At her departure, the room broke up quickly, for none cared to stay and face his own comeuppance with Albert. If he had been a man of milder and softer temperament, he might have evoked pity, but he did not. He had been the head of the family—a family that consisted of nine younger brothers and Clarissa—for ten years. It was a burden he was accustomed to, one that he had been trained for all his life. If only his siblings would take to their traces as he had taken to his.
Jane entered as he stood in silent contemplation, his dark eyes studying the view of the garden through the glass. All was cold and gray and wet, yet the sundial gave the garden form and weight when all was leafless and bare. He had once enjoyed planning gardens, before he had been required to oversee the lives of his brothers. And Clarissa. Wild, impetuous Clarissa.
“Tell me your thoughts, Jane,” he said softly, his face still to the glass. “What of Montwyn?”
Jane shrugged, and he saw the faint reflection of the gesture in the wavering glass. “You are worried. You need not be.”
“You heard what she said to him?”
“No,” Jane said cautiously. “But I did observe them from my place near the fire, and the air between them did not seem hostile.”
“Not hostile? When she blatantly told him that she was shopping for a husband?”
—
Jane swallowed before she answered. “Lord Montwyn seems a capable, forthright man. I do not think such bantering will dissuade him.”
“Dissuade him?” Albert turned to her. “Was he that interested, and so soon?”
“Let me not misspeak,” she said softly. “I think him a man of firmness, of maturity. I think that if Lord Montwyn is at all interested in Clarissa, a few thoughtless words from her will not subdue that interest.”
“You have always been observant,” he said. “Let us hope you are right. I would not have her season so quickly spoiled.”
“Nor would I,” she agreed.
With a nod, he gazed back out at his frozen garden. Jane, without another word, left him to his contemplation.
In Lackington’s, Beau spotted her immediately. Her dark red hair shone like bright embers against the dark green of her coat. But it was not her hair that drew him; it was her manner. Bright and sharp, feminine and soft, quick and proud— all mixed and blended to such confused refinement that he was able only to smile in bemusement at the contradiction of her.
He wanted her.
It was too soon for such a conclusion, yet it was no thoughtful, logical, intellectual process that brought him to the knowledge. It was instinct. Desire. Passion.
Poor yardsticks when choosing a wife. Yet so he found himself. He wanted her. With such a woman, having her required marriage. For her he was willing to pay the price, though it was high.
Propriety demanded a lengthier involvement before pronouncing his intent. Propriety demanded that he proceed slowly. Propriety demanded that he appear reasonable and methodical. He had never once considered the demands of propriety, and he saw no reason to begin now. The choice was made. Clarissa Walingford would be his wife, and the sooner the better.
He could not help wondering if she knew of their inevitable union as certainly as he did.
She did not.
She stood alone, Russell having taken himself off to another part of the shop while she conferred with the clerk. She felt his presence before she saw him, her breath quickening to match her pulse. It was a most inappropriate response to a man her logic had rejected. His arm appeared over her shoulder, and in his hand he held… a small square of embroidered linen.
“Do you like it?” he said, his words warm and soft on the back of her neck.
She turned to face him and held his green eyes with her gaze. She would not run from Lord Montwyn again, of that she was certain, though the urge to retreat from his proximity was strong. He was so very tall and broad, the shadow of his dark beard leaving a clear outline underneath his skin. She could see all so clearly, so intimately, and her heart raced. Against all logic her heart raced. But she would not run; she would instead compel him to run from her.
“A trifle ornate for my tastes, but then, it probably suits you.”
He smiled and tucked the bit of linen into a pocket in his coat. “Searching for a book on embroidery?”
“No. I am not,” she said, turning back to the clerk.
Montwyn moved to stand beside her and took the book she had been considering from her hands. His hands were large, his fingers long, his nails squared and clean. She looked away from his hands.
“A History of the Peloponnesian Wars,” he quoted. “Not in Greek?” he asked.
“No,” she said, lifting her chin.
“You disappoint me, miss.”
“With pleasure, sir,” she said with a sharp smile. “I’ll take it,” she said to the clerk. She had been debating choosing lighter reading; the debate within her ceased upon the arrival of Henry Wakefield. Where was Russell?
“Any more shopping to do?” Montwyn asked as the clerk wrapped the book and tallied the bill.
“Yes, but only for husbands,” she said, watching the book being wrapped, not watching him. But she could feel him, feel his strength, the power of his personality. He was most unwelcome. If only he had the sense to realize it.
Montwyn laughed with genuine pleasure. The man was an obvious imbecile.
“You think to shock me,” he said.
“Only if you find the truth shocking,” she answered.
“Never.” He smiled.
Even his smile was powerful. He was overwhelmingly masculine, a most unwelcome man.
“The truth,” he continued, “is always delightful and precious for its rarity.”
“That statement speaks volumes about you, sir. The truth is not rare, in my experience.”
“And that, miss, speaks volumes about your innocence.”
“I can only think you mean to insult me,” she said.
“Never,” he replied.
If not for his arrogance, his insults, his bone-deep Englishness, she might have found him attractive. But she did not. She would not. Where was Russell?
“Has your escort gone missing?” he asked, seeming to read her.
“My brother, Russell,” she answered, taking the package from the clerk and nodding her thanks.
“A Walingford I have yet to meet, and I have met so many.”
“Have you?” She smiled. “I rather doubt you have met us all. We are a rather large clan.”
“Clan? An odd way of putting it.”
“Not if one is Irish,” she said, walking away from him. He followed. He was either more arrogant than she had thought or more unintelligent. Perhaps he was both.
“And your being English is then what makes it odd. Is that not so, Lady Clarissa?”
Russell’s arrival, late but welcome, kept her from having to make a response to his most uncomfortable question and his most impertinent address.
The introductions were brief and cordial, both men seeming to take a liking to each other almost immediately. It was most irritating. They knew some of the same people, even shared common friends between them; when the conversation strolled in the direction of hunting parties, she loosed the reins on her strict and composed silence. Russell would no more build a friendship with this man than she would be ignored by him.
“I am certain that with all of your mutual acquaintances, there must be one among them who has a sister or a cousin of marriageable age who would be more than pleased to welcome Lord Montwyn into their company. I feel that his time would be so very well spent in such a gathering,” she said.
Russell, dear Russell, could only blink in shock.
Clarissa smiled, awaiting whatever answer Montwyn could think to give, oddly gratified to have his full attention once more. That was odd, was it not? That she should so want those green eyes of his to be looking fully at her? It was not the way of a woman who disdained a man, and she was too honest not to see the truth in herself
. She did not like Lord Montwyn. No, she did not. But… she did enjoy the time spent in his presence. He excited her as did no other. And that was something to ponder.
Montwyn smiled in the face of her challenge and her dismissal while she awaited his reply.
“I can only be eager to meet any woman of fine family and good name. Thank you for your avid attention to my needs; it speaks… volumes,” he said with a knowing smile, and without taking another breath he excused himself and left the shop.
Which only irritated her. She was to have made her exit first, leaving him behind, leaving him defeated. It would not happen again, of that she was determined.
“What were you thinking to speak so to Montwyn, Clarissa? I hope you haven’t offended him. He seems a likely chap, after all,” Russell said, taking her arm and guiding her out of Lackington’s.
Clarissa smiled and said with rueful respect for such a stellar exit, “Worry not, Russell. Lord Montwyn will be smiling for an hour.”
—
Dalton happened upon Beau in the glove maker’s shop. Montwyn was wearing an odd sort of half smile, which Dalton took note of but could not decipher. Whatever it was, Beau looked well pleased with himself and, knowing Beau as he did, Dalton could only conclude that Montwyn thought he had Clarissa well in hand. Such a conclusion would not do. An easy victory would only bore him, of that he was certain. Clarissa, nobly doing her part to cause Beau to trip at every turn, needed his help. He was only too glad to give it.
“You know, Beau, Kilworth’s cousin is out this season. A fine-looking girl with a pleasing countenance and gentle manner. Blond, I’ve heard, but whether the curls are natural, no one is offering. She would do for you, I think,” Dalton said, looking over Beau’s selection. “This gray pair doesn’t suit you, Montwyn, too pale.”
Beau looked at him askance and tossed the gray to the clerk with a nod, making his selection. “You know that I’ve been rather taken with your own sister, Dalton. Why fob off Kilworth’s cousin on me?”
“Just hate to see you settle in so soon, that’s all,” Dalton said. “Plenty of girls out this season. Clarissa isn’t right for just any man.”
“I am not ‘any’ man,” Beau said, selecting a bloodred pair of gloves.
“No, of course not,” Dalton said, holding up a pair of parrot green gloves and shuddering mildly before tossing them down. “But perhaps a girl of more… delicacy… would better suit. Marriage is a serious step. One must be certain of eventual contentment.”
“I am content with Clarissa.”
“But Clarissa is hardly likely to be content with you,” Dalton said, choosing a dark brown pair of gloves and nodding his decision to the clerk.
“I beg your pardon?” Beau asked, his voice as rigid as his posture.
“No insult intended, naturally,” Dalton said casually.
“Naturally,” Beau repeated with a stiff smile.
“For some strange reason, Clarissa has determined to marry only a man with Irish property. And you have nothing there, unless I am mistaken?”
“That’s blatantly ridiculous,” Beau grumbled, making a mess of the clerk’s carefully arranged selection. “Petulant. Outrageous.”
“I agree completely, and that is only another reason for you to discard Clarissa from your consideration, as fond as I am of her—”
“It so happens that I do hold an estate in Ireland,” Beau bit out, both angry and proud, it seemed to Dalton.
Dalton did an admirable job of appearing shocked. They really would have to get up more private theatricals to stretch his skill and give him the proper acclaim for his talent.
“Wouldn’t tell Clarissa ‘bout that. Would put you square in her sights,” Dalton said in grim warning.
Beau merely scowled at him.
Really, Beau was a most unsatisfying audience.
—
She’d consider him because he held Irish lands? Ridiculous. Absurd. She’d consider him—by God, she’d have him—for more reason than that. He had lands, yes, and income, and title—all important when making a match, and there was no shame for it to be considered bluntly and in the bold light of day. But for such a girl to weigh him on the scales of matrimonial worth and find him acceptable because of Irish lands and nothing more was… insulting.
He knew his worth. He was a well-built man with regular features and a not unpleasing manner. He’d had his share of victories with women, broken a heart or two when all was said and done; he’d be considered for more than his land. She’d take him for more than his land. And what was more, she’d admit it. He’d not have her marrying him with Irish lands in her thoughts.
If she married him. Beau frowned and silently cursed Dalton and his serpent’s tongue. And when he had calmed himself, he cursed Dalton again. It wouldn’t do for a brother of hers to be against the match; it was hard for a girl to go against her brother, though Clarissa looked the sort to do as she pleased when it pleased her. That stood in his favor. She was pleased by him, hide it though she would. He was not so dull as not to sense a woman’s interest in the very texture of his skin, and when he was near Clarissa Walingford, his skin very nearly burned. There was more to that than Irish lands.
Beau grunted and tugged at his cravat. Were all the brothers against a match between Walingford and Montwyn?
“Beau,” Lindley said, interrupting his thoughts. “Didn’t think to see you today,” he said, stopping, urging Beau to stop his striding walk. Beau stopped. Lindley looked eager to see him. Lindley looking completely eager was something.
“No, well, I was out… shopping,” Beau said with a tight smile.
“Yes, well,” Lindley said haltingly, “I didn’t know if you’d been invited to the Blakelys’ tonight.”
Beau said nothing; he merely waited, almost joyous at the look of eagerness on Lindley’s face. Lindley was clearly not against the match, but Lindley might be alone in that.
“Should be an enjoyable evening,” Lindley said. “Clarissa will be there. I hope to see you too.”
“I haven’t made my plans for the evening as yet,” Beau said cordially. He would not so boldly reveal his interest in Clarissa, not with so many uncertainties. It would not do for word of his intent to get back to Clarissa, feeding a confidence he did not want her to feel. This matter of the Irish lands would be settled.
“Really?” Lindley said, his own irritation mounting and displaying itself on his face. “I wish you a pleasant evening, whatever your diversion.”
“Thank you,” Beau said. “And you as well.”
Both men parted, one newly frustrated and one with renewed confidence. Beau was more than happy to pass his frustration regarding Clarissa off to Lindley, old friend though he was.
Chapter Three
She would wear the lavender silk tonight, and for jewels… Perry came in as she was deliberating.
“What do you think, Perry? The amethyst necklace or the pearl? I cannot decide,” she said, turning in her chair, her hands holding each selection aloft.
“I prefer the amethyst. All that sparkle,” he said, sitting down on a chair near her dressing table.
“Yes, so much easier to attract a husband when one ‘sparkles,’” she said, laying down the pearl necklace and arranging the amethysts around her exposed throat.
Another evening to be spent shopping for a husband. She sighed and checked the arrangement of her hair in the mirror. It was so much more pleasurable shopping for books. She had been reading her new book on the Peloponnesian wars all afternoon, and now her eyes were stinging with fatigue, but she had to go out tonight.
Actually, reading about battle was the perfect preparation for facing a roomful of Englishmen. Especially Montwyn. Would he be there? She smiled at her reflection, her brown eyes dancing with confidence. Of course he would be there. The idea of battling with him was the only excitement she would have all evening, and she was almost counting on him to make her night at the Blakelys’ worthwhile. She could entertain herself with
him while looking elsewhere for a husband.
“You sparkle enough without the aid of any jewels, Clarissa,” Perry said. “Montwyn seems fairly dazzled.”
He did, actually, and she hid her smile of satisfaction in the drawing on of a glove.
“Did you see him today?” she asked casually.
“Montwyn, you mean?”
She gave him a cross look for his clumsy attempt to rile her.
Perry shrugged and said, “Sorry. Yes, actually. Jane and I bumped into him on our way to the milliner’s. Jane let it be known that you were at Lackington’s—ridiculous if you ask me, since we weren’t talking of Lackington’s at all—and off he went. You saw him there?”
“Yes,” she said, standing and smoothing her skirt. “He was at Lackington’s.”
“He must be interested if he ran off there on just a word from Jane.”
“Of course he’s interested,” Clarissa said with a smile of satisfaction.
“But you’re not,” Perry said, standing with her, his face serious. “I think Montwyn rather rude and certainly inordinately proud.”
“Inordinately? Oh, I think him proud to an uncivil degree, but his pride may be well deserved,” Clarissa reluctantly defended.
“I’ve seen Montwyn Hall,” Perry said. “There’s enough pride for ten heirs in the Montwyn title. But there’s more to a man than his house.”
“Of course. There are his lands,” Clarissa said firmly. “A man must have good land, good Irish land.”
“And naught else?” Perry asked. “You seem interested in Montwyn, with or without Irish lands.”
“I am not interested,” she said, searching for a fan.
At Perry’s skeptical look, she said, “I am not. Have more faith in me, Perry. I have more sense than to choose such a man. He is too—” she shrugged—”bold a man. I am looking for a man who’ll burrow quietly in London and leave me contentedly in Ireland. There is nothing quiet about Montwyn, and he would never be able to content me.”
“I agree with you,” Perry said, standing near her bedroom door. “I wish I could believe you. You do sparkle when he’s near, Clarissa, and I know that look in you. More, I think Montwyn to be a man attracted to bright resistance. And you are just that.”