famished and I expect our guests must be too.’ Gavin took his wife’s dainty fingers and placed them on his arm. ‘Come, we can talk at the table. Let us go in to dine.’
‘Oh, you must stay here tonight, Ruth. I can lend you whatever you need. It’s impossible to travel even a short distance in such atrocious weather.’ Sarah gaily sent that instruction back over an elegant shoulder as she allowed her husband to steer her towards their dinner.
With elaborate courtesy Clayton extended a hand to Ruth. After giving him a sharp glance, she lifted five stiff fingers on to his sleeve. She wanted to berate him for bringing musical entertainment to Sarah’s attention. She guessed that was what he wanted her to do, so she swallowed the reprimand. In silence they followed their friends towards the dining room.
After several courses of fine food and several glasses of mellow ruby wine, Ruth had relaxed enough to overcome her annoyance and allow her eyes to meet Clayton’s. Throughout the meal so far she’d often sensed him looking at her. On the few occasions he’d addressed her directly there had been no hint of challenge or mockery in his polite conversation and she imagined he had consciously made an effort to leave behind in the library his conceit and irascibility.
Their hosts were indeed fine company and there had been no lapse in genial chatter. They had discussed the start of the Season in London and, more lengthily, matters closer to home. Clayton had been interested to know how the unexpected snowfall might affect people in the villages obtaining necessary supplies and going about their business. His own country estate lay far to the south-west of the country, he’d explained to Ruth, where such bad weather was uncommon. He had added that he rarely visited it—being too fond of town living—so had thus far never been inconvenienced by the vagaries of the seasons. What a boon and a curse could be the weather! It had provided an ample source of neutral conversation, yet it also had trapped her here!
‘Do you spend time in London during the Season, Mrs Hayden?’
Ruth placed down her spoon and gave Clayton a rather startled glance. She hadn’t been expecting such a leading question. ‘I don’t, sir. I haven’t been to London since I lived there as a child.’
‘And whereabouts did you live?’
‘Close to Chelsea, in Willoughby Street,’ Ruth supplied and gave her attention to her pudding, taking a dainty mouthful of syllabub.
‘Ah…I know it,’ Clayton said pleasantly, undeterred by her hint that the subject was closed. ‘A friend of mine, Keith Storey, lived there with his parents until he took a wife.’
Ruth gave a spontaneous smile at being reminded of the family. ‘I knew them; my parents were friendly with Mr. and Mrs Storey.’
‘And did you move to the country while still young?’
‘No, sir.’ Ruth again placed down her spoon, feeling a little miffed. He had no hesitation in interrogating her over her past, yet had become unpleasant at the first mention of discussing his. ‘My parents moved to Fernlea after my marriage. I moved here to live with my father nine years ago; he was by then a widower.’ Ruth turned quickly to her right and said to Sarah the first thing that came into her head. ‘Little James had a pain earlier. I think the poor mite had colic.’
‘He does suffer with it,’ Sarah answered, well aware of her friend’s wish to curtail a conversation with Clayton that must lead eventually to her late husband and perhaps the manner of his death. ‘Mrs Plover,’ she named the housekeeper, ‘has a remedy for it. Just a small spoonful of the stuff seems to put him to rights. She’s quite a marvel with her pills and potions. And she’s of enormous help with planning extravagant menus and so on.’
‘On which note, I must thank you for a delicious dinner,’ Ruth said graciously, indicating she’d eaten her fill.
A polite murmur of assent came from Clayton as he too laid aside his cutlery.
‘Well…shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?’ Sarah suggested.
Ruth gave her a grateful smile. She could always rely on Sarah to sense her mood. Her friend knew very well she was keen to escape any further of Clayton’s probing questions.
‘If James is abed, we can bid him goodnight even if he is asleep.’
As the door closed on the two strikingly attractive ladies—one very fair, one very dark—Gavin gave his friend a wry glance and a measure of port he’d dispensed from the decanter. ‘I take it you’re glad you came.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’d need to be a blind man not to notice you’re smitten by Mrs Hayden.’
‘And I’d need to be a cynic to think that perhaps you’re glad of that. As we both know, I’m a cynic.’
Gavin grimaced bemusement. ‘I’m not good with riddles. What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Did you know that Mrs Hayden would be here when you asked me to come home with you?’
‘Of course I did,’ Gavin said and lounged contentedly back in to his chair. ‘Sarah was keen to see her best friend straight away. I still don’t see…’ A look of amused enlightenment crossed his rugged features. ‘Ah, you think Sarah has some maggot in her head about matchmaking the two of you.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first, or the hundredth, time a lady had arranged a dinner party for just that purpose. So, am I correct?’
‘No,’ Gavin said bluntly and sipped at his port. ‘You might have designs on Ruth, but, not to put too fine a point on it, my friend, I doubt she has any interest in you.’ Gavin gave Clayton a cautionary look. ‘She’s no man’s mistress…not even yours, no matter how generous you’re feeling. Take my word on it.’
Clayton sat back in his chair and fondled the stem of his glass with long fingers. His slate-grey eyes watched the crystal as it performed a balletic twirl. ‘Is she spoken for?’
‘Sarah told me earlier this evening that Ruth’s recently received a proposal of marriage.’ Gavin refilled his glass and pushed the decanter towards Clayton. ‘Her suitor is by all accounts a pillar of society here in Willowdene. Don’t ask more,’ he said ruefully. ‘I’ve been indiscreet as it is. Sarah adores Ruth, and with good reason. Ruth was a loyal friend and a support when Sarah was very much alone and in need of help,’ he explained gruffly. ‘I’d hate Ruth to think I’d spoken out of turn.’
Clayton nodded acceptance of that. ‘He’s a lucky chap, whoever he is.’
‘Indeed,’ Gavin murmured. He sent a subtle look at his brooding friend and amusement tipped his lips upwards.
He knew, of course, that Clayton was a hardened cynic where women were concerned. Clayton’s wife had made a complete fool of him by acting like a seasoned trollop throughout their short marriage. Since his divorce ambitious women had constantly thrown themselves at him, hoping to take her place. He was mercilessly hounded by every mama with aspirations of marrying her débutante daughter to a man of great wealth and lineage—when Clayton’s octogenarian grandfather died he would take a clutch of titles to add to the baronetcy he already had.
It seemed the longer Sir Clayton Powell remained stubbornly single, the more of a challenge the hostesses seemed to find him.
