“Ah, yes, my apologies, Lady Clara,” he mumbled, sketching a belated bow and scanning the hall behind her with barely concealed agitation. “I seem to have lost track of the time.”
Not knowing what else to do, only knowing she could not leave him standing on the front step, Clara moved back. “Please, come in.”
How was it, she thought a bit wildly as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, that the cavernous front hall could feel so intimate? The soft click of the latch, the sudden loss of bright daylight, the subsequent muffling of all outside noise made her even more aware of the tall, powerful man before her. Flustered, she looked about for something to do, and her eyes lit upon the side table nearby. Ah, yes, his outerwear. As she turned to Mr. Nesbitt, however, intending to ask him for his things, she realized he was not wearing any. His head was quite bare, his hands as well. Hands that were incredibly strong, yet appeared as if they could be gentle were the situation to call for it…
Desperate to tamp down on her wandering thoughts, she blurted the first thing that came to her. “You have no outerwear.”
He looked utterly perplexed. His hand went to his head, and he blinked when he found nothing there. “Ah, no, I suppose I don’t. Is Peter home?”
The swift change of subject took her aback. “I’m sorry, but he’s not, though he should be returning shortly.” When he did nothing but nod morosely, his shoulders slumping almost in defeat, she took a step forward, lowering her voice. “Mr. Nesbitt, are you quite well?”
For a moment he looked as if he might either laugh or cry. In the end he smiled. It was a wide thing, filled with his usual devilish charm. It might have made her lose her breath again had his eyes not appeared as if he were burning from the inside out.
“Never better,” he proclaimed. “I don’t suppose I might wait for Peter?”
Which she should have offered from the very beginning. She flushed. “Of course. Please, forgive my thoughtlessness. I’m afraid my mind is elsewhere. If you’ll follow me?”
She turned and led the way up the stairs to the drawing room, stopping only to quietly direct a maid to bring a tray up. She cast a nervous glance out the window as she settled into a high-backed chair. Goodness, she hoped her family did not take much longer.
It was only as she turned her gaze back to Mr. Nesbitt that she realized he had stopped next to a chair and was looking down at it as if he could not fathom what he was supposed to do with it.
She offered him a strained smile. “Won’t you have a seat?”
He cast her a blank look before blinking and focusing on her. “Ah, no, thank you. I think I’d rather stand.”
She arched a brow. “I don’t know when Peter might return. It could be some time.”
“That’s quite all right.”
Truly, the man was acting most odd. She frowned. “Are you certain you’re well, Mr. Nesbitt?”
A strange noise seemed to issue from his throat, but beyond the faintest flicker of his dark eyes his face didn’t show the least change.
“Quite well,” he said, before, with only the slightest hesitation, he abruptly sat. He seemed to mentally shake himself, his demeanor changing in an instant to one of polite inquiry. “But how was Lord and Lady Crabtree’s? Did you not attend the meeting with them?”
Again the sudden about-face. It could not have been more obvious that the man was trying his best to keep the conversation far away from his well-being. Very well, she would not press.
“I did,” she said, “though I was sent home early by Margery after the pertinent information regarding the wedding was gone over.”
“Were you not feeling well?”
“Oh, I’m quite fit, thank you,” she said in what she hoped was not an overly bright manner. There was no way she was going to tell this man that she had been forced to leave because she had been distracted by thoughts of him.
He nodded, and she nodded. And the silence that fell was the loudest she had ever heard in her life.
Tangling her fingers together to keep from creasing her skirts, she blurted, “Peter says you are to leave England soon?”
He seemed relieved she had said anything at all, for he latched onto it with enthusiasm.
“Ah, yes. That’s correct, I’m to begin my travels.” In the next moment, however, his face darkened, the excitement that had overtaken his features replaced with something akin to desolation.
He cleared his throat. “And your sister, she is to marry soon?”
Which was the most painful topic he could have stumbled upon, at least after her unwelcome feelings for himself. “Er, yes. Yes she is.”
Again silent nodding on both their parts. She blew out a frustrated breath. Really, one of them had to give. But she had spent a decade and a half redirecting even the most innocuous conversations away from herself. If anyone would win this, it was she.
Unfortunately he seemed to have the same idea in mind.
“Do you miss Boston?”
“I do. Do you miss Danesford?”
“Yes. Do you have plans while in London?”
“Somewhat. When does your sister marry?”
“In a month. Peter mentioned you have family here in town?”
“I do. Will you live with your sister or return to Danesford?”
“I’m not certain. When do you leave on your journeys?”
He slumped in his seat, as if the weight of the world had fallen onto his shoulders. “I hardly know,” he muttered, looking defeated.
She frowned. “You don’t know when your trip will begin?”
He shook his head. “I had planned…But plans change, don’t they?”
Yes,” she answered cautiously when his dark eyes found hers. “Yes, they can change, quite unexpectedly at times.”
He let loose a sharp laugh, making her jump. Goodness. Earlier that afternoon he’d been his usual self, cheerful and teasing. Now, however, he appeared quite altered. It was almost as if he was in the beginning stages of grief.
In an instant her own worries were forgotten. That was it. She could see it in his eyes, the slight glazed look that spoke of a recent tragedy. Her heart ached for him, for there was no doubt he was suffering.
She leaned forward. “I know you came to speak to Peter, but if you should need an ear to bend in the interim, I’m here,” she murmured gently, laying her hand over his.
Too late, she remembered he was not wearing gloves. And neither was she.
A warm current snapped, searing her palm. Though the suddenness and strength of it shocked her, she was unable to pull back. Gradually, as if through a tunnel, she heard a harshly indrawn breath. She thought for a moment it was her own. But no, her breath was caught in her chest. The sound came from Mr. Nesbitt.
Before she could make heads or tails of his reaction—surely he could not feel even a modicum of what she did—he gently pulled his hand away.
She should feel relief. He at least was of a clearer frame of mind and saw just how improper her forward manner had been. Instead a strange feeling of loss came over her.
Thankfully a maid arrived with the tea tray, giving her just the thing she needed to collect herself. She had been lady of her father’s house for years; putting on the mantle of hostess was like shrugging into a comfortable coat. A coat that gave her some much needed protection against the effect that Mr. Nesbitt had on her.