tired this morning, Claire. Did you not sleep well?”
Pulled from her thoughts by her brother’s voice, Claire looked across at Mathew. He usually never conversed in the morning—well, at least until he had finished reading his paper. She searched for her mother and noted she had left the room while Claire had been deep in thought. “All you have said to me in the past two days, Mathew, is how tired I look,” Claire said, keeping her tone light.