Secret Hearts Read online

  Well, of course. Why wouldn’t he? He’d met and chatted with all classes of people in his career. Claire well remembered Gordon reading her the newspaper article describing a Russian archduke’s hunting trip, guided by Tom, into the vast American plains. He’d even been in the party that went along with the president on his first visit west. He’d certainly had a lot of practice hobnobbing with people of high social standing. Why, Tom was a blue-blooded southern aristocrat himself, by birth.

  Even if he hadn’t enjoyed the artistic renditions as much as he might have, the evening seemed a complete success. Deciding she really mustn’t stare at Tom all night, Claire began to mingle, happy in the knowledge that Tom had established himself as the new master of Partington Place and, therefore, a force to be reckoned with in the community of Pyrite Springs.

  Tom was about ready to cut and run by the time he finally managed to slip away. He’d been trying to catch Claire’s eye for an hour or more because he was much more comfortable in her company than he was in babbling nonsense to a bunch of strangers, but she was being elusive as hell. When he couldn’t stand it a moment longer, he maneuvered himself over to the bank of windows, scooted behind a heavy curtain and sneaked out the door without anybody catching him. He felt as though he’d managed an escape from behind enemy lines.

  “My God,” he muttered, peeking at the curtain to make sure he hadn’t been spotted and chased down.” Nobody emerged and he sighed with relief. Freedom at last. Sinking wearily against the balcony railing, he pulled out one of his cheroots, snapped his thumbnail against a sulfur match, lit up and inhaled blissfully.

  “My God,” he murmured again as he turned and rested his arms on the rail.

  The balcony overlooked the grounds of Partington Place, and revealed a view that was magnificent in the daylight. Even tonight, with the weather as cold as a witch’s tail and the stars and the moon washing the world in pallid silver, Tom felt a sense of soul-deep satisfaction as he surveyed his kingdom.

  He supposed he should at least try to get used to these artistic shindigs. Claire set a great deal of store by them, and he’d recently discovered that her happiness was very important to him. How odd. He’d never particularly cared about another person’s happiness before; it gave him a funny feeling to know he cared about Claire’s.

  And she’d had her hair done, too. Tom knew it was probably arrogant of him, but he couldn’t help but believe she’d done it, in part, for him. The idea pleased him terribly. He wouldn’t have cared if she’d maintained her severe demeanor, but she really did look prettier, more feminine, without those damned rattlesnakes coiled over her ears.

  She was really something, Claire was. This whole set-up was something.

  His cigar smoke hung in the frosty air like a puffy cloud, and Tom grinned. He began making smoke rings for the hell of it. God, he loved being rich. He’d never even imagined he’d be rich one day. This legacy from his uncle was a miracle. A damned miracle.

  Tom wondered if Uncle Gordon had known what he was doing when he left him Claire. Naw. He couldn’t have.

  Because he’d lived too hard for too long, Tom turned to face the direction of possible danger. He didn’t want anybody silently slipping through those windows and sneaking up on him. Propping his elbows on the railing, he leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankle. His new evening shoes gleamed in the moonlight and he sighed happily when he looked at them. Damn. He hadn’t worn anything but ragged old boots for years.

  He wondered where his uncle had gotten the idea that he’d been used to fancy social doings. Probably from his mother.

  A niggle of irritation thrust itself into Tom’s mind at the thought of his mother, and he determined not to think about her or his idle, worthless father this evening. After he got used to his new life, had started his Appaloosa breeding program, and knew exactly how his finances stood, he could tackle the formidable problem of his indolent, indigent parents.

  He bet Claire could help him think of a suitable way to deal with them. She could do anything. The thought of the able, clever Claire made him feel dreamy.

  Suddenly a movement caught the edge of his attention and he jerked his head to the left. There, two windows down, a figure emerged from the crowded, stuffy ballroom. It didn’t take Tom any time at all to realize it was Claire. He smiled and decided the fates were playing right into his hands tonight.

  She didn’t know he was there, but stood still, her gloved hands loosely gripping the railing, and peered up into the chilly December sky. He stuffed his half-smoked cigar into a sand-box, thoughtfully provided by the ever-helpful Claire, and walked toward her quietly. He didn’t want to give himself away too soon.

  She didn’t notice him approach and he paused to observe her for a moment. Washed by moonlight and starshine, her face looked sweet and faintly mysterious. Tom took a deep breath.

  “Aren’t you chilly, Miss Montague?”

  She jumped, startled, and pressed a hand to her breast. Tom wished he could do that.

  “Mr. Partington! I didn’t realize you’d come out here, too.”

  She was utterly charming, looking up at him with those big eyes of hers. Even her spectacles were adorable—because they sat on her nose.

  “I confess I had to escape for a moment, Miss Montague. Too much hobnobbing taxes my social skills. I had to recruit my strength.”

  She laughed softly. “I don’t believe it for a minute, Mr. Partington. Why, you won the hearts of everyone here tonight, I’m sure.”

  He cocked his head. “Did I win your heart?”

  Colors were lost in the moonlight, but Tom knew she blushed as she turned to look into the sky again. “Don’t be silly, Mr. Partington,” she said lightly.

  “Seriously, Miss Montague, aren’t you cold? Would you like me to fetch you a wrap?”

  “No, thank you. It was becoming intolerably warm in the ballroom, and the cool air feels refreshing.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Tom decided to look at the sky with her, since she apparently didn’t need him to hug her and make her warm. Maybe later.

  Orion prowled the sky—too conspicuous a fellow, decked out in all his brightly twinkling stars—to sneak up on the bear or the dog sharing the heavens with him. Tom said softly, “At night on the prairie, sometimes it almost felt like I could reach out and grab a handful of stars. They seemed even thicker and closer when we were hundreds of miles away from civilization than they do here, although they’re still beautiful.”

  “It must have been magnificent out there in the wilds of the limitless American plains.”

  “It was.”

  “Do you miss all that freedom, Mr. Partington?

  “A little.”

  “So many of us have never had even a taste of freedom.” She sounded very wistful.

  “Well,” said Tom, hoping to make her feel better, “It was a pretty hard life most of the time.”

  “I suppose it must have been. But you’ve had so many thrilling experiences, Mr. Partington.” Claire put a hand on his sleeve. “And before you protest, I know you don’t consider your exploits to have been grand. But to those of us who have never seen the great plains or been farther away from civilization than a walk in the woods, your experiences seem quite exciting.”

  Tom considered the little hand on his arm for a moment before he covered it with his. She didn’t pull away, which he took as a good sign. “I suppose you’re right. It seemed to me that I was only doing my job, but maybe there was something special about it. After all, now that the railroad has cut the country in half, nothing will ever be the way it used to be. There’s no going back to reclaim the wilderness. There’s very little left on this gigantic continent that’s unknown to us. The Indians are on the run, the buffalo are dying or dead, settlers are moving west by the thousands. In some ways, I reckon I’m partly responsible for taming all that vastness.” Tom shut his eyes for a minute. “I’m not sure I’m proud of it.”

  When he opened his eyes again, he fou
nd Claire watching him, her expression solemn.

  “I believe I understand what you’re saying. But you know there’s no way to stop the onward thrust of progress. If you hadn’t helped them clear the land for the railroad, somebody else would have.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  Tom forgot about Orion and the plains and the railroad as he gazed into Claire Montague’s sympathetic face. She seemed to understand his feelings better than anybody ever had. It was funny, he thought, that he’d never missed this aspect of civilization, a partner in life. Perhaps that’s because he’d never been exposed to such as Claire before.

  “I think you performed a magnificent service to your country, Mr. Partington.”

  Sweet Claire. Always his champion. He wondered if anybody had ever bothered to champion Claire. She deserved a hero—a hell of a better man than he. He wondered how she’d come to be such a sensible, vital woman; what circumstances had molded her into the appealing person she was today.

  It surprised him almost to death when he heard himself say, “I think I need to kiss you for that, Miss Montague.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “You do?”

  Her tiny, shocked whisper fluttered in the air and caressed his ear.

  “I do.”

  “Oh, my.”

  He settled one hand lightly on her shoulder and another on her soft cheek, guiding her head towards his. His lips barely skimmed hers. She didn’t know a thing about kissing, but kept her lips shut tight. She was scared; Tom could tell. He whispered gently, “Open your mouth a little, Claire.”

  She did. When his lips touched hers again, he found them soft and meltingly sweet under his. He kissed her very delicately, very tenderly, in a way he’d never kissed a woman before. He kissed her as though he cared, because he did. After a moment, he felt her begin to sway against him, almost as if she were dissolving in his arms. Tom groaned as his body tightened with desire.

  He slid his hands over her almost-bare shoulders, feeling her cool, silky skin. “Put your arms around me, Claire,” he commanded softly. After a second’s hesitation, she complied.

  Nothing could have prepared him for his reaction to having Claire Montague in his arms. Her tentative reaction ignited him and he discovered himself wanting to teach her the art of love, to coax her secret passion into fire.

  She would catch fire; he knew it. Underneath her modest exterior beat the heart of a hopeless romantic. She tried to hide her ardor, and Tom wanted to uncover it. He wanted to make her burn for him as he burned for her.

  Groaning again, he pulled her more deeply into his embrace. His lips left hers to travel over her chin and onto her bare throat. He heard her gasp and covered her mouth again. Her hands were still on his shoulders, but he felt her fingers dig into his evening jacket as though she couldn’t help herself. He wished she’d forget her reserve and relax for him.

  “You taste like sweet wine, Claire. You intoxicate me,” he murmured as he nipped at her ear.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed breathlessly.

  Tom had to kiss her again for that, and he did. This time, he was more daring and allowed his tongue to outline her lips briefly. She gasped.

  Then, just as Tom had hoped she would, she seemed to kindle into a small flame. She was still uncertain, but her fingers stopped digging into his shoulders and her arms slipped around to squeeze him tightly. Her mouth opened to his gentle probing and she allowed his tongue to play with hers. After a moment, hers responded.

  Tom couldn’t recall ever having his arms around a total innocent before, nor could he recall ever being so near to losing control. But he knew he had to be careful. Not for the world and everything in it would he frighten Claire.

  No. He wanted to tantalize her feminine hunger out into the open, to show her unmistakably that he considered her a lovely, desirable woman. He knew she thought little of her charms, but he knew her to possess charm in abundance. He wanted her to know it, to take delight in herself and in him and in the magic they could create together.

  If anybody had told him on his first night at Partington Place that he would soon be making mad love to his housekeeper, Tom would have scoffed. He wasn’t scoffing now. He couldn’t recall ever feeling so aroused.

  His arousal was not entirely carnal, either, but owed a good deal to honest affection and tenderness, two emotions that had been foreign to him until he met Claire. They made this experience deeper, more meaningful than any sensual encounter he’d had before. Until this evening, he’d never kissed a woman he cared for; would never have guessed how exciting an experience it could be.

  “Claire, Claire,” he murmured as his lips blazed a trail across her shoulder, kissing and nipping. He tongued the pulse at the base of her throat. Her head fell back and Tom saw the twin small perfect swells of her bosom and dared to kiss lower, until his lips pressed one of those delightful swells. He heard her gasp again and hoped she wasn’t shocked.

  He realized he’d overstepped propriety when, with a mighty effort, Claire pushed herself out of his embrace.

  Her hand flew to her swollen lips and she cried, “Oh! Oh, no!”

  She looked utterly aghast, and Tom’s conscience smote him mightily even as he held out his arms and ached to have her in them again. “Claire, come back. Please.”

  She cried, “Oh, no!” again. Then she cried, “Oh, my God!”

  Tom saw tears pooling in her eyes and began to worry. Certainly she couldn’t be afraid of him. Could she? “Claire, please, listen to me. I’m sorry, Claire.”

  “How in the name of mercy could I have done such a thing?”

  Tom took a step toward her and she backed up. Then he realized what she’d said. How could she have done such a thing?

  “Claire, you haven’t done anything. It was I who was at fault.” If it was a fault; it didn’t feel like it.

  She began shaking her head, and she looked almost wild. Tom was afraid she was becoming hysterical and could hardly believe it of his staid, dignified Claire. He said, “Claire,” again, only to have her back up another step.

  “Good heavens, what have I done?” she whispered, as if mortified beyond endurance.

  “You haven’t done a thing, Claire. Please, listen to me.” She backed up yet again, and Tom was afraid she’d bolt. He’d seen frightened horses look like that. “Don’t run away, Claire. Please. Listen to me!”

  His words were for naught. With one more horrified, “Oh, my land!” Claire spun around and dashed through the open window into the ballroom as though pursued by demons.

  “Damn!”

  Tom raced to the flapping curtain, hoping to grab her, to make her listen to reason. He stopped abruptly as the bright lights of the ballroom struck his eyes like a blow. Clinging to the curtain and squinting hard, he perceived a sea of milling people and looked quickly to his right and then to his left. With a sigh, he saw a swatch of golden yellow fabric disappear as the hall door closed, and knew he was too late to catch her. He tried anyway, sidling along the curtained wall, only to find himself hailed from the ballroom floor.

  He muttered another bitter, “Damn,” and turned to see who had called him. He wasn’t sure what he’d have said or done even if he’d managed to catch up with Claire, but he knew he had to talk to her. It would have to be later, though, because he’d never escape now. Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey Albright bore down upon him almost immediately. Gritting his teeth, he resigned himself to another hour or two of social insipidity.

  Even as he mouthed the vapid nothings required of a gentleman of wealth and stature, his brain seethed with worry over Claire. He escaped outside again as soon as he could, and stared up at the bedroom windows on the third floor, wondering which one was Claire’s.

  Chapter 11

  Claire clattered up the stairs, flew down the hall, and rushed into her room, pushing her door so hard the knob slammed against the wall. She yanked it shut, locked it as if all the devils of hell pursued her, and only then realized that the doorknob had knocked a ho
le in the plaster.

  Covering her mouth with her hands, she gaped at the plaster dust on the floor and her mind registered the appropriateness of this latest dismal reflection of her nature. She stood there for a full minute or more, quivering like an aspen leaf and staring at the damage, before she flung herself onto her bed and burst into tears.

  “Good heavens,” she sobbed into her pillow. “How could I have done such a thing?”

  Everything she’d ever feared about herself was true: She did have a genetic weakness in her constitution. There was a flaw in her makeup; a crack in her character; a blight on the family tree. Dress her up in frills, fix her hair into anything but prudish braids, and her virtue flew right out the window. Blood will tell; it had told tonight in no uncertain terms.

  And Mr. Partington had fallen right into her wicked snare. The poor soul, primed by Dianthe’s beauty, had found Claire flaunting herself on the balcony and succumbed, just as her father used to tell her a man would do.

  “But I’m not pretty, Father,” she used to wail, hoping he’d not force her to dress in the awful, indecorous costumes she used to wear.

  “Don’t matter,” he’d answer with a wink. “Gents don’t think with their heads, Claire. Their brains are in their britches.”

  His disgusting assessment of the masculine gender had been correct. Claire used to think her father was wrong, that “gents” must be different from the types of men her father lured into his medicine show, but she guessed they weren’t.

  Tom Partington was as much a gentleman as Claire had ever known, and he’d been willing to sacrifice his honor with her this evening; she knew it. Given the lure of a strumpet, even a gentleman could be tempted. She hated knowing it.

  After her flood of tears subsided, Claire rose from her bed and looked at herself in her mirror. She despised what she saw, a woman with no moral backbone. A plain woman who’d had her hair cut and frizzed and forced into fashion. A dull woman in a gay dress, trying to be something she was not, a person of merit.