Free Thunder and Roses by Mary Jo Putney Page A

was sure; the next three months were going to teach her about hell.
     
          5
     
      One of the penguins had absconded with Nicholas’s cravat, but the rest of his clothing had been left alone. After roughly toweling himself off with his waistcoat, he dressed, then made his way back to the horses, whistling softly. Clare was sitting cross-legged beneath a tree, her expression remote. To his regret, there was no sign of the charming bashfulness she had exhibited when he had started to undress.
     
    Offering her a helping hand, he said, “You should have joined me. The penguins were in fine form.”
     
    Ignoring his hand, she got to her feet unassisted. “I’m sure that I would have been so dazzled by you that I wouldn’t have noticed them,” she said witheringly.
     
    “Ah, I am beginning to make an impression on you,” he said with delight.
     
    “I would never deny that.”
     
    Clouds had covered the sun and chilled the air, and the ride back was a quiet one. After stabling the horses, Nicholas escorted Clare into the house. He was pleased to see that she now accepted his casual touch as normal.
     
    His good mood evaporated as soon as he stepped into his grandfather’s house. As he ushered her into the main drawing room, he asked, “What do you think of this place, Clare?”
     
    “It’s very grand,” she said after a slight pause.
     
    He studied the room with distaste. “But do you like it?”
     
    She frowned. “That’s not a fair question.   I’m a simple woman, with cottager tastes. I know how to appreciate an oaken chair, or a whitewashed wall, or a well-made quilt, but I know nothing of fine furniture, or art, or aristocratic style.”
     
    “That doesn’t mean your opinion is valueless. Does this house please your senses?”
     
    “To be honest, I find it oppressive.” Her gaze traveled around the room. “There’s too much clutter. Every inch of space seems to be filled with patterns, or fabric, or bits of china whose value could feed a poor family for a year. No doubt everything is in the best of taste” —she ran a finger across the top of a picture frame, then frowned at the dust—”though the housekeeping could be improved. But I prefer my cottage.”
     
    “Too much clutter,” he repeated. “My sentiments exactly. Gypsies don’t like being indoors at the best of times, and this house has always made me feel suffocated.”
     
    “Do you think of yourself as a Gypsy?”
     
    He shrugged. “When it suits me.” He lifted a porcelain figurine that depicted a lion devouring an undutiful child. Not surprisingly, his grandfather had been fond of it. Nicholas had always wanted to smash it to pieces.
     
    Well, why not? With one swift movement, he hurled the figure into the fireplace. It shattered with a satisfying crash.
     
    Pleased, Nicholas turned to Clare, who was watching him warily. “I give you permission to change whatever you want,” he said. “Pack away the clutter, hire more maids. Clean, paint, paper—whatever you think best. Since it’s your fault that I’m going to spend more time in this mausoleum than I had planned, you can jolly well make it livable . Buy what you think necessary and have the bills sent to me. Not only will that pump money into the local economy, but you’ll gratify Williams no end. He finds his post here rather boring, I think. I’ll instruct him to follow your orders as he would mine.”
     
    “Is it part of a mistress’s job to redecorate her lover’s house?” she asked with dismay.
     
    “Most mistresses would swoon with delight at the opportunity,” he assured her. “Would you like to visit the attics? There are masses of furniture up there. You might find things that are more to your taste.”
     
    Looking a little dazed, she said, “Later, perhaps. Before I make any changes, I will have to observe and think.”
     
    “Wise woman.” He glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “I must meet my steward now, so I’ll