Let Dalton spill the truth about her list to him; she just hoped he would. If she knew men—and she did, with ten older brothers to instruct her—his knowing she had compiled a list with his name on it would fire both his anger and his interest. His pride would be pricked, as would his manly desire to win at any game, any competition. And so he would compete—to be her husband. She would have her Irish estate and, if Montwyn did as she expected, a husband who didn’t smell like a dirty dish.
—
Dalton met Lindley in the foyer as he was pulling on his new gloves. He was in fine mettle and it showed.
“Rest easily, Lindley; I’d wager Clarissa will choose Montwyn within the week, if Montwyn can be properly encouraged to offer for her.”
“Really?” Lindley asked, trying to decide just when this decision on Clarissa’s part could have taken place. Of course, there was Beau to entice to the altar as well. If Clarissa was of a mind to accept Montwyn, there was no time to waste in getting Beau to offer for her. She was so changeable lately that any delay could ruin the whole arrangement.
Dalton hurried out, every item of clothing in perfect place, to find Montwyn and do his cheerful best to push him into matrimony.
Lindley, unfortunately, did not know this and left hurriedly on exactly the same errand.
Only Russell, who had heard the short exchange from the study, was of a different mind. It was obvious to him that both Dalton and Lindley were well-disposed to having Montwyn a part of their family. He, however, was much less certain of the man’s worth as Clarissa’s husband. Montwyn had a reputation as a hard man, and Clarissa, with her outspoken ways, would have an easier time of it with a milder sort of fellow. Certainly Clarissa could be convinced of this bald truth.
He approached her door quietly, only to hear her talking softly with Perry. It didn’t sound the sort of conversation one intruded upon, and so he left to make his way to Montwyn, to put him off Clarissa, by whatever means he could find, and onto another girl. Young Mary Beckham was a lovely girl of sweet temperament and radiant complexion. If he were in the market for a wife, he’d be easily induced to look her way. He could not imagine that Montwyn would see her any differently.
He had forgotten completely how blind a brother could be to his sister’s appeal.
—
“Is it possible that you are unaware how completely ridiculous the entire idea is?” Perry asked, as close to fury as he had ever come. “You’ve made a list? That is absolutely not the way to choose a husband. What if none of the men on your list offers for you? What good then, Clarissa?”
“Not offer?” She laughed. “They’ll all offer for me. What is wrong with you to have so little faith in me?”
“And if they do, then whom will you pick if all are equal upon your list?”
Perry reached over and took the list from the table, reading aloud.
“Benson, Esherton, and Montwyn! They’re all impossible; surely you can see that, Clarissa. How have you compiled this list, for such unsuitable men to be grouped together so cozily?”
“They are not unsuitable,” she snapped. How could he put Beau in with Benson? Was it possible that a man did not see a suitor in the same light as a woman would? Could any man, even Perry, be that blind? “And I’ve compiled my list by priorities. My priorities. Land in Ireland is my first concern. His owning an estate in Ireland is more important than anything.”
“It must be for Montwyn to appear on your list.”
“Why else would he be there?” she said stiffly. “I simply must return to Ireland, Perry. You, of all people, should understand that.”
Perry sat down next to her and took her hand in his. “I don’t want you to go back,” he said gently. “I don’t want it to be so important to you.”
“But it is,” she said, stroking his hand. “I must go back.”
Perry dropped his head and sighed. “Are you still having the dream?”
Images jolted into her mind’s eye at the question, unwelcome images of red coats and bright blood and blazing fire. Swirling and unwelcome shades of red burned behind her eyes. And then screams and gunfire and explosion; the sounds of war and battle and pain. All were viewed from above, as if she had no part in it. But she was a part, had been a part, could not forget. She would never forget the screams of a dying man, the eyes of an English soldier.
She forced herself to keep her expression calm as she answered, “Not as much.”
Perry, it seemed, was unconvinced. “You should stay here,” he pronounced, and not for the first time. All her brothers were in agreement on that: keep Clarissa out of Ireland.
“If I am in Ireland again, the dream will leave me,” she said, standing and escaping his touch. She felt trapped and hated it; she should not feel trapped by Perry. He loved her.
“I don’t know why it would,” he said, his eyes never leaving her.
“It just would,” she insisted. “I must go back.”
“Albert will never allow it.”
“It will no longer be Albert’s decision,” she said softly, hiding her triumph.
“Your husband will leave you in Ireland while he lounges in England?” Perry asked mockingly. At her nod, he said, “It is at moments like this that I wonder how well you truly understand men, Clarissa.”
“I understand them well enough,” she said, and then laughed, breaking the somber mood. “Each one of these men will offer for me by year’s end.” And at that she was being conservative. She doubted it would take even two weeks. She would be married by Christmas.
“Even Montwyn?” Perry asked.
Clarissa smiled. “Even Montwyn.” Especially Montwyn.
—
Lindley called upon Beau at his home on Grosvenor Street and managed to catch him in.
“Well done, Beau,” he greeted upon being directed into Beau’s handsome library.
Beau rose from his chair at the greeting and said, “While I enjoy praise as earnestly as any man, for what am I being congratulated at this hour of the day?”
“Why, for your success with Clarissa,” Lindley said, a scowl just beginning to form at the evidence of Beau’s ignorance. “Whatever you have done must be working quite to your advantage, because she is more than half prepared to accept an offer of marriage from you.”
“Really?” Beau said with a bemused smile.
She was prepared to accept him? She’d be a damned fool not to, by his reckoning. He was quite aware that she was attracted to him; she hadn’t been adept at hiding that from him, not that he cared, in any regard. Still, Lindley had a right to be pleased; it would be a good union for all concerned. He was more than a sight pleased himself. He had come to London to find a wife, and he had done so rather expeditiously, not wasting time when his duty was to get an heir at all speed. Perhaps he’d have a son by Christmas next.
Yes, he was quite pleased with the way events were progressing. Lindley had an air of being almost relieved to have the matter of Clarissa settled, and well he should be; Clarissa was ravishing, true, but she was a bit of a scold. Not a proper sort of wife for every man, but he was more than certain that he would manage her most efficiently.
—
He had almost reached the stables when Russell Walingford greeted him. Truly, London seemed awash in Walingfords since Clarissa had come to town to find a husband. Beau greeted him cordially, as befitted a future brother, and waited civilly while Russell came to the point. He was beyond certain that Clarissa would be mentioned.
He was wrong.
“I noticed how prettily Miss Maria Belgrave played. Did you not also make note of it? A lovely young woman, is she not?”
“I would not disagree,” Beau said with a mental shrug.
“So many young women to meet this season, Lord Montwyn,” Russell said, pressing the point. “Delightful parties and splendid dinners abound, wouldn’t you say? A shame for a man to cut himself off, so to speak, so early in the season.”
“Cut himself off?” Beau re
peated heavily. “I do not comprehend you.”
“Have you not met Lady Mary Beckham? A most delightful girl. She is to be at the Mongrave dinner, to which I am certain you have received an invitation.”
“Is that where the Walingfords will be spending their evening?” Beau asked.
Russell cleared his throat before answering, “I do not believe so, but you should avail yourself of the invitation. Mary is a stellar woman of rare beauty and pleasing deportment.”
“Then allow me to encourage you to attend the Mongrave dinner, so that you may better enjoy the company of Lady Mary,” Beau said, striving to maintain his cordiality.
“It was your own enjoyment that prompted me, Lord Montwyn,” Russell said. “You would be rewarded in pleasure by spending time in Mary’s company.”
How much more pleasure he would have received if he had not understood Russell’s intent; he was obviously trying to dissuade him from Clarissa by throwing Mary Beckham, or any other young woman, in his path. What to make of this state of events when Lindley, not half an hour since, had hailed him on, encouraging him to finish the task he had started when first he came to London and beheld Clarissa?
According to Lindley, Clarissa was his. According to Russell, he should look elsewhere. But perhaps Russell was not privy to Clarissa’s thoughts… and perhaps Lindley was not either. Perhaps it was only that Lindley voiced his own wish. Blast! These Walingfords were a bedeviling lot, Clarissa the worst of all with her bold talk and mischievous air. He should forget her and give Mary Beckham a look, find a wife of a more demure nature and submissive demeanor.
He should, but he would not.
How could he, having met Clarissa?
—
He had excused himself—rather abruptly, if he must admit it—from Russell and proceeded to the stables. A good ride in the park was just the thing to clear his head and illuminate his resolve. His mount was reliable and of an easy temperament and just as eager for a run in the cold winter air as his master. Beau gave him his head and threw out all thoughts but the pure joy of riding a good horse. Clarissa and her brothers would be managed in their own time. For the moment he wanted to be free of the responsibility of making a good marriage and the necessity of producing an heir to secure Montwyn for future generations.
It was a burden that had belonged to his older brother, William, and William had borne it cheerfully. But William had died of a fever without issue, his widow had remarried, and now it fell to Beau to carry on. He had never wished for the duty. He had taken up a commission in the regiment and found joy there. He had resigned his commission and taken up a life of gaming and women and found joy there. He was now called upon to resign his life of decadence and assume the role of Lord of Montwyn. He only hoped he could find some small measure of joy in it.
Meeting Clarissa had given him hope. He had to marry and to marry a certain type of woman, of certain family and certain position, and such women were generally of the same type: quiet, demure, and biddable. Certainly there were benefits to having such a woman in a man’s life, but the drawbacks gleamed more brightly. He did not want to share his life with a woman of little more spirit and fire than a babe. He suspected that such a woman would drown a man with her constant need for guidance and direction. And, for all that it was unfashionable, he wanted a wife with whom he could converse.
Clarissa had a tongue in her head and the brain to wield it in a most entertaining manner.
He did not think he would ever grow bored with Clarissa.
He was certain Clarissa was the ideal choice.
He was equally certain, most of the time, that Clarissa saw him in the same light.
Of what could she complain? He was well propertied, well titled, well fixed, and… he did not want her to want him for those reasons. Blast, but he would have her wanting him for himself and not what he brought to the union, though it went against all logic for him to wish it. Should he even want a woman who would throw all sense aside to listen to her heart? No, and yet he did.
And no matter what Russell said, he was certain that she wanted him for those things that could not be listed on a clerk’s ledger. That is, he was certain most of the time.
All good intentions aside, he had not been able to leave Clarissa and her brothers behind him on his ride. Still, it had been good to get out into the air. He felt better for it.
Until he saw Dalton waiting for him at the stable as he returned his mount.
“I hate to say it, since I consider you a friend,” Dalton said with a huge grin, “but you seem to be something of a fool, Beau.”
Beau dismounted and handed the horse off to the groom.
“In the name of that friendship, I will refrain from calling you out,” Beau said with the barest hint of a smile.
Dalton bowed. “Thank you, Lord Montwyn. But you have been fool enough to let it be known that you were in the possession of an Irish estate, and that has put you firmly on her list.”
“List?” Beau said as he walked out, Dalton matching his stride.
“Oh, yes, let me inform you of the method that my darling sister is implementing in her quest to obtain for herself the ideal husband.”
“You mock her, yet it shows sense,” Beau said. Perhaps his personal attributes were mentioned on the list.
“Oh, good sense, I will agree,” Dalton said, laughing. “At the top of her list is the necessity for her future husband to be the lord of an Irish estate. The second requirement, which naturally follows and which you can hardly debate the wisdom of, is an annual income of not less than thirty thousand pounds a year, for how can an Irish estate be maintained for less?”
“In addition to a home or two in England,” Beau added calmly. “She shows a rare inclination for management. You must give my compliments to your sister.”
Dalton merely smiled and kept walking, swinging his stick most irritatingly.
She wanted him; that matched with Lindley’s impression. But for his Irish lands? He would not believe it. He had seen her eyes when she looked at him and watched the thrumming of her blood in the slender stem of her throat; she wanted him. Let her tell her brothers that it was his Irish lands that compelled her to him, if it suited her, but he knew the spark of female interest when it landed in his lap, so to speak. She had him on her shopping list of possible husbands for more flattering reasons than property and income.
“Our Clarissa,” Dalton said, “is a very clever, very levelheaded girl. No limp sentiment for her. I will deliver your compliments to my sister, Lord Montwyn.”
Dalton bowed and left Beau at Grosvenor Place and Piccadilly. Beau did not return the bow; he walked on, more determined than ever to prove, at least to himself, how very wrong Clarissa was if she thought to have him for his property alone.
—
Another evening’s entertainment to be readied for. In truth, she found she was looking forward to it. She was more than certain that Beau would be there, and the knowledge made her preparations all the more enjoyable. Tonight she would wear the pale green gown with light pink and wine red embroidered blossoms strewn about the neckline; the ruby necklace from her mother would do well with it.
Albert requested entry as she was choosing her gloves and fan; she kept her manner light, though she could feel her heart sink within her chest.
“Good evening, Clarissa,” Albert said, choosing to remain standing though Clarissa had offered him a chair. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but have you met anyone who might be suitable?”
Uncharitable thoughts and hard words rose in her mind, but she subdued them. Instead she tossed him her list with a carelessness she did not feel. Let her list speak for her. He would see how far he had pushed her. He would see to what lengths she had been driven in the name of familial duty and feminine submission.
She regally pulled on a glove as she awaited his declamations of sorrow, regret, and guilt.
“I commend you, Clarissa,” Albert said. She turned to face him. His face was radiant
with joy and pride. “You display a level of intelligence about the whole matter of choosing a spouse that I find wholly admirable. If more young women were of your caliber, Britain would have more productive marriages. In fact, I can think of a few names you may have overlooked in ignorance. You will allow me to add them?” Clarissa nodded dumbly. “Lord Chister has a lovely park in Tipperary as well as a small manor in France, now under dispute, of course, but that may right itself and must be considered, don’t you think?”
“Naturally,” Clarissa managed stiffly. “A manor in France would be delightful.”
“And then there is old Lord Baring, who is of an age to need a nurse more than a wife, but one cannot ignore the fact that he is in possession of the finest estate in Kildare. I can see you now in his yellow salon… a striking portrait, if I do say. You are a clever girl to keep your head about you so well when so many girls flit off with the first pretty man with curling hair who happens to bow before them. Well, I won’t detain you, seeing that you have the matter so well in hand. Given your abilities, I should not be surprised by a Christmas wedding, I tell you. Well done, Clarissa!”
He strode to the door of her chamber, and she could hardly find the words to bid him good night.
“You are satisfied, then?” she managed to say.
Albert turned at the door and considered her. She looked as forlorn as a pup in the rain, though he knew she was unaware of it. “More than satisfied—proud, if you must know. You are being remarkably reasonable about the whole business. Most gratifying. Shows the makings of a splendid wife.” And he turned and left.
Once in the privacy of the hall, Albert gave in to the laugh he had been swallowing for the past ten minutes. Gad, that should do it. She’d drop the whole notion of the list now that she had been commended for it.
He hadn’t missed the significance of Montwyn’s name appearing with the rest. Oh, yes, the man had an Irish estate, but he was also well titled and of a firm and unyielding temperament: perfect for his young sister. That was a match well made; he could hardly have done better himself for her.