“I would be honored, but I know she isn’t venturing out on my account.”
“Of course not, everyone knows you. It’s Claire they’re interested in.”
Claire didn’t want everyone to be interested in her; she hated being an object of curiosity. She would become awkward and silent, afraid of doing anything for fear of making a mistake. What had Max done to her? It had been difficult enough to imagine facing an enormous family; why hadn’t he told her that he was a member of the British aristocracy? She should have guessed. Would the average Englishman have quite that degree of mixed elegance and arrogance? His accent, his insouciant sophistication, his rather formal manners, all indicated a circumstance of birth and breeding that was far from the ordinary.
“You’re very quiet, love,” Max said, reaching out to take one of her hands and frowning when he felt its chill. It was, after all, the middle of summer, and was an unusually warm day for London. “Suffering from jet lag?”
“I do feel…disoriented,” she replied quietly.
“There’s no wonder at that,” Lady Alicia said. “I always need a long nap after a trip, and I’ve never been quite so far as the States. Don’t worry, dear, there’s no one descending on us today to meet you, and even if there were, I would send them away.”
Lady Alicia was warm and friendly, and it was soon plain that Max had inherited his wry humor from her. On closer inspection it was possible to place her age at perhaps sixty, but it was a very young sixty. Her skin was smooth and virtually unwrinkled, except for the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, and her hair was still thick, though fading in color. She enjoyed life and enjoyed her family. Love was plain in her eyes when she looked at Max.
Claire listened to them talk, answering whenever she was asked a direct question, but for the most part she was quiet, wondering what else she should expect.
The estate was almost two hours’ drive from London, but finally the Jaguar slowed, then turned left through a set of gates guarded by a thatch-roofed gatehouse. Victoria and Claire’s parents followed closely behind in the Mercedes. “We’re almost there,” Max said. “You can just see the chimneys now. By the way, Mother, where have you put us?”
“Claire and her parents are to be with me at Prescott House,” Lady Alicia said serenely. “You’ll have your old room at Hayden Hill.”
He didn’t like that. His eyes narrowed and darkened to green, but he held his tongue. Claire was grateful that he hadn’t demanded that they be given a room together, though he was possessive enough and arrogant enough to do exactly that. His fingers tightened momentarily on hers, and she realized that he had sensed
her feelings.
Then they rounded a curve, and Hayden Hill came into view. It wasn’t a castle, but it was one of the old, enormous manor houses, with chimneys sticking into the sky like sentinels, the yellow brick mellowed with age to a dull gold color. The lawn was immaculately manicured, the hedges sculptured, the rose beds perfectly tended. This was where Max had grown to manhood, and Claire felt the gulf widening between them.
They drove past Hayden Hill down a narrow, paved lane. “My house is just down here,” Lady Alicia explained. “It’s the traditional dowager house, and I decided to honor tradition by moving into it when Clayton married.”
“Not to mention escaping the bloody rows Clayton and Edie used to have when they were first married,” Max added, his eyelids drooping.
Lady Alicia smiled at Claire. “My eldest son was very much the earl when he and Edie married,” she explained placidly. “It took her the better part of a year to instruct him on the finer points of marriage.”
Prescott House was less than half the size of Hayden Hill, though built in a similar style and with the same mellowed brick, but Claire soon found that it possessed eighteen rooms. Both Hayden Hill and the dowager house had been built in the late 1700s, after the original manor house had been destroyed by fire but both had been extensively modernized as time passed. Therefore, unlike many of the old manor houses, Hayden Hill and Prescott House both had efficient wiring and plumbing, while modern insulation and heating made it possible for the enormous fireplaces to be used for pleasure rather than for actual heating purposes. There was even a fireplace in Claire’s bedroom, and when she was finally alone, she ran her hand lightly, dreamily, over the polished wood of the mantel. It was a beautiful room, with white lace curtains and a matching bedspread. A rose-colored carpet covered the wooden floor. The furniture was rosewood, and the bed was an enormous four-poster, so high off the floor that she had to mount steps to crawl onto it. A private bath and wardrobe adjoined.
How could Max not have mentioned all of this? It wasn’t as if it were an insignificant detail. She had worried about living up to the Halseys, and now she had fallen in love with a man who made the Halseys look like Johnny-come-latelies.
She took a quick shower, unable to stand the grime of travel a moment longer. A thick, fleecy toweling robe hung on a hook behind the door, and Claire wrapped herself in it rather than try to hunt hers out of the pile of luggage. Leaving the bathroom, she stopped short when she saw Max lounging in the reading chair. He looked up, that intent look coming into his eyes when he saw her shiny face and warm, damp body wrapped in the robe.
“My mother can have the most perverse sense of humor at times,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “Come here, love, and let me hold you for a little while before I’m banished to Hayden Hill.”
She put her hand in his and found herself gathered close, then perched on his lap. Sighing, Claire put her head on his shoulder and felt his arms close around her with steely strength.
“You’ve been quiet since we left New York,” he murmured. “Is something wrong, or is it just jet lag?”
While he held her, nothing was wrong, but she couldn’t spend the rest of her life in his arms. “No, there’s nothing wrong.”
He slipped his hand inside the robe and cupped her breast, stroking her flesh with gentle fingers. “Shall I leave you to your nap, then? Your mother and father have already gone to their room. The telephone is ringing constantly, but Mother is fending everyone off.”
She clutched at his shoulders. “Don’t go, Max, please. Hold me for a little while longer.”
“All right, love.” His voice was low. He tipped her face up and kissed her slowly, his tongue probing into her mouth, and his hand was no longer quite so gentle. “This is going to be an endlessly long week,” he said, moving his lips down her throat. “I may kidnap you one afternoon and take you to a place where we can be alone.”
If only he could kidnap her and take her away now. If only the wedding were behind them and they could return to Dallas.
* * *
It only got worse. Sometimes it seemed as if she never had a moment to herself, and every day there were more and more people to meet. Max’s wedding was an excuse for a party every night as the celebration escalated. Alma was in her element, and Harmon was perfectly comfortable with the life of an English country gentleman. Then Martine and Steve arrived with the children, and they were exuberantly welcomed. Martine got on like wildfire with Max’s outgoing sisters, Emma and Patricia and Victoria, and Prescott House rang with their chatter and laughter.
There were lunches, afternoon teas and endless visits sandwiched between appointments with the photographer, the caterer and the florist. The gowns were pressed and ready, and the tuxedos had arrived from the drycleaners. The most amazing thing to Claire was that no one had had to rent one. It was a gracious, cushioned life, marching to a well-ordered beat, with privileges taken for granted.