Page 26 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
The carriage rolled to a halt. Then the door opened and a woman climbed out.
“Mrs. Tuffington, I’m so glad you could come,” Mama said.
“Thank you, Yer Grace.”
Clara recognized the faint Scottish burr—softer than her nephew’s accent.
“Do forgive us for being late,” Mrs. Tuffington said. “We were delayed this morning. I’m afraid not all of us were able to come today.”
Clara let out a cry, then covered her mouth. Hadn’t she just tried to reassure her stepfather that she could behave with decorum?
Mrs. Tuffington fixed her gaze on Clara. Her eyes were almost as green as the eyes of the man who’d captivated her at the ball three nights ago—the man who, since then, had occupied Clara’s dreams. In fact, only last night…
Her cheeks burning with shame, she dipped into a curtsey.
“W-we’re so glad you could come, Mrs. Tuffington.”
“I trust nothing untoward prevented the rest of your family from coming,” Mama said.
“Merely a little trouble with my husband’s business. It’s a misfortune of being in trade.”
“Ah yes, auction houses, is that it?” Papa Harcourt said. “Cornelius, didn’t you tell me Henry’s father trades in horses?”
“He does, Yer Grace,” Mrs. Tuffington said. “It’s hard work, but honest.”
“Any commercial enterprise is hard work, Mrs. Tuffington,” he replied. “As it is honest—and admirable. Your husband is to be commended.”
“Ye’re very obliging, Yer Grace,” Mrs. Tuffington replied. “I trust ye’ll forgive there only being two of us here today, rather than four.”
A hand appeared at the carriage door, and Clara held her breath. Then a man appeared, his huge frame filling the doorway.
Clara stepped forward, her heart leaping with joy, then a hand pulled her back.
“Not so eager, darling,” Mama whispered.
He uncurled his body, then stretched his legs and stepped out of the carriage.
In the candlelight of Lady Cholmondeley’s ballroom, he was handsome enough—but in the full glare of the summer sun, he was breathtaking. His gaze swept over the company, and Clara caught her breath as his clear green eyes focused on her.
“Ahem.”
Mrs. Tuffington cleared her throat, and he issued a deep bow, first to Clara’s mother, then her stepfather.
“Yer Grace,” he said, his deep voice warming Clara’s blood.
Mama approached him, offering her arm. “Mr. McTavish, I’m so glad you could join your aunt. Do come inside. Harcourt, my love, perhaps you could attend Mrs. Tuffington.”
Clara glanced at Mrs. Tuffington to find the woman’s eyes, once more, trained on her. Then her gaze wandered about Clara’s person—from her hairstyle, which was already coming undone, with ungainly wisps brushing against her neck, to the silk gown that was far too elegant for her, which she’d already smudged with ink in the library, to the shoes that may look pretty, but were uncomfortable in their elegance, pinching at her toes.
Could she tell, from merely looking at Clara, that she was an outsider, agrubby little urchin, as her younger son had once said?
Then Papa Harcourt took Mrs. Tuffington’s arm and followed Mama inside.
Clara’s brothers appeared at her side.
“Don’t worry, sister,” Cornelius said. “Mr. McTavish has more to fear than you today.”
“I don’t understand,” Clara replied.
