“But I know everything about true love. I have been in love hundreds of times.”
She gritted her teeth, all the while knowing that she had no reason to be so angry at the man. “A person experiences true love only once in a lifetime. If she is lucky. I don’t think most people find it at all. If you have been in love hundreds of times, then I don’t believe you’ve ever been in love, not really, truly in love.”
“As you are in love with young Harry?” He could not keep the amusement out of his voice, and when he felt her stiffen he almost laughed out loud. “How very young you are.”
“And how very old you are,” she snapped.
That made Trevelyan stop laughing. Perhaps he was old. Perhaps all that he had seen and done and heard in his life had made him old before his time. “I beg your pardon, Miss Willoughby,” he said. “I am Trevelyan.”
She didn’t feel like forgiving him. He was a cynical old man and she wished she’d not had the misfortune to run into him. “Trevelyan what?”
For some reason that seemed to make him think. “Just Trevelyan, that’s all. Nothing else.” He knew he’d hurt her feelings so he tried to tease her. “I was born before people were given two names.”
She didn’t laugh at his joke. “Are you related to the duke’s family?”
“Perhaps I’m the second gardener. What do you think?”
“I think you’re probably Harry’s uncle or maybe his cousin. Whoever you are, you are not anyone’s servant.”
That pleased him more than he was willing to let her know. “And what makes you think I’m not a servant?” He was hoping to hear her say that in spite of the fact that he was recovering from a serious illness, there was a bearing about him that was almost regal.
“Your boots. No working man would have boots of that quality.” Under no circumstances was she going to tell him that he was not anyone’s idea of a servant. If he looked at a prospective employer with his dark, questioning eyes, he’d never be hired. Or maybe he would, Claire thought, but he wouldn’t be hired to do a servant’s work.
“Oh,” he said, disappointed with her answer.
They walked in silence for a while, neither of them speaking, Claire wanting only to get away from him. She didn’t like him so near her. “I’ve been away for some time. Perhaps you could tell me the news of my…relatives.” His tongue fairly tripped over the word.
Claire was silent, struggling along the damp path, supporting him and her painful arm.
“Do you know much of the duke’s family? Or are you marrying into the unknown?”
“I know rather a lot, actually,” she said, implying that Harry had told her. She wasn’t going to tell this man that in between being fitted for dresses and dancing with Harry, she had spent a great deal of time researching the history of her future husband’s family.
“I believe there have been some recent deaths,” he said.
“Harry’s father and the eldest son died less than a year ago in a boating accident. When Harry’s father and oldest brother died that made Harry’s other brother, the second son, the duke. Up until then he had been the earl of…” She paused as she thought, then looked up at him. “The earl of Trevelyan.”
He glanced down at her widened eyes. “There’s no need to look at me like that. Trevelyan is a common enough name in England and I can assure you I’m no earl.”
“Mmmmm,” she said thoughtfully. “True enough, I guess. Harry’s brother would have been younger than you.” She paused. “The second son was killed but two months ago.”
“Killed? Surely you mean he died.”
Again there was that infuriating amusement in his voice, as though he thought her stupendously stupid. “I don’t think you should make jokes. Why don’t you know of a man who is in your family?”
“The family and I have never been close. Tell me about this son who was killed. I sense something in your voice, something I don’t understand.”
She was amazed at his perception. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She shouldn’t tell him what she knew, but then she so wanted to tell someone. She had tried once to talk to Harry about his brother, but Harry had not wanted to discuss the subject. She could understand that, could understand his grief at losing three family members in close succession. Twice she’d tried to talk to her father, but he hadn’t wanted to hear either.
Trevelyan nudged her with his shoulder. “Out with it. Tell me what you’ve heard. All lies, I’ll wager.”
“They are not lies,” she said emphatically. “I have my information from the best of sources and I plan to do something about it.”
“Do something about what, and who told you these lies?”
His hand was slowly moving down her shoulder until it was just at the top of her breast. She pushed it away and gave him a hard look but he ignored her, just kept that little smirk on his face. Curse him, she thought. She didn’t want to say a word to him; she wanted to get away from him and that’s all, but there was something about him that made her want to talk. And besides that, there was her need to talk to someone, somewhere, about what she thought about. Not since she’d left America had she had anyone who could understand what she read. She had met no one in England who was interested in anything besides the latest party.
“The Prince of Wales told me,” she said, and smiled when the smirk vanished.