Leslie LaFoy by Come What May

slipped to an entirely new plane. Then her skirt had caught fire and, when the flames had been put out, she'd taken his hand in hers and asked Wyndom to get some snow so that she could ease his pain. So genuinely caring. So gentle and yet determined. Yes, now that he thought back, he remembered that he'd felt something in his brain snap in that instant.
    “I am assuming,” Elsbeth said, intruding on his thoughts, “that since your uncle had two thousand pounds to loan Wyndom, you must be accustomed to living in great style, Mistress Curran. Our simple fare must be a considerable disappointment to you.”
    “Not at all,” he heard Claire reply from his side. As he blinked and struggled to bring his awareness back to the reality of the dining room, she added, “Food is food and I'm always grateful to have some put in front of me, Mistress…”
    “Whittington,” Elsbeth regally supplied.
    The tone of her voice sparked Devon's anger and freed him from the tangle of his thoughts. “Everyone addresses her as Elsbeth,” he said, gesturing for Claire to precede him to the table. “You may do the same.”
    “With all due respect, Devon,” his aunt shot back, “the choice of how I wish to be addressed by Mistress Curran is mine to make.”
    He carefully placed the plate before a chair, then stepped behind it to help seat Claire. She shot him a quick look as she smoothed her skirts and settled herself. She was clearly aware of his tension and just as clearly apprehensive about her role in causing it; hecould see the regret dulling the light of her eyes. Damn Elsbeth. Her one true talent was a gift for creating difficulties.
    He was easing Claire close to the table when he had sufficient control of his anger to calmly reply, “With all due respect, Aunt Elsbeth, I am the master of this household. Claire is my wife. You are my mother's sister.” He stepped back to the buffet to pick up a plate for himself as he continued, “You are not Claire's social equal and she will not be expected to address you as such. You, on the other hand, will address her as Madam Rivard until she gives you leave to do otherwise.”
    “Which brings up a rather pressing concern I've been considering since this afternoon,” Wyndom interjected in the breezy way he always used when trying to ease a taut exchange. “Might I inquire as to how we're going to manage conversations having two Madam Rivards under one roof? It could easily become a very sticky web, you know. Having two Mr. Rivards is already complicated enough.”
    He watched his brother cross to the table and set his plate down in the place beside Claire. “And we certainly wouldn't want to tax your brain any more than necessary,” Devon muttered darkly.
    “If I might make a suggestion?” Claire asked, turning in her chair to meet his gaze. She offered him a smile to go with the plea shimmering in her eyes. “As Wyndom has pointed out, there's already a Madam Rivard in residence. And since I'm to be here for only a short while, perhaps everyone could address me—and refer to me—simply as Claire.”
    “Perhaps we could call you Lady Claire,” Wyndom offered, his face alight as he plopped unceremoniously onto the chair. “I like that. It has a certain elegance to it, don't you think?”
    Claire turned to face the younger man, and while Devon couldn't see her face from his vantage point, hecould hear an apologetic smile framing her words as she answered, “Unfortunately, the title isn't appropriate.”
    “Clearly,” Elsbeth muttered under her breath as she helped herself to the green beans. Devon glared at her and considered planting a boot on her hem so that with her next step she ended up on the floor with her face in her food. God, she brought out the worst in him. She always had.
    “I was known as Lady Claire as a child, but baronial titles aren't hereditary and it was forfeited at my father's passing.”
    “Your father was a baron?” his mother asked, crossing to the