She smiled a little to herself. She had changed. She’d taken back her life. Not because she had a man, she still never wanted to be a woman who defined herself through the man on her arm, but because she’d found herself again.
It had been a relief to find her alive and well, buried beneath layers of a quiet woman who’d chosen withdrawal to engagement, a woman who was withering away in the dust of obscurity. Jonathon had not made that discovery happen, any more than her friends had made it happen. Ultimately, the choice to re-engage was hers alone, but Jonathon had given her the opportunity to make the discovery and she’d taken it. Jonathon wasn’t afraid of her intelligence. He admired it, respected it and, in return, he’d given her a safe place in which to be herself and try her wings. It was perhaps the greatest true gift any person could give another. That he had chosen to give that gift to her was worthy of examination.
No one gave such a gift haphazardly. One would have to care for someone deeply to invest in that kind of offering. A little cry rose in her throat. Jonathon loved her. Oh, dear sweet heavens, what had she done? In her mind, she saw the taut outlines of his face the night he’d climbed into her room, waiting for her acceptance, the pain on his face last night, when she’d broken off with him. She saw other images, too, like his beautiful head thrown back in ecstasy as she pleasured him, the way he looked before he kissed her, as if she were his feast. She’d hurt him. He had been willing to fight for her, not just in the streets, but in the drawing rooms and ballrooms of the ton. Claire, you are worth fighting for.
He had been willing to take the risk, but she had not. She’d led him to believe he wasn’t worth fighting for when nothing could be further from the truth. She’d always believed that right and best were synonymous. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Was it possible that the right decision was not necessarily the best? She’d made a terrible mistake. She had to find Jonathon and tell him.
* * *
Everything seemed to happen in slow motion while she had speeded up. Nothing could happen fast enough to suit her; not the bringing of the carriage, not the journey through London through all the midday traffic. Three streets from the Albany, Claire gave up the last of her patience and hopped out. She could walk the remaining distance faster than her coachman could drive. At last, she stood in front of Jonathon’s door, breathless from excitement, from nerves, from the haste she’d made, and knocked.
She heard footsteps behind the door and she drew a breath, ready to make her speech. The door opened.
‘Jonathon, I’ve made a mistake, I am sorry.’ The words rushed out before she realised. This wasn’t Jonathon. This was... ‘Preston! What are you doing here?’ Nothing made sense. This was Jonathon’s door. She’d come to see Jonathon. He should be here, not May’s brother.
Preston gave her a considering look, arms folded across his chest. ‘What are you doing here?’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, shutting the door behind them. ‘Good heavens, Claire, this is a boarding house for bachelor gentlemen. Did anyone see you?’ He looked genuinely concerned.
‘I don’t think so.’ But she wasn’t entirely sure. Most gentlemen were either still in bed at this hour or out with errands. The halls had seemed empty, but in truth, her mind had been too occupied with other things to give much thought to the consequences of her actions. The only consequence she was interested in was finding Jonathon.
‘We have to get you out of here.’ Preston was striding through the room, looking for something.
She peered around his moving form to the door leading into the other room. ‘I came to see Jonathon. Is he here?’ She fully expected to see him emerge any moment. Surely he would have heard her voice and the commotion by now.
Preston stopped his searching. ‘No, he’s not here. He’s gone to Dover on business for Sir Owen Danvers.’
‘What?’ Claire felt her stomach sink, the whirling of her mind come to an abrupt halt. Jonathon wasn’t simply ‘not’ here, he was gone. She’d come to tell him she loved him and he was gone. It seemed the height of injustice. ‘Why? What kind of business? How long? When did this come up? He said nothing about it.’
‘I’m sorry, Claire. I can’t say anything more than that on the subject. His business is his own. It’s not for me to say.’
Preston offered her a kind, brotherly smile. ‘If it’s any consolation, I think the business came up rather suddenly. I don’t think he had much advance warning.’ He touched her arm. ‘Let me take you home, Claire.’
‘No.’ Claire met Preston’s gaze with a determined stare, daring him to deny her. ‘I need to talk to Jonathon. Take me to Dover.’
The Antwerp Hotel was as upscale of an inn as one would find in Dover and Jonathon was heartily ready to embrace its luxuries. It had taken a little over two days to reach the port city, thanks to a side errand Owen had asked him to run and the mud-churned roads from the recent rains. To say the least, travel had been a bear and he’d been anxious, perceiving every delay as adding hours to his arrival.
‘You are in room seven.’ The clerk at the desk gave him a warm, friendly smile, a glint of something akin to bonhomie in his eye. Jonathon couldn’t fathom it. The clerk didn’t know him well enough for such an assumption. ‘Dinner will be up shortly.’ Again, the mischievous glint. Jonathon gave a nod. He didn’t remember the service being quite so good. He hoisted his valise and headed for the stairs. A hot meal would restore his spirits. He’d had far too much time alone with his thoughts. Not trusting the weather, he’d taken the coach to Dover instead of riding. Alone with his thoughts for hours on end had not done him any good. His thoughts had bounced from the prospect of finding Thomas to the prospect of having lost Claire and the ideas had chased themselves about in his head until he was weary. At the door marked with a seven, he fitted his key and pushed it open. He took a step inside, his attentions fixed on putting his key away.
‘Jonathon, you’re here at last.’ By Jove, he’d finally gone round the bend. He’d thought of Claire for so long he was imagining her voice with lifelike accuracy. He looked up and froze. He wasn’t dreaming. It was definitely her. Claire rose from the chair, her amber eyes soft with the firelight, her mouth curving in a generous smile as if she were welcoming him home. He liked the sensation such an image engendered. He wanted to go to her, to wrap her in his arms, but she’d given him up two days ago. What did it mean that she was here, miles from London? ‘Claire, what are you doing? How did you get here?’
He studied her, taking in every detail of her person. She was dressed for travel in a seasonal carriage dress of blue India muslin. A cloak he recognised as his own lay across the arm of the chair, a valise sat on the floor, still fastened, still packed. She had not arrived much in advance of him. He was starting to understand the desk clerk’s mischief now. She’d not been secretive about her purpose.
‘Preston helped me.’ He’d probably have to have some words with Preston, but that could wait. Claire’s story spilled out in semi-chronological order. ‘Preston was good enough to hire a post chaise for me. I arrived here half an hour ago. I went to your rooms in London, but you were gone.’ She moved towards him then, catching his hands and holding tight. ‘I’ve made a horrible mistake and I had to tell you, to talk to you right away.’
‘A mistake?’ There was so much to take in he couldn’t quite fathom it all at once. What mistake would this be?
‘When you realise you love someone, Jonathon, and they love you, enough to fight for you, you want to tell them at
