A Lasting Impression Page 30

  A humorous glint slid into his eyes. He started to speak again, but she silenced him with a look, seeing who was standing at the end of the hallway.

  Sutton turned.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Monroe.” Mrs. Routh took a purposeful step forward. “Miss Cara Netta is looking for you, sir. She requested that I let you know she’s waiting for you in the central parlor.”

  Claire hadn’t noticed, but sure enough, the piano music had fallen silent.

  A muscle flinched in Sutton’s jaw. “Thank you . . . Mrs. Routh. Please tell Miss Cara Netta I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “Very good, sir. And shall I send Eli for a carriage? Miss LeVert thought the two of you might venture over to Laurel Bend this evening. It’s so lovely out. I’d be most happy to—”

  “No, Mrs. Routh. Miss LeVert was mistaken. No carriage is required.” His voice gained a flat edge. “But thank you.”

  Mrs. Routh merely bowed her head in Sutton’s direction, then aimed a fleeting but satisfied look in Claire’s.

  With Mrs. Routh’s retreat, Sutton turned back, his expression devoid of humor. For a moment, he said nothing, only stared at some point beyond Claire’s shoulder.

  Claire told herself it would be wiser not to ask, but she couldn’t help herself. “What is Laurel Bend?”

  With blinkless efficiency, his gaze connected with hers. “It’s the Monroe family estate. At least for now.” A shadow moved across his face, chased by a lostness that seemed more fitting for a boy of seven than a man of Sutton’s stature and strength. He bowed his head.

  Claire wanted to inquire further—to know what he meant by “at least for now”—but she got the distinct feeling he didn’t want to discuss the topic.

  “One more thing, Claire.” He looked up. “Then I’ll leave you to enjoy your evening. What you said this evening to Cara Netta, about the music . . . That was very gracious. Especially in light of her . . . cool behavior toward you.”

  So he had noticed . . . She wondered whether he’d noticed her behavior toward Cara Netta. She hadn’t exactly gone out of her way to be kind to her. Not until tonight. “I meant every word, Sutton. Cara Netta is exceptionally talented. And she’s . . .” Claire believed what she was about to say, but still found it difficult to voice. “She’s also a very lovely young woman.”

  “Yes, she is,” he said, but didn’t sound happy about it. “Well, I should let you go.”

  But he didn’t move. His gaze moved over her face in a way that made Claire’s mouth go dry. And if she hadn’t known better, she might have thought he wanted to lean down and kiss her cheek. But she did know better, and he didn’t lean down.

  “Good night, Claire.” He turned and strode down the hallway, not looking back.

  Claire watched him until he disappeared around the corner. “Good night, Sutton,” she whispered, wishing now more than ever that she’d taken her mother’s final words of advice to heart.

  “I thought riding out to Laurel Bend might be a nice way to spend the evening, Sutton. A welcome diversion for you.” Cara Netta peered up at him as he entered the parlor. “You’ve seemed so . . . burdened lately. We could talk about the house, about your plans to rebuild.”

  Going out to Laurel Bend was the last thing Sutton wanted to do, and it hardly represented a welcome diversion. Each visit stirred up the same old bitterness. The waiting, the not knowing, was taking its toll. “Actually, I’d rather stay here, if you don’t mind. We could walk, if you’d like. It would give us the chance to talk.”

  “Of course I don’t mind.” She reached for her wrap, holding his gaze as if trying to read what was on his mind.

  Sutton held her arm as they descended the front steps of the mansion, the weight of what he had to tell her bearing down hard. His decision was made. He knew what he had to do. He’d felt the confirmation inside him moments ago when he’d stood in the hallway with Claire. Now he just needed to do it.

  Cara Netta slipped her hand through the crook of his arm and smiled up, and the weight inside him increased a hundredfold.

  “I enjoy being with you, Sutton. Wherever we are. I was telling Diddie earlier today that it’s wonderful how close you and I are. And how well we get along.” She squeezed his arm. “Do you remember that afternoon in Paris when we spent the day wandering the city, going from bakery to bakery, and then from museum to museum . . .”

  Sutton listened, nodding at appropriate intervals, as she recounted experiences from their trip. He almost got the feeling she was retelling the memories for his sake, in case he’d forgotten. He directed their course away from the mansion and downhill toward the conservatory, not wanting to risk being interrupted.

  With each step, her grip tightened on his arm, and he wondered whether she sensed what he had to tell her.

  “And then there was that time in Rome when we went to that little café on the corner. Do you remember the one? It was—”

  “Cara Netta . . .”

  He stopped, took her hands in his, and felt a stablike pain in his chest when he saw the fragile look slip into her eyes. She knew. Or at least she suspected. “I would do almost anything not to hurt you. I hope you know that.”

  She shook her head. Her gaze grew watery. “Whatever it is, Sutton, we can work it through. That’s what couples do.”

  “I wish it were that simple, Cara Netta. But if I were to allow our relationship to continue . . . if we were to marry . . . that’s exactly what I would be doing—hurting you.”

  Her grip tightened. “How can you say that? We’ll be the most splendid couple in Nashville. In all of Dixie. I know it.”

  “You’re an extraordinary woman, but—”

  She gave a humorless laugh. “Nothing good ever comes from a sentence that starts that way.” She withdrew her hands and moved to a nearby bench.

  Sutton claimed the place beside her, and she looked over at him.

  “Is it because of the house Mother wanted to buy us?”

  “No.”

  “Is it because I want to go to Europe again?”

  “No,” he said, praying for the right words. “It’s none of those things. And yet . . . it is, in a way.” How to be honest with her without shattering everything they had? He owed her the truth, and yet the truth seemed so painful and would drive such a wedge between them. “You’re a beautiful young woman. Kind and caring, generous and intelligent—”

  “And yet, apparently, those attributes aren’t enough.” She bowed her head. “Because somehow I’ve fallen out of favor.”

  He leaned down in an attempt to regain her attention. “You didn’t fall out of favor, Cara Netta. I’m simply not the man you should be marrying. And if you’ll only look at me closely enough, you’ll see that. You could have your choice of so many other men. Men who—”

  “I don’t want any of them.”

  “But that’s only because you haven’t looked. You’ve been so . . . decided on me. And frankly, I never understood why—until you told me what your father said.”

  She huffed. “That again.”

  “During the past year, and specifically on our trip, I think we were both hurting and lonely, and we confused friendship for something more. I hold myself largely responsible for that too. I shouldn’t have allowed our understanding to continue for as long as it has.”

  Her gaze rose sharply. “So you decided a while back that you didn’t love me. And yet you said nothing.”

  His neck and shoulder muscles tensed. “Cara Netta, it wasn’t a decision I made. It was—” He was making a mess of the whole thing. “It simply took time to sort out my feelings. To see things more clearly.”

  She angled herself away from him, and he couldn’t blame her.

  “Would you look at me, Cara Netta?”

  She didn’t move.

  “Please?” he whispered.

  Reluctantly, she turned.

  “I’m not a wealthy man, by any means. And what little land I have, I stand to lose. I don’t care for the opera, and t
hat one trip to Europe will last me for a lifetime.” He sighed. “Not that I could have afforded to make the first one on my own. And yes, I’m an attorney at a prestigious law firm, but . . .” He searched for the simplest term for his dream that he could find. “What I really want to do is to run a horse farm.”

  She blinked, and the indignity in her expression, though subtle, spoke volumes.

  “And my wife,” he continued, gently as he could, “should I ever be blessed to marry, needs to want that too. As much as I do.”

  Cara Netta looked at him, and he could almost see the layers of might have beens shedding away, one by one. Along with his appeal in her eyes.

  She stood, and he joined her. Wordless, they walked back toward the manor, not touching, not speaking. When they reached the art gallery, she turned, her face awash in emotion.

  “For what it’s worth, Sutton . . .” Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I think you’re making a mistake. I think we could have a good life together. I’ve seen a lot of fine marriages that have far less affection between partners than we have for one another.”

  Her words pained him. Not because they weren’t true but because she had somehow convinced herself that a marriage like that should be enough. “What you’re saying is true, Cara Netta. But you deserve so much more.”

  Chin trembling, she stared at him through fresh tears. Movement at the edge of his eye begged his attention, but he didn’t look until Cara Netta did.

  Claire was walking back toward the mansion from the fields. If she saw them, she made no indication that she did.

  “I wonder,” Cara Netta said, her voice soft but not the least delicate. “How does Miss Laurent feel about horse farms? Have you ascertained her thoughts on the subject yet?”

  She spun on her heel and walked back inside.

  Stunned, but knowing he was guilty as charged, Sutton waited outside, giving her time to get to her suite.

  And later, as he lay in bed, thinking back through their painful exchange, he knew he’d done the right thing, for them both. While they might have had a good life together, he would have been robbing Cara Netta of the life—and love—she deserved.

  Because she deserved a man who felt a thrill every time she walked into the room, a man whose pulse skipped a beat when she raised a stubborn brow in challenge. A man who wanted to shield and protect her, who would fight to fulfill every one of her dreams. A man who could hardly wait to touch her again, even if it was only by accident as they walked side by side. A man who lay awake at night, dreaming of ways to woo her and win her heart, of taking her in his arms and kissing her until she was breathless.

  She deserved a man who felt about her the way he felt about Claire.

  33

  The next morning, Claire awakened late. She’d slept fitfully, dreaming about Papa and Antoine, and about a boat they were on that was sinking. No matter what she did, she couldn’t find a way off. And the most gruesome part—just as the water was reaching her neck, alligators appeared in the murkiness, swimming straight for her.

  By the time she dressed and left her room, it was a little past eight. She wished she could take a long walk and chase away the darkness of dreams with cool morning air and sunshine, but the buzz of conversation coming from the family dining room told her that would have been considered rude.

  She rounded the corner and conversation at the breakfast table fell silent.

  Even before she took her seat, she sensed an air of anticipation in the room. “Good morning,” she said quietly, seeing breakfast hadn’t yet been served.

  Good-mornings echoed around the table. Mrs. Acklen and Madame LeVert sat at one end, both of them beaming. Diddie wore a similar expression, as did the children. Cara Netta, however, had dark circles under her eyes and looked as if she’d slept about as fitfully as Claire had, or worse. Sutton, like Cara Netta, lacked the others’ exuberance too.

  He smiled, but in a way that made Claire wary. She unfolded her napkin, draped it across her lap, and scanned the faces around the table, growing more nervous by the second.

  Finally, Mrs. Acklen leaned forward. “I’ve concocted the most marvelous plan, Miss Laurent! And I think you’re going to love it!”

  Diddie wriggled in her seat, and Madame LeVert looked about ready to burst. Cara Netta glanced at Sutton with a look Claire couldn’t interpret.

  “It’s a party!” Pauline blurted, then clasped a pudgy little hand over her mouth as her brothers frowned in her direction.

  “A reception, actually.” Mrs. Acklen tossed her daughter a playfully stern smile. “In honor of Madame LeVert, and we’ll host it right here at Belmont. It will be the social event of the season! I stayed up late last night working on the guest list and the menu. And I’m eager for your ideas, Miss Laurent, on invitations and decorations and centerpieces. And then there’s the music, of course, and party favors, and . . .”

  As Mrs. Acklen continued to speak, Claire listened, her mind already churning. Maybe it was because she’d slept so little and so ill, but she couldn’t get excited about planning another huge event. Not when she needed to be painting. Yet she didn’t dare let her reaction show. After all, meeting Mrs. Acklen’s every need was her job.

  She’d barely had two weeks to plan the birthday party for forty-seven children and their parents, and the party preparations had consumed nearly every waking minute. But with the proper time to plan the reception, to choose and coordinate details—

  Claire’s thoughts screeched to a halt. She’d heard Mrs. Acklen mention a number but was certain she’d misunderstood. “Pardon me, Mrs. Acklen, but . . . how many guests did you say?”

  Mrs. Acklen tilted her head to one side as though communicating her displeasure at being interrupted. “I said one thousand, Miss Laurent. Perhaps a few more than that. . . . I’ll let you know.”

  Claire could scarcely wrap her mind around that number of people in one place. Much less in a house. And with tables and favors and centerpieces and invitations. And the cost! She looked across the table at Sutton, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod of his head, as though to say, “Stay calm.”

  “But not to worry, Miss Laurent”—Mrs. Acklen gestured to Cordina and two other women who came from the kitchen bearing breakfast—“the reception isn’t until December eighteenth. So that gives you a good seven weeks to get everything in order!”

  Seven weeks! Seated sidesaddle on Athena, Claire prodded the feisty black mare uphill, her mind churning. Seven weeks to plan a reception for over one thousand guests! “The social event of the season,” Mrs. Acklen had said.

  Claire’s head felt ready to explode.

  She’d masked her frustration well, she thought, but the moment breakfast was over, she’d made a beeline for the stables. Until Mrs. Acklen caught her in the entrance hall. “Mrs. Worthington has invited us to coffee this morning, Miss Laurent, and I felt we needed to accept, seeing as the LeVerts are leaving Belmont in the morning . . .”

  As soon as Claire heard the words, she’d begun formulating an excuse as to why she couldn’t attend. But as it turned out, she hadn’t been included. The invitation was extended to Mrs. Acklen and the LeVerts only.

  Athena bounded over the crest of the hill, and Claire reined in, breathing hard but welcoming the exertion. She hadn’t wanted to go to the silly coffee anyway. It would have meant making polite conversation on topics of no interest that she knew little to nothing about, and sipping too-weak coffee when she preferred the richness of café au lait. . . .

  She sighed. So if she hadn’t wanted to go, why was it bothering her that she’d not been invited?

  She prodded Athena forward through stands of pine and white birch, hoping the path led where she thought it would. She leaned forward and gave Athena’s neck a rub, appreciating the animal’s speed and strength, as well as Mrs. Acklen’s permission to ride the mare whenever she desired. Never in all her days could Claire have afforded such a fine mount.

  That last thought lingered, settled, an
d the reason for her frustration became clearer, and reached far deeper than disappointment over not being invited to coffee. She didn’t belong in Adelicia’s world of wealth and privilege. She had no right to be there. The world of afternoon teas, fancy silk dresses, and evenings at the opera was as foreign to her as racing thoroughbreds at Nashville’s Burns Island track was to Athena.

  The pretty black mare tossed her head as though voicing her disagreement at the thought. Claire ran her fingers through Athena’s mane. “It doesn’t make you any less a fine horse, pretty girl,” she whispered. “It just makes you”—she thought of Sutton and Cara Netta—“different from them.”

  Seeing Antoine DePaul had done more than frighten her. It had forced her to see herself again for who she really was—Claire Elise Laurent, daughter of Gustave and Abella Laurent. Her father, an art dealer who had made his living selling fraudulent paintings from a second-rate gallery. And her maman, the gifted, but misguided, artist who had painted them.

  But even more than showing her who she was—Claire’s throat thickened with unshed tears—seeing him had revealed who she wanted to be. Herself, only, truer. More honest. Without the past dogging her heels and without the feeling that, at any moment, her old self could show up and wreak havoc. But how did she become that person she wanted to be without sacrificing everything she now enjoyed?

  The path ahead opened as she’d hoped it would. She dismounted and stood close to Athena, holding the mare’s bridle and looking out across the valley, feeling small and insignificant. And yet, strangely, not as alone as she’d once felt.

  Belmont sprawled below, the mansion and grounds professing a different kind of splendor when viewed from this height. The flourish of fall was only days away and she wished the canvases and paints she’d ordered would hurry up and arrive. Not that she would have time to paint now.