Love is Blind
Chapter One
London, England, 1818
" 'Love is a fever... in my blood.'"
Clarissa Crambray winced as those words trembled in the air. Truly, this had to be the worst of the poems Lord Prudhomme had recited since arriving at her father's town house an hour ago.
Had it been only an hour? In truth it felt more like several days had passed since the elderly man arrived. He'd entered brandishing a book, announcing with triumph that, rather than go for their usual walk, he thought perhaps today she'd enjoy his reading to her. And Clarissa would have, had he chosen to read something other than this poppycock. She also would have appreciated it more were he not acting as though he were doing her a favor.
For all his words, Clarissa was not fooled. She knew the reason for the sudden change in plans. The man
was hoping to avoid calamity by restricting her to sitting decorously on the settee while he read aloud from his book of poems. It would appear that even the aged and sympathetic Prudhomme was growing tired of her continued accidents.
She couldn't really blame him; he'd been terribly forbearing up until now. Almost a saint, to be honest. Certainly he'd shown more understanding and fortitude than her other suitors. He'd appeared to accept and forgive all the times she'd mistaken his fat little legs for a table and set her tea on them, had given a pained smile through her tendency to dance on his feet, and had even put up with her stumbling and tripping as he led her on walks through the park. Or so it had seemed. But today he'd found a way to save himself from all that. Unfortunately, his choice of reading material left much to be desired. Clarissa would rather be making a fool of herself in the park and stumbling face-first into the cake table than suffering this drivel.
"'It gives me wings like those of a dove.'" Lord Prudhomme's voice quavered with passion ... or possibly just old age; Clarissa wasn't sure which. Truly, the man was old enough to be her grandfather. Unfortunately, that didn't matter to her stepmother, Lydia. The woman had promised to John Crambray that she'd see his daughter well married if it killed them both. Lord Prudhomme was the last of the few suitors still bothering with her. At this point, it looked like they were safe from dying. However, Clarissa was in imminent danger of finding herself married to the elderly gentleman kneeling on the floor before her and waving his arms wildly as he professed undying love.
" 'I shall vow my'... er... 'my'--Lady Clarissa," Lord Prudhomme interrupted himself. "Pray, move the can
dle closer if you please. I am having trouble deciphering this word."
Clarissa blinked away her ennui and squinted toward her suitor. Prudhomme was a dark blob in her vision with a round, pink blur of a face topped by a silvery cloud of hair.
"The candle, girl," he said impatiently, all signs of the charming suitor momentarily replaced with irritation.
Clarissa squinted at the candle on the table beside her, picked it up, and leaned dutifully forward.
"Much better," Prudhomme said with satisfaction. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes. 'I shall vow my undying ...'" He paused again and his nose twitched. "Do you smell something burning?"
Clarissa sniffed delicately at the air. She opened her mouth to say yes, actually she did, but before the words left her mouth Prudhomme released a shriek. Pulling back with surprise at the sound, she watched in amazement as the man suddenly leaped to his feet and began to hop madly about, his blurry arms flying and appearing to thrash at his head. Clarissa didn't understand what was happening until the white blur that was his wig was suddenly removed and beat furiously against his leg. She blinked at the pink blob that was his head, then at his actions, and realized she must have held the candle too close--she'd set his wig aflame.
"Oh, dear." Clarissa set the candle down, not releasing it until she knew it was safely on the table surface. Her vision blurred and her sense of distance beggared, she nearly knocked the little man over as she leaped up to help him.
"Get away from me!" Prudhomme yelled, shoving her backward.
Clarissa fell back in her chair and stared at him in blind amazement, then glanced sharply toward the door as a rustling announced the arrival of someone.
Several someones, she amended, squinting at the array of colors and shapes standing just inside the door. It looked as if every servant in the house had heard Prudhomme's shrieks and come running. No doubt her stepmother was there as well, Clarissa thought, and heaved a small sigh at the subsequent shocked silence. She couldn't see well enough to know if those by the door were staring at her with pity or accusation, but she didn't need eyesight to guess at Prudhomme's expression. His rage was a living thing. It reached out to her across the few feet separating them, and then he exploded with verbal vitriol.
He was so angry, most of what Prudhomme said ran together into one mostly incomprehensible rant. Clarissa managed to decipher bits here and there-- "clumsy idiot," "bloody disaster," and "danger to society" amongst them--but then, in the midst of his rant, she saw his dark arm rise and descend toward her. Clarissa froze, afraid he might be lashing out, but she wasn't at all sure. It was so hard to tell without her spectacles.
By the time his fist got close enough that Clarissa could see that he was indeed attempting to strike her, it was too late to avoid the blow. Fortunately, the others had apparently suspected he was winding up, and had moved closer while he spoke. Several of them descended on the man mid-swing, preventing the blow. There was a blurry blending and shifting of color before her as they struggled. Clarissa heard Prudhomme's curses and a grunt from one of the shapes, whom she suspected was Ffoulkes, the butler. Then
there was much cursing as the kaleidoscope blur of bodies began to shift toward the door.
"Fie! Shame on you, Lord Prudhomme," Clarissa's stepmother cried, her voice clearly distressed as her lilac blur followed the mass of other colors to the door, then she added anxiously, "I hope once you calm down you shall see your way clear to forgiving Clarissa. I am sure she did not mean to set your wig on fire."
Clarissa sank back in her chair with a sigh of disgust. She couldn't believe that her stepmother would still hope to make a match with the man. She'd set his wig on fire, for heaven's sake! And he'd tried to hit her! Though Clarissa should have known better than to think that would put Lydia off making a match. What did her stepmother care if she ended up married to an abusive mate? ,
"Clarissa!"
Sitting up abruptly, she turned to peer warily around as the lilac blur that was Lydia reentered the room and slammed the door behind her.
"How could you?"
"I did not do it on purpose, Lydia," Clarissa said at once. "And it would never have happened at all if you would just let me wear my spectacles. Surely being graceful, even with spectacles, will get me more suitors than--"
"Never!" Lydia snapped. "How many times have I to tell you that girls with spectacles simply do not find husbands? I know of what I speak. It is better to be a little clumsy than bespectacled."
"I set his wig on fire!" Clarissa cried with disbelief. "That is more than a little clumsy, and really, this is beyond ridiculous now. 'Tis becoming dangerous. He could have been badly burned."
'Yes. He could have. Thank the good Lord he was not," Lydia said, sounding suddenly calm. Clarissa nearly moaned aloud. She had quickly come to learn that when her stepmother went calm, it did not bode well for her.
Chapter Two
"Mowbray! Been a while since you bothered with the season. What brings you to town?"
Lord Adrian Montfort, Earl of Mowbray, shifted his gaze from the couples whirling past on the dance floor and to the man who approached: the tall, fair, eminently good-looking Reginald Greville. He and Greville, his cousin, had once been the best of friends. However, time and distance had weakened th
e bond-- with a little help from the war with France, Adrian thought bitterly. Ignoring Reginald's question, he offered a somewhat rusty smile in greeting, then turned his gaze back to the men and women swinging elegantly about the dance floor. He replied instead, "Enjoying the season, Greville?"
"Certainly, certainly. Fresh blood. Fresh faces."
"Fresh victims," Mowbray said dryly, and Reginald laughed.
"That too." Reginald was well-known for his success
in seducing young innocents. Only his title and money kept him from being forced out of town.
Shaking his head, Adrian gave that rusty smile again. "I wonder you never tire of the chase, Reg. They all look sadly similar to me. I would swear these were the very same young women who were entering their first season the last time I attended. . . and the time before that, and the time before that."
His cousin smiled easily, but shook his head. "It has been ten years since you bothered to come to town, Adrian. Those women are all married and bearing fruit, or well on their way to spinsterhood."
"Different faces, same ladies," Adrian said with a shrug.
"Such cynicism!" Reg chided. 'You sound old, old man."
"Older," Adrian corrected. "Older and wiser."
"No. Just old," Reg insisted with a laugh, his own gaze turning to the mass of people moving before them. "Besides, there are a couple of real lovelies this year. That blonde, for instance, or that brunette with Chalmsly."
"Hmmm." Adrian looked the two women over. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but my guess is that the brunette--lovely as she is--doesn't have a thought in her head. Rather like that Lady Penelope you seduced when last I was here."
Reg's eyes widened in surprise at the observation.
"And the blonde ..." Adrian continued, his gaze raking the woman in question and taking in her calculating look. "Born of parents in trade, lots of money, and looking for a tide to go with it. Rather like Lily Ainsley. Another of your conquests."
"Dead-on," Reginald admitted, looking a bit incredulous. His gaze moved between the two women and then he gave a harsh laugh. "Now you have quite ruined it for me. I was considering favoring one or both of them with my attentions. But now you have made them quite boring." He frowned a moment and then perked up. "All, I know one woman you cannot size up so easily."
Grabbing Adrian's arm, he tugged him around the room, pausing only once they'd reached the opposite side.
"There!" he said with satisfaction. "The girl in the yellow muslin gown. Lady Clarissa Crambray. I defy you to find someone from the last season you were here to compare her to."
Adrian looked over the girl in question. Tiny-- delicate-looking, in fact--and lovely as a newly blooming rose, she had dark chestnut hair, a heart-shaped face, large wide eyes, full lips . . . and appeared about as miserable as he'd ever seen a young woman, a state he suspected had something to do with the older woman at her side. His gaze slid over the matron. Well-rounded with dark hair, she was pretty despite the bloom of youth being gone--or she would be if she weren't wearing a pursed, dissatisfied expression as she surveyed the activity in the ballroom. Adrian glanced back to the girl.
"First season?" he queried, his curiosity piqued.
"Yes." Reg looked amused.
"Why is no one dancing with her?" A beauty such as this should have had a full card.
"No one dares ask her--and you will not either, if you value your feet."
Adrian's eyebrows rose, his gaze turning reluctantly from the young woman to the man at his side.
"She is blind as a bat and dangerous to boot," Reg announced, nodding when Adrian looked disbelieving. "Truly, she cannot dance a step without stomping on your toes and falling about. She cannot even walk without bumping into things." He paused, cocking one eyebrow in response to Adrian's expression. "I know you do not believe it. I did not either . . . much to my own folly."
Reginald turned to glare at the girl and continued: "I was warned, but ignored it and took her in to dinner. ..." He glanced back at Adrian. "I was wearing dark brown trousers that night, unfortunately. She mistook my lap for a table, and set her tea on me. Or rather, she tried to. It overset and ..." Reg paused, shifting uncomfortably at the memory. "Damn me if she did not burn my piffle."
Adrian stared at his cousin and then burst into laughter.
Reginald looked startled, then smiled wryly. 'Yes, laugh. But if I never sire another child--legitimate or not--I shall blame it solely on Lady Clarissa Crambray."
Shaking his head, Adrian laughed even harder, and it felt so good. It had been many years since he'd found anything the least bit funny. But the image of the delicate little flower along the wall mistaking Reg's lap for a table and oversetting a cup of tea on him was priceless.
"What did you do?" he got out at last.
Reg shook his head and raised his hands helplessly. "What could I do? I pretended it had not happened, stayed where I was, and tried not to cry with the pain. 'A gentleman never deigns to notice, or draw attention in any way to, a lady's public faux pas,'" he quoted dryly, then glanced back at the girl with a sigh. "Truth to tell, I do not think she even realized what
she'd done. Rumor has it she can see fine with spectacles, but she is too vain to wear them."
Still smiling, Adrian followed Reg's gaze to the girl. Carefully taking in her wretched expression, he shook his head.
"No. Not vain," he announced, watching as the older woman beside Lady Clarissa murmured something, stood, and moved away.
"Well," Reg began, but paused when, ignoring him, Adrian moved toward the girl. Shaking his head, he muttered, "I warned you."
"Refrain from squinting, please."
Despite the inclusion of the word please, it was not a request but an order, and one Clarissa was heartily sick of hearing. If her stepmother would simply allow her to wear spectacles, she would have no need to squint. She would also not be constantly bumping into things and people. But no, of course she must not wear her spectacles. That would put off suitors.
As if my clumsiness does not, Clarissa thought wearily, and she grimaced inwardly over some of the accidents she'd had since arriving in London. Aside from upending tea trays and missing tables with her plates, she'd taken a terrible tumble down the stairs at a ball. Fortunately, she hadn't hurt herself overmuch, suffering only bruises and stiffness but nothing broken. Then there'd been the little incident of falling out in front of a moving carriage, and of course, recently, setting Lord Prudhomme's wig on fire.
Another sigh slid from her lips as Clarissa recalled Lydia's lecture after the last accident. Her stepmother had decided that--as she was so blind and clumsy without her spectacles--there was only one way for
Clarissa to go on. In the future, she was allowed only to sit quietly when in the presence of others. She was not to touch candles, cups, plates, or, well, basically anything. She was no longer to eat in company, but was to claim she was not hungry--whether she was or not. Neither was she to drink. Even walking was out, unless she had her maid to lead her.
Clarissa had cut into this lecture several times with, "But if you would only allow me to wear my spectacles--" But each time, Lydia had responded with a grim, "Never!" And then she had continued on with all the other things Clarissa was to avoid.
By the time Lydia was finished, all Clarissa was supposed to do in the presence of others was sit looking serene . . . which supposedly meant no squinting.
Clarissa turned her gaze away from the shapes swinging past on the dance floor to stare wearily at the pale pink blur of her hands in the yellow haze of her lap. She wished--not for die first time--that her father had accompanied them on this trip. Were Lord Crambray here, she'd have her glasses and be able to properly enjoy the evening. Unfortunately, he'd had estate business to attend. At least that was what he'd claimed, though her father had never much cared for the city, and the claim of estate business might just have been an excuse. Clarissa didn't know. All she knew was that he wasn't here, and it was going to be another boring
night.
"May I have this dance?"
Clarissa heard the request, but didn't bother to look up. Why should she? It wasn't as if she could see anything anyway. Instead, she waited unhappily for her stepmother to speak, wondering the whole while who
this stranger was that he had not heard of her. Anyone who had heard the tales of her clumsiness surely would not approach.
Realizing that Lydia hadn't yet politely declined the request on her behalf by saying she was too tired, or whatever excuse she would choose, Clarissa glanced to her side with a frown. She found that the pink blur that was Lydia was no longer there. And when a black shape suddenly moved into her stepmother's seat, Clarissa sat back with a start.
A frown forming on her face, she turned, blindly searching the haze of colors around her for her stepmother's bright pink shape.
"I believe the lady who was sitting here a moment ago went off in search of food." The deep voice was so close to her ear that Clarissa felt the man's breath on her delicate lobe. Suppressing a shiver, she turned her attention quickly back to the gentleman at her side. He had lovely, deep, gravelly tones that she found pleasing, and his blurred form appeared quite large. For the millionth time, Clarissa wished she had her spectacles and could see.
"Did she not tell you where she was going?" he asked. "I thought I saw her speak to you before leaving."
Clarissa blushed slightly, and quickly returned her gaze to the smear of movement that was the dance floor, admitting, "She may have. I fear I was distracted by my thoughts and not paying attention."
While she had a vague recollection of Lydia murmuring something to her, Clarissa had been sunk too deep in misery to pay much heed. It was humiliating to sit here catching bits of conversation as people gossiped unkindly about her. Her clumsiness was apparently quite the joke of the season. She'd earned the moniker Clumsy Clarissa, and everyone was wondering what she would do next to entertain them.
"They say you are as blind as a bat, and too vain to wear spectacles," the voice beside her announced.
Clarissa blinked in surprise. But if she was taken aback by his bluntness, she suspected she was no more so than the speaker himself. She heard a small gasp of breath as he finished, as if he'd just realized what he'd said. A quick glance to the side showed that he'd raised his hand as if to cover his mouth.