Resuming his characteristic stoic demeanor, Albert retired to his study to await the eventual—one could almost say inevitable—arrival of Lord Montwyn. One truth he had spoken: he anticipated a Christmas wedding. To be sure, Montwyn, from all that he had heard of the man, was not one to dally.
Chapter Five
The dinner was sumptuous, the company pleasing, the house spectacular, and Clarissa was trying very hard to appear to be enjoying herself. It did not help that the man seated to her right was Lord Baring, who was not only the possessor of the finest estate in Kildare, but of a very poorly designed set of false teeth. He was making quite a mess of his capon. She was trying desperately not to hear him wetly gumming the small bones of the bird in his mouth. Most unappetizing, even if his estate was glorious.
Matters were not helped in that Beau was seated halfway down and across the table next to a very pretty blond woman, Lady Elena Montaine, who appeared from this distance to be absolutely captivated by every utterance of Lord Montwyn. And Lord Montwyn appeared most gratified by her blatant attentions.
Clarissa felt the beginnings of a headache behind her right eye.
Small wonder.
Each of her brothers in residence had felt it imperative to impart special instruction, counsel, and advice into her ear before she left for the evening. Lindley had urged her not to be a lackwit and let Montwyn slip by her. Dalton had stopped her to point out that Montwyn’s Irish lands were very fine and that she wasn’t the only young woman out for her first season who would enjoy an estate in Ireland, or Montwyn himself, for that matter. Russell had been considerably gentler when he had reminded her that Montwyn was well known as a guest at some of the more questionable house parties, in season and out; something he well knew, as he was often at the same parties. Perry, her most devoted brother, had warned her not to allow Montwyn to get so firm a hold on her attentions that all other possible suitors would bolt before the game had been played out. Though each bit of advice was as different as her brothers were different, the common thread was Montwyn himself.
Had the field narrowed so drastically and so soon, then?
Had it really all come down to Henry Wakefield?
Past the slippery sound of Lord Baring’s crunching, she watched Beau. His dark hair was thick and shining, his brow noble and high, his eyes intelligent; he was a most handsome man. Tall, broad in the shoulder, trim in the waist, and powerful. He was a most powerful man. He was magnificent, and, of course, he had those very necessary Irish lands.
Lady Elena, rapt at his side, laughed sweetly at something he said, and Beau smiled his response to her.
Awareness surged through her as completely as a shiver. She wanted that smile to be for her. She wanted those eyes to look only at her. She wanted his attention and his conversation and his regard.
And as she was filled with wanting, Beau looked away from his dinner companion and stared straight into her eyes. Unerringly, he pinned her with a look. Unreservedly, she returned it.
Feminine awareness took hold and set its roots deep within her for the first time in her life. She understood his look, understood the wanting behind it, the power that drove it, the determination to fulfill its demands. Such a look, a look of hunger for her and recognition that it was she and she alone who could meet his need, filled her with a sense of joy and power such as she had never known. She held his look, wanting it. Wanting the desire she saw glimmering just beneath the surface, understanding that she aroused him. Glorying in the knowledge.
And then the look was broken. It was just a glance, really, nothing more, yet she had read all that in the short moment it took for a brief meeting of their eyes.
She had read something of his heart in that glance.
The list could be burned. Montwyn was her choice. The only thing left to do was let him know of his good fortune.
—
Their after-dinner entertainment was supplied by Lady Elena of the sweet smile. She played the pianoforte and she played it very well. She would make someone a very pretty wife. But not Montwyn. Montwyn was to be hers.
She could not see him from her position on the couch, but she knew that he was somewhere behind her. Where behind her? Looking fondly at Lady Elena, imagining her playing the pianoforte in Montwyn Hall?
Clarissa turned her head as casually as she could manage in order to look into the dim corners of the capacious room. She did not have to look so far as that, for Beau stood just behind her and met her eyes as she turned. Green eyes sparkled into deepest brown; she did not look away, but took in the sight of him, knowing that he had been looking at her and not at Elena.
The glance, growing into a stare of awareness, did not break. She could feel the power of him through his eyes. She could see him smile in self-satisfaction.
Oh, yes, that was what it was. She had ten older brothers; she knew the look well.
Clarissa turned away and fanned herself gracefully, pretending to listen to the crescendo of Elena’s piece. Beau grew more confident by the hour, and such confidence, since it was directed at her, did not sit well. It was stupid to delay the inevitable when it would only gratify his arrogance. She would not be coy or flirtatious with the man she had chosen to marry. To what purpose to pretend hesitation or uncertainty? She had made her selection—all that was left was to pay the bill.
Elena concluded to a round of warm applause at her skill and her general prettiness. Beau left his position at Clarissa’s back and went around to the pianoforte, bowing low over Lady Elena’s hand and murmuring words that only she could hear—and that caused a most delicate blush to rise in her cheeks. Clarissa watched all with a cold eye and a trim smile of amusement. Let him play at seduction; he was already hers. She was certain he knew that as well as she, for she would never have chosen a man of low intelligence or dull sensitivity.
After escorting Elena back to her seat, Beau approached Clarissa. She rose so as to meet him standing. She had known he would return to her; it was inevitable.
His eyes searched hers again, and again she held his gaze. She was not insensible to him—hardly that, for he made the blood grow thick in her bosom and her legs felt as soft as pudding—but she would not be the timid miss for him; he would not want that, and she did not want it for herself. Let them meet as equals in this matrimonial excursion, and let them both willingly and openly pay the price of union.
“You’ve made your selection,” she said softly, her bosom heating as she said the words. “Why encourage her to think otherwise?”
“Have I?” he whispered, staring down at her.
He was such a tall man, so broad, with such bearing; it came to her mind that she should be the slightest bit in awe of him. She rejected the thought as illogical.
“You would like to play out the farce?” she asked. “When we both know the finale?”
“Are you as bold as you seem?” he said, almost in an undertone for his own ears.
“Is it boldness you see in me?” Clarissa asked, wanting him to see more.
“Assuredly,” he said.
“Not astuteness? Not discernment?”
He took her arm in answer, and they left the light and noise of the salon behind them. Lord Wingate and his sister were being encouraged in a duet. Beau closed the door behind them and led her into the wide central hallway. It was well lit, with the noise of the party and the bustle of servants surrounding them, yet the quiet and seclusion, the intensity of his presence, made all seem intimate and clandestine. She felt, somehow, that it was intentional on his part—that he was testing the degree of her temerity. She did not care. He was her best choice, and, without undue pride, she determined that she was his.
“Because you are an astute shopper?” he asked, his eyes intent upon her face. “Able to choose the finest lace at the most reasonable price?” He moved closer to her, just a step, but she felt her breath catch and moved away from him.
“I am a good shopper. Your vanity must compel you to agree. And there are wor
se attributes in a wife.”
“And what woman, maid or matron, shops without a list?” he said abruptly, hoping to catch her in an embarrassment.
“Not I, surely,” she said, chin up and eyes clear as fine wine.
Yet she, impossible woman, would not be pricked by so small a thing as shame. She did not bleed from the wound his words had attempted. She was bold, no matter her claims to be discerning. What woman on the marriage mart would be so obvious, so blatant, so without feminine guile in her matrimonial pursuits? Was it a game she played to catch his interest, for she surely had, or was she truly as bold as she appeared?
He pressed closer to her, his hand upon her arm, and forced her to promenade the hallway with him; he would not compromise her, for he did not want her by that route, and he would not give her the chance to catch him with that old ruse. No, all would be proper, if a bit irregular.
“What was the body of your list? How was it compiled?” he asked.
“By priorities, my lord, how else?” she said, and then smiled. “Surely Dalton told you as much.”
He smiled down at her, amused and engaged. She was astute. And a beauty. If he had bothered to compile a list, certainly it would have featured those two attributes. Rather call them necessities.
“I was informed only of a list in the making,” he quibbled. “I am… honored?… to have been included.”
“You are not sincere, but I am,” she said, her hand light upon his arm. She did not tremble. He was impressed. “You are on my list of possible husbands. If the truth be told, I am quite certain that you are on many similar lists throughout London. I’m sure your dining companion who plays the pianoforte so sweetly will add your name to her list before she retires.”
Her boldness went too far, straying into vulgarity. “You show only boldness and no discernment in making such a remark,” he said with tight anger.
“You are right. I apologize,” she said quickly enough. “But it is the truth.”
It may well have been the truth, but he was both appalled… and flattered. She could read it in him, he knew.
“The truth is delightful, is it not?” she said, laughing lightly.
He had never found being laughed at to be even remotely tolerable. Until now.
He wanted to tell her that she was the rarity, the delight. He didn’t know there could be such a woman as Clarissa Walingford seemed to be. But perhaps she only seemed to be.
“Shall we test it?” he challenged. “A conversation of truth, only truth, with none of the layered shadings of practiced civility? Do you dare it, Clarissa?”
“Truth need not be uncivil,” she said, her manner quietly cautious. He silently applauded her: bold but not reckless.
“Then a civil truth. Shall we try?” He grinned, pressing his hand over hers as it lay upon his arm.
Clarissa smiled up at him, her expression playful, and said, “Yes. I would enjoy it.”
“The first truth. And a truth most civil,” he teased. But he wanted more than careful, polite truths from her. He wanted to see into her heart. “How real is your list?”
“Quite real. I held it in my hand but hours ago,” she said.
“And my name was on it, held between your hands?”
He did not touch her hand, but his eyes went there, and she clenched her hand upon his arm to keep him away from the vulnerability of her palm.
“Yes,” she said softly, averting her eyes. He was so overwhelming at this proximity. It was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain her composure.
“Why am I on your list?” he asked.
She could only look at him, feeling his nearness and his strength, feeling that she should take care and protect herself, but she could not. She stood, immobilized by his touch and by the impossible nature of his question. Why was he on her list? She would not tell him that he was handsome. She would not tell him that he amused her. She would not tell him that he drew her in when all of London seemed closed to her Irish heart. She would not tell, for she would not allow those words into her thoughts. She could only want him for what he could give her, not for what he could inspire in her. That was all she would allow herself.
“What is it about me that has made me so profoundly eligible?” he said.
Ah, he wanted compliments, as all men did. That, also, she would not do. A man never appreciated the giver of the compliment, but only the compliment itself, hugging the words to his chest as he strolled off in self-congratulation. She had not needed ten brothers to teach her that basic truth.
“You have a wonderful… estate in Ireland,” she said casually.
It was not what he had expected to hear. It was not what he wanted to hear. He was titled, well regarded, fit, and not unpleasant to look upon. All for naught if his Irish lands were forfeit? Impossible. No truth could have so much folly in it. She wanted him; he knew that for a truth.
“Dalton mentioned as much to me. I assumed in jest,” he said, turning her for the walk back down the hall. It was much quieter here, which did not suit him at present, as it made the sound of his shattering vanity ring more loudly in his ears.
“It is no jest.”
“I can see that it is not. Why Ireland?” he asked. He had been wondering. It was a strange prerequisite for a betrothal.
“Ireland is home,” she said in all simplicity. “I want to go home.”
“Ireland is home? When were you last there?”
“Ten years or so. I miss it very much.”
“I would say that you could hardly remember it.”
“Then you would be wrong. I remember it well,” she said, her voice firm and strangely resolute.
He doubted the truth of that statement. She must have been a young girl when she had left, not above ten years. But he could see that she believed her words. As it was to be a discussion of civil truths, he would not argue the point with her.
“Why do you want to marry me?” she asked into his silence.
“Have I said I do?” he replied, just a bit flustered. What sort of woman asked such a question?
“Is this not to be a conversation of truths?” she asked, her words biting into his manhood. “Were the truths all to be my own?”
“I blush,” he said almost comically. “You shame me.” He grinned and granted her a brief bow. “Very well. I do want to marry you. Have I just proposed?”
“If you need to ask me, then no, you have not. I would not be so unfair.”
But he would not call it unfair to achieve union with such a woman. She was enchanting, completely out of his experience, delightful. He was more than ready to ask her for her hand.
He was not to have the chance that evening. Perry and Jane, obviously concerned over her lengthy absence and not put at ease at finding them in such relative seclusion, interrupted their conversation. It would not be resumed that night; he was to have no such liberties with Lady Clarissa again. His eyes followed her throughout the remainder of the evening; he could not even think to play at his amusement with Lady Elena. In all the room there was only Clarissa.
They had not finished their conversation, not yet. Tomorrow… tomorrow he would call upon her. The thought was a fever in his blood that he welcomed as warmly as a brother.
“Has he proposed yet?” Jane whispered as they donned their cloaks.
“Tomorrow,” Clarissa said softly, with a smile of pure anticipation. “He will tomorrow.”
—
At the hour of three, which was when Beau felt it appropriate to make his appearance at the Walingford town house, everyone in the house, including the pastry chef, knew he was there to propose marriage. Her brothers were especially jubilant; after all, Clarissa might have an imperfect understanding of politics, but she understood the way a man’s mind worked well enough. With ten tutors it was hardly likely that she’d be less than proficient at it. They were damned proud of her, too. Montwyn was a good match for them. She’d done well. For privacy, it was agreed that they be allowed to stroll the garde
n together. Clarissa looked fetching in a lilac pelisse with a matching bonnet. Dalton, watching from a third-floor window, could only smile. Montwyn had been spoken for. One could only wonder if he realized it yet.
However, the more interesting question was whether Clarissa understood that Montwyn would never let her plop herself down in Ireland without him.
The garden was barren of leaves, but the privet hedge provided structure, as did the stone bench on the back wall. It was a pretty garden, the bricks laid in a herringbone pattern around a sundial that amply demonstrated how cloudy a day it was. Fortunately there had been no rain for a week. It was a pleasant place to linger, even in December. And they had all the privacy they could wish.
“Shall we continue?” Beau asked, looking larger than usual in his greatcoat and hat.
“You like truth very well, it seems,” she said, smiling at him.
“I do.” He nodded with a smile. “I may well have contracted a daily need for it.”
Clarissa held her tongue. She would not put the words in his mouth to spit back out at her. He would do this on his own.
“Do you play coy now?” he asked.
“No,” she said pleasantly. “Let us return to my question of last evening. Why do you want to marry me?”
“Why?” he blustered, clearly taken aback. It was most amusing. “Why does any man want to marry?”
“For heirs?” she said. “Any woman could do that for you.”
He really was blushing now, but she would not relent. She would not bind herself to a man because he found her amusing or entertaining. Let there be more to their union than that, even if she dwelled in Ireland alone. But with this man, would she be left alone?
“You are the most confounded woman,” he grumbled.
“I suppose I am, and it’s best you know it now. Perhaps if you ask me to marry you, our conversation will progress more smoothly,” she suggested, giving up her earlier transigence.