Beautiful wasn’t a word that Claire was accustomed to hearing in connection with herself, but that night, in Max’s arms, she felt beautiful. She would always blush when she remembered that foyer, but thereafter it was with excitement and remembered pleasure, never again with embarrassment.
* * *
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t wear white,” Alma said, making a note in a thick notebook she’d already half-filled with reminders. “This isn’t the fifties, after all. Not white-white, of course, that’s not your color, but you’ve always looked beautiful in a creamy golden-white.”
Alma and Martine had a full head of steam going, making plans enthusiastically. It was her wedding, but Claire was the only calm one. Since she’d arrived that morning, she had listened to the constant chatter, letting them discuss every detail to death before they remembered to ask either her or Max’s opinion. Occasionally she looked at Max, and the amusement in his eyes helped her to remain rational.
“The wedding will have to be in England,” Alma pronounced, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “I checked, and it’s impossible to reserve a church here that’s large enough to hold that many people on such short notice. Max, are you certain there won’t be any problem in getting your church?”
“I’m positive.”
“Then it’s England, and let your mother know. Better yet, give me her number and I’ll call her. This schedule is going to be murder. Claire, you have to have your dress made here; there won’t be time after we get to England. And we’ll have to find one of those big garment boxes for shipping the dress over, but I suppose the dressmaker can help with that.”
“I could buy a ready-made dress in England,” Claire suggested.
“And take the chance of not being able to find what you want? No, that would be awful. Let’s see, we’ll need to be there at least three days early. Make that a week. Will that inconvenience your family, Max?”
“Not at all. There are so many of us, a few dozen more won’t even be noticed. If you don’t mind, I’ll handle the plane reservations for the group. Do you have a list of everyone?”
Alma scurried around for her list of guests and wrote out another copy of it for Max. He glanced at it, then folded it and put it away in his pocket, not at all dismayed by the prospect of organizing the transportation of so many people to another country. Knowing what she did about executives, Claire thought that his assistant would probably inherit the burden.
“I have a few names to add to the list, but they’ll be flying out from Dallas. I’ll arrange for everyone to connect in New York.”
Rome and Sarah would probably be attending, Claire realized. She had seen the length of the list and was surprised that so many people would travel so far to see a wedding. Even Michael and Celia were going, and she would have thought they would never want to travel again after moving from Michigan to Arizona in a van.
She scarcely had time to wave at Max before she was whisked away to the fabric store to pore over pattern catalogs and bolts of cloth. From there they went to the dressmaker’s, and Claire was measured for what seemed like hours. Then Alma insisted that they find the shoes to go with the gown, since it was almost June and that led to a tooth-and-nail battle over anything connected with weddings.
By the time they returned home, Claire was exhausted. Alma and Martine were still going strong, high on adrenaline, and she wondered what kept them from collapsing. Max was waiting for her, and he looped a sheltering arm over her shoulders to hug her to him.
“Shall we leave?” he asked quietly.
She closed her eyes. “Please. I’m so tired I can’t think.”
Alma started to protest that Claire could spend the night with them then glanced at Max and swallowed the comment. Claire belonged with him now; he had made that plain, though there were still five weeks until the wedding. For all his golden beauty there was a strength in Max that wouldn’t permit any interference between him and the woman he’d chosen.
“This is so exhausting,” Claire sighed as he drove them back to the apartment. She slipped off her shoes and wiggled her toes, wondering if they would ever feel normal again. “I think digging ditches wouldn’t be as tiring as shopping. I can work all day and do chores at night without feeling half as wiped out as I am now. The terrible thing is, I’ll have to come back every weekend for fittings!”
“But I’ll be with you,” Max said. “If it gets to be too much for you, we’ll leave it and go back to Dallas.”
“Then everything won’t get done.”
“I would rather have something left undone than to have my wife collapsing of exhaustion.”
His wife. More and more Claire was coming to believe that it was really so, that it was really going to happen. She looked at the pearl-and-diamond ring on her left hand then at Max. She loved him so much that it swelled within her like a tide, relentless and eternal.
When they were in bed, she curled her arm around his neck and pressed against him, sighing as her tired muscles relaxed.
Max cuddled her, loving the feel of her body in his arms, right where she belonged. As usual when he was near her or thought about her, he wanted to make love, but she was too tired. He kissed her forehead and held her until she was asleep.
“Just five more weeks, love,” he whispered into the darkness. She would be his wife, and he would no longer have this unreasoning fear that she was going to slip through his fingers like mist melting away before the sun.
CHAPTER 12
Claire managed a tight smile for the airline attendant as she refused a refill of her tea. They would be landing at Heathrow within the hour. She was relieved that the long, monotonous flight was nearly at an end but she tensed inside whenever she thought of meeting Max’s family. She had spoken to his mother on the telephone and felt the warmth of the older woman’s greetings, but she wondered how she would get through the ordeal of actually meeting all of them. She had memorized the names of his brother and sisters, as well as that of their spouses and the swarms of children, but that was only scratching the top of the list. There were aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, grandparents, great-aunts and uncles, as well as their children and spouses. Such a large family was beyond her experience.
Alma and Harmon were sitting directly ahead of them. It was exactly a week before the wedding, and Alma had been working on her ever-present list most of the flight. Martine and Steve and the children would be flying over in three days, followed the next day by the remainder of the guests. Rome and Sarah were attending, with Missy and Jed. Sarah had suggested leaving the children with a sitter, but Claire had become inordinately fond of the two little imps and wanted them present. After all, her wedding would be swarming with children; what difference would two more make? Rome and Sarah would be bringing a young friend, Derek Taliferro, who was home from college for the summer and who spent a lot of time with the Matthews. Claire had met Derek only twice, but had liked him on sight, and that was unusual for her. She was usually far more cautious with strangers, but there was something about Derek that relaxed her. He was inordinately handsome, with curly black hair and calm golden-brown eyes that reached deep into her mind, yet his handsomeness would normally have made Claire distrust him. But the tall, muscular youth had such enormous self-possession and purpose about him, and he was so tender with the children, who adored him, that instinctively she trusted him, too. For all his lack of years Derek was more of a man than most males who were twice his age. Max and Rome treated him as an equal, and they weren’t ordinary men themselves.
Claire glanced quickly at Max, wondering if he had any doubts surfacing about the wedding as it drew closer, but she could read nothing in his expression. For all the passionate hours she had spent in his arms, she still sometimes felt as if he were a stranger to her, a handsome, aloof stranger who gave her his lust but not his thoughts. He was affable, charming, attentive, but she always felt as if he were holding something back from her. She loved deeply but had to keep her love hidden, because h
e didn’t seem to want that sort of devotion from her. He wanted her companionship, her body beneath his in the night, but he didn’t seem to want her emotions. He asked for none, and he gave none.
That was the real basis for her unease, she realized. She could have faced an army of relatives with poise if only she were certain of Max’s love. All those people would be watching her, measuring her, just as she had been watched when she had married Jeff. How would she fit in with such a family, who were so far-flung and numerous, but oddly close for all that? It had never been easy for her to make friends, and his entire family all seemed to be so warm and outgoing. How could they understand her difficulty in warming up to people? Would they think her cold and unfriendly? Her hands were icy, and she clenched them together in an effort to warm them.
The seatbelt sign flashed on over their heads, and a huge knot formed in Claire’s chest, making it necessary for her to breathe in swift, shallow gulps. Max didn’t notice her anxiety; he was looking forward to seeing his family again, anticipation making his eyes gleam like jewels set in a golden idol’s head.
Heathrow was sheer pandemonium, with the summer crowds thronging the airport. Max didn’t turn a well-groomed hair at the hurly-burly. He secured a porter with a lifted finger, and just as the last of their luggage came around on the carousel, a joyous, lilting cry of “Max! Max!” soared above the noise.
He turned and a grin split his face. “Vicky!” He held out his arms and a tall, blond woman hurled herself into them. He hugged and kissed her enthusiastically, rocking her in his arms. Then he freed one arm to reach out and pull Claire to him. “Claire, this hoyden is my youngest sister, Victoria. Vicky to those of us familiar with her unruly behavior. Vicky, Claire Westbrook.”
“Who became instantly famous when she snared the infamous Maxwell Conroy,” Vicky teased, then enveloped Claire in a warm hug. Claire smiled quietly, thinking that she liked this unpretentious young woman. The family resemblance was strong—Vicky was tall, with the same golden hair, but her eyes were cerulean blue, and her face wasn’t as sculptured. Still, she was a striking woman.
Introductions were made to Alma and Harmon; then Victoria led the way out of the air terminal. “How did you end up with the welcoming duties?” Max asked. His left arm was around Claire, and Victoria clung happily to his right.
“Oh, I’m not the lone delegate,” Victoria said lightly. “Mother is waiting in the car. She didn’t want to brave the hordes, but she couldn’t wait for us to get home before she met Claire.”
The knot in Claire’s chest, which had subsided a bit on meeting Victoria, now rose to lodge in her throat. Max’s mother! From the way he talked about her, Claire knew that he adored his mother, and it went without saying that she adored him. What woman wouldn’t?
“We brought two cars, because of all the luggage,” Victoria explained, smiling at Claire and her parents. “Mother will insist on Claire and Max going with her, if you don’t mind. I’m really a safe driver.”
“Really?” Max inquired, looking astonished.
“Of course we don’t mind,” Alma said.
As they approached the parking area, a man in a dark suit opened the door of a black four-door Jaguar, and a tall slender elegantly-dressed woman got out. “Max!” she called, waving her hand. Then dignity was forgotten as she raced to meet him. Max laughed and left Claire and Victoria to sprint across the tarmac. He scooped the woman up in his arms and hugged her tightly.
“So much for our famous British reserve,” Victoria observed humorously. “Everyone is always so happy to see Max again that we make absolute fools of ourselves, but there’s no resisting him, is there?”
“None at all,” Claire replied, watching him. Was that his mother? That lovely, too-young woman, with a sleek knot of blond hair just beginning to fade in color?
Before she could get herself under control and readjust her expectations from a gray-haired proper matron to the sleek reality, Max was walking toward her with his mother on his arm. “Mother, my future wife, Claire Westbrook. Darling, this is my mother, Lady Alicia Conroy, dowager countess of Hayden-Prescott.”
Lady? Countess?
Claire was numb. Somehow she managed to smile and murmur something appropriate. The general enthusiasm of the all-around greetings continued as Alma greeted Lady Alicia, with whom she had had several long telephone conversations. Max’s mother was smiling and gracious and seemed genuinely delighted by the occasion. It was several minutes before all the luggage had been packed into the cars and everyone sorted out, Alma and Harmon into Victoria’s blue Mercedes, and Max and Claire, with Lady Alicia, into the Jaguar, which was driven by the chauffeur, Sutton.
“Has the mob begun arriving yet?” Max asked, smiling at Lady Alicia and an answering twinkle lit her green eyes.
“Not yet. We expect another few days of relative quiet, though of course those within easy traveling time will have to come over for tea. Did you expect it to be otherwise?”
“I hoped, but no, I didn’t expect it. Would it be possible for me to reserve any of Claire’s time during the next week?”
“Highly doubtful,” Lady Alicia said briskly, though the twinkle remained. “There’s entirely too much to be done. There hasn’t been such excitement in the family since the war ended—even Great-Aunt Eleanor will be attending, and you know she seldom gets out.”
“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.