few of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if the fond couple are occupied…catching up on news…for some while yet.’
This time Ruth refused to turn away in embarrassment despite sensing heat fizzing beneath her cheeks. Her earthy dark eyes clashed with his in a way that deepened his smile.
‘Shall we go to the library?’ Clayton extended an elegant arm. ‘When I arrived there was a good fire in there and plenty of weighty tomes to peruse, in the event that we run out of polite chitchat while we wait for our supper to be served.’
After a barely discernible pause Ruth extended a hand to hover on his arm. As they descended the stairs together she was again impressed by the way he could dissolve tension between them. He looked down at her with engaging grin. ‘I’m feeling ravenous, actually. I hope a good dinner is waiting for us. And plenty of it.’
‘Sarah is a very competent hostess,’ Ruth championed pioned her friend. ‘And the last time I dined here—just before they left for Surrey—there were fourteen courses.’
‘Ah! That should just about fill me up,’ he said contentedly. ‘It is a shame you missed their marriage,’ Clayton remarked as they gained the hallway and turned towards the library.
Ruth nodded her shiny dark head and sent him a glancing smile. ‘Yes, it was,’ she softly agreed, recalling her sadness at having turned down Sarah’s invitation to be her matron of honour. ‘But at that time my papa had only recently been buried and, much as I would have loved to be part of the celebrations, it would not have been appropriate. Etiquette must be observed,’ she said ruefully.
‘Etiquette can be a damnable nuisance,’ Clayton returned and slid her a look. ‘I had hoped to see you that day.’
That blunt admission surprised Ruth to such a degree that for a moment she was unable to tear her gaze from his. ‘Well…I think our dinner will be worth waiting for,’ she blurted and swung her face towards the green baize door that led to the kitchens. ‘Something smells exceedingly good.’
Clayton sniffed at air that was thick with a tantalising savoury aroma. ‘Beef and horseradish,’ he guessed.
‘I would say chicken…or perhaps goose.’ Ruth was sure she could discern the tang of sage-and-onion stuffing wafting in the atmosphere.
‘A wager?’ Clayton carelessly challenged.
‘Of course,’ she accepted with a gay laugh. ‘And I know exactly what I claim as my prize. If I am right, I must insist you demand we play cards later when Sarah suggests I entertain the company by playing the pianoforte. She will have it that I can sing in key. I assure you that I cannot and you won’t want to listen to me prove it.’
Clayton chuckled. ‘Agreed. But what if I win…?’
Ruth tossed him a smile. ‘Oh, if you win, I shall allow you to beat me just the once at piquet. I’m very good, you know.’
‘Are you, indeed?’ Clayton murmured. ‘Most of the ladies I know are very bad…’
Ruth turned her head, the knot of excitement within tightening. He was a practised flirt, she told herself—a man with a reputation as a womaniser. Nevertheless she felt quite elated that, after an inauspicious start, they seemed to have established a fragile rapport.
Chapter Four
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Clayton asked, having escorted Ruth to a chair close to the fire.
A console table was dotted with sparkling crystal and he picked up each decanter then, following a brief inspection, knowledgeably identified its contents for her to choose which she would like.
‘A small sherry would be nice, thank you,’ Ruth said quickly on noticing Clayton was still awaiting her answer.
Clayton approached to hand over her drink and then took the chair opposite. Ruth watched surreptitiously as he stretched out his long legs in front of him and turned his head towards the mesmerising dance in the fire.
His lean profile was softened by the warm glow, his blond hair burnished to an autumn sheen. In his long
fingers a brandy balloon gently oscillated. Far from being interested in continuing to flirt with her, or to engage in a little more light-hearted banter, he seemed to Ruth to have forgotten she existed and to have plunged deep into his own thoughts. Perhaps he thought to pay her back for her preoccupation moments ago. Thus, confident she was unobserved, she deemed it safe to slowly study him.
Ruth knew that a good deal of the gentlemen of the ton favoured bright colours and all manner of fobs and trinkets as personal adornments. This man was no dandified peacock. He was elegantly rather than fashionably clothed in a dark tailcoat and trousers and his person seemed devoid of jewellery. Then she noticed a heavy gold signet ring as it winked on a finger of the hand that was swinging the glass. Her eyes slipped on and a glint of gold could be seen where a watch reposed low in a waistcoat pocket.
She lifted her eyes from his lap and immediately her face flooded with blood. Unwisely she took a swift gulp of her sherry, then tried to quell the burning in her throat with fingers that flew to press her mouth. How long had he been watching her look him over in so vulgar a fashion?
‘Would you like another?’ Clayton asked with soft mockery and a deliberate glance at her depleted glass.
‘No…no, thank you. I was looking…that is, you seem rather melancholy, sir. I didn’t mean to stare.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t…or rather, you didn’t mean me to see you at it.’
Ruth’s dark eyes flashed dangerously at him. ‘As you didn’t mean to be caught eyeing me earlier?’
Just before Clayton despatched his cognac in a single swallow he said, ‘I’ve no objection at all in you knowing I think you attractive.’
For a long moment Ruth simply sat quite still, her eyes on the fire. Would it be best to thank him briefly for the compliment? Or should she ignore what he’d said as simple flattery from a notorious philanderer? Just a short while ago she’d learned from Sarah that Sir Clayton Powell was an incorrigible rake.
‘Perhaps we should think of something else to talk about,’ Ruth suggested calmly. ‘You know a little about my family history—would you tell me a little about yours?’
A humourless noise issued from Clayton’s throat. ‘I take it you would like to discover why I’m no longer married?’
Astonishment kept Ruth momentarily speechless, her eyes captured by his, her soft lips quivering and slightly parted. Sir Clayton Powell was certainly a bluff individual! Or perhaps he reserved such shocking candour for women he deemed to be too inquisitive? She had not wanted to pry into his personal life. She’d hoped, as he knew she had lost her father, they might have an innocent chat about his parents or his siblings. A slow anger burned in Ruth, boosting her determination to regain her composure and give him the answer he deserved.
‘On the contrary, sir, I have no interest in your marital status,’ she snapped icily.
‘Have you not?’ he enquired. ‘Well, you must be the only female of my acquaintance under fifty
