by Lisa Kleypas
“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.”
“I fear I have not been complimented,” she said.
“Smart girl,” he said with a grin. “Sparkle all night, dear, for I will be at your elbow throughout the evening. Montwyn shall not have you to himself.”
“Thank you for that, Perry,” she said. “Now I must do the final touches to myself. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Perry left, but he did not like the glitter in Clarissa’s dark eyes whenever Montwyn’s name was mentioned. And she had fairly glowed when she had learned that Montwyn had followed her to Lackington’s. She was a sharp girl, quick in both thoughts and actions, but she might have come up against her match with Montwyn. He was a formidable man, experienced, proud, determined. It was an uncomfortable contemplation that Montwyn might have determined to have Clarissa.
Russell was just coming up to change for the evening as Perry was going down.
“You going with us?” Perry asked.
“Yes, I thought I would,” Russell said, his tone more serious than usual.
Stabbing in the dark, Perry said, “You saw Montwyn today?”
Russell looked startled for a moment and then nodded, “I did. When I was with Clarissa at Lackington’s. Odd the way they spoke to each other. Rude. But they seemed to like it.”
Perry, only a year younger than Russell, nodded and then shook his head in worry.
“What do you make of him, Russell?”
Russell rested his hand on the banister and studied the ceiling plaster. “I’ve made discreet inquiries. He’s a bit wild, or was until he came into his title. Gets out a bit. Travels. Has seen hard duty in his regiment, but Lindley could tell you more, since they met when they both wore the uniform. Not quite a regular man, they say. Harder. Prouder. Perhaps even fierce, in a quiet sort of way.”
“Not the sort I’d choose for Clarissa,” Perry said.
“Nor I,” Russell agreed. “It’s that wildness that concerns me. Doesn’t do for a man to leave his wife at home while he carouses.”
“But he’s not married yet,” Perry said, “and you know him from your own carousing.”
“True.” Russell grinned. “But would he want me to marry his sister, if he had one? Probably not.”
“You’ve seen them together,” Perry stated. “She’s different with him.”
“No, I don’t agree. She’s completely herself. Completely Clarissa.”
“Exactly,” Perry said. “Why? She hardly knows him. Why would she be so bold with him, unless she’s drawn to him, feels something—”
“Not all bad to feel something for the man she might marry.”
“Marry Montwyn? I don’t think so. Steel against steel, the two of them. And I think he may be scaring off other suitors, leaving her with little choice but him.”
“He’s scaring off the suitors she’s not scaring off herself?” Russell laughed.
Perry shrugged and said reluctantly, “Point taken. She is not showing her best to the London lads, as she calls them.”
“Yet Montwyn—”
“Montwyn isn’t put off by her manner at all,” Perry finished.
Perry and Russell looked into each other’s eyes in full comprehension—and with no comfort.
—
The evening’s entertainment was a ball and it was lovely. The music, the candlelight, the colors of gowns and jewels and bouquets, were all lovely. Memorable. A sweet winter’s night for a maid to cherish when she was old and fragile and lounging on her chaise in some cold and distant future. Clarissa knew it would be so. She would remember this night, this beautiful night of dancing and music, for years.
It was so sad that upon such an evening she was compelled to shop for an English husband.
Dalton had disappeared almost upon their arrival, Perry was whispering with the niece of their host quite a distance from her side, Russell was caught in what appeared to be a serious game of cards, and Lindley was at her side, his vigilance as constant as his advice.
“If you would only restrain your temper and be civil, you would make much headway,” he said, not bothering to disguise his exasperation.
“I am always civil,” Clarissa said, her eyes glittering more sharply than her jewels. “What I will not do is fawn over these English fops.”
“ You are English, as English as any in this—”
“What sort of children would I be forced to bear if married to that?” she said in a hiss, cutting him off. She used her fan to indicate Lord Darnell, as fat as always and in need of a hair trimming. “Has any one of you considered that?” Darnell was all jowl and bristle—revolting. “I could do little worse in the barnyard.”
“And does the ram bring in twenty thousand pounds per annum?”
“He is no ram, Lindley,” she said bluntly. “Would you bind me to a porker for even half that amount?” she rejoined angrily.
“Shall we speak of the kitchen mouse to whom I have pledged?” Lindley said in a growl, his eyes as fierce and as bright as hers.
“Miss Brookdale is no mouse!” Clarissa protested.
“With Ridgehaven in tow, no woman is a mouse,” he said, calming himself. “At least it shall not be admitted aloud.”
Clarissa felt guilt tugging at her heels and could not run fast enough to escape its touch. She was churlish. Everyone married for money and position; she was not the first, nor would she be the last. It was childish to be so contrary. Lindley had done his part for the family, and she could do no less.
“Is it the porker you have in mind for me?” she asked with a wry smile.
“Never.” He smiled back, their argument over and done. “Do your own choosing. But choose.”
“Very well,” Clarissa said, taking a deep breath. “I shall. Tonight.”
“There is no need for such haste. The clock does not tick so loudly as all that,” he argued. Lindley never could enjoy a period of calm for more than a moment.
“I am not of a disposition to dawdle,” she said, drawing herself up and surveying the room. “What matters one man over another when they are all so confoundedly English? A length of bleached linen is a length of linen, is it not? What possible reason for confusion or hesitation? I shall make my decision tonight and will have the goods delivered next week.”
“Confound you, Clarissa! You know there is no such need—”
She laid a hand upon his arm and looked up into his eyes. “I would rather have it behind me, Lindley. The matrimonial blade gleams quite wickedly over my neck. I would the sooner have it drop.”
Now it was guilt that dogged him; she could read it in his eyes. But she had spoken truly; she had no will to delay what she knew was her family duty. To delay meant to feed the illusion of choice, and she had no choice. She must marry and marry well.
Lord Montwyn, joining their company, ended the argument, which was just as well.
“Good evening, Beau,” Lindley said with a bow. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”
“Good evening.” Montwyn bowed, his eyes lingering on Clarissa. She returned his look after her quick curtsy. “I had hoped to see you tonight,” he said.
Of course he had. He was behaving very much like a man who had made up his mind as to the woman of his choice; she knew enough of men to know that. And she knew Lindley well enough to know that her blatant perusal of Montwyn was making him uncomfortable. That was a pity—for Lindley. Henry Wakefield, Lord Montwyn, was not discomfitted at all, that she could see. She was quite certain that, having made the ill-guided decision that she was to be the future Earl of Montwyn’s mother, Henry Wakefield expected her to be honored and flattered. He truly was an imbecile.
“You are called Beau, Lord Montwyn? I was told your given name was Henry,” she said.
“Beau, for Beauford, anothe
r of my names. A childhood name that has stuck with me,” he answered, holding her eyes. His eyes were the most intense shade of green…
“I should think that few men would be so mild as to keep a childhood name alive into adulthood,” she said, breaking contact with his eyes and looking down at her fan. What was behind his eyes ? Something that called to her heart and not her head; she would ignore it.
“Yes, I suppose I would feel so if my nurse had taken to calling me Puddles,” he said, grinning.
His face was transformed when he grinned. Oh, he was still formidable, but now he also seemed playful, boyish. He must have been a wild youth. She did not know but that he was a wild man. And, foolishly, the thought did not dismay her as it should have. He was bold, yet she could be bold as well.
“Did you make any other purchases at Lackington’s today, Lady Clarissa?” Montwyn asked.
“Didn’t you watch?” she said. Yes, she could be bold and would be. It delighted him, she knew, and delighting him, just for the moment, amused her.
“Please excuse my sister—” Lindley began, his cheeks red with fury. She knew she had pushed him past mere embarrassment.
“There’s no need,” Beau interrupted. “She’s quite right. I did watch. One book. No—”
“Husband,” Clarissa completed for him, smiling up at him. His eyes were like emeralds, deep and sparkling, almost blue in the candlelight.
“Come, Lindley,” Jane said, approaching and drawing Lindley off. “Miss Whaley insists on hearing of your exploits with your regiment. It seems her cousin has just bought himself a commission…”
Lindley let himself be taken off, for the most part because Clarissa made it clear that she wanted him to go.
“You enjoy embarrassing him?” Beau asked when they stood alone.
“Not at all. I simply enjoy speaking my mind,” she said, still holding his gaze.
Beau studied her, this bold girl, and decided again that he liked what he saw. She had a tongue in her head, and he’d always had an appreciation for redheads. Good family, good name, good looks—and she was not immune to him. He could read her fascination easily enough, and none of it had anything to do with his Irish estate, not with that glowing eye and flushed cheek. A girl could well like Ireland and not have that sort of response. No, she had an affinity for him; that was plain. And she was not afraid of him. So many of these girls this season appeared overawed. But not this one, this girl who so boldly declared herself to be shopping for a husband this year.
Beau smiled deeply, and decided. She was the one. He’d make an offer for her tomorrow morning. It should all be settled by next week—by Christmas, in fact. Convenient, that. He liked to be at Montwyn Hall for the holidays. It would be good to get it all settled and behind him.
“And every Englishman has the right to speak his mind,” he answered. “You will find no hindrance here, Lady Clarissa.” She bristled as if poked. Had he insulted her somehow? Damned if he knew.
—
He had insulted her, the dolt. Instantly his facility at amusing her vanished. Really, there was so little logic in allowing herself to find enjoyment in the company of a moderately handsome man of marginal intelligence; her heart thumped an entirely different summation of the man, but her heart— and her eyes as well—had no part in this.
“Excuse me, but I have promised this dance to another. I should like to see you again this evening.” He bowed, his eyes never leaving hers.
Arrogant fop. Words of insult crowded her tongue and threatened to smother her judgment. She had been better brought up than to bow to uncivilized urges.
“Enjoy your dance, Lord Montwyn,” she said.
“Oh”— he turned to her—”but it is more than a dance, is it not? I am shopping for a bride.”
“You attempt to shock me,” she said, furious with him as completely as she had been delighted by him a moment before. “All you have accomplished is to illustrate the degradation of your manners and, perhaps, your morals.”
“By speaking my mind?” he said with a smile, tormenting her with her own choice of words. “Good evening, Lady Clarissa. I hope to see you again. Soon.”
He left her then, his smile as wide, arrogant as a fox. He was a boor. She hated him. He was the most arrogant and insufferable of them all. He was also the one her eyes followed. Stupid thing, eyes. One didn’t need them to make a marriage contract. She forced herself to look away from him and survey the rest of the room.
He did cut a splendid figure, though, his height being an advantage few could lay claim to. She forced her eyes to obey her will and studied the other men arrayed for her consideration. What she needed was a list, a list of net worth, annual income, and, most important, Irish holdings. That would be the measure of the man she chose, not green eyes and a devilish manner, for she would return to Ireland as mistress of her own domain and destiny. Let her husband, whomever he was, wallow in London. In fact, she would prefer it.
Chapter Four
The next morning, in the privacy of her room, with a cup of chocolate to sustain her, Clarissa sat amid a haphazardly organized pile of papers and lists—all necessary research materials in her attempt to compile her list of men suitable to fill the position of husband.
Naturally Jane was horrified by the cold-bloodedness of it, but Jane had a strong leaning toward sentiment and romance. Clarissa was going to be ruled by her head and the sense that God had given her; she was going to be logical and she was going to be efficient. And she was going to be quick.
“But Clarissa,” Jane pleaded, clasping her hands before her, “there is more to marriage than contracts and obligations.”
“Is there? I fail to see it. What is there of sentiment in arranging a marriage anyway? Albert would scoff at you, Jane.”
“But sentiment should grow in such a union. What chance is there for warm sentiment with such a cold beginning?”
“Let him have lands in Leinster and I shall have sentiment enough,” Clarissa said, taking a healthy swallow of her morning chocolate. “If he has lands in Wexford itself, I shall love him unreservedly… from Wexford. Let him occupy himself in London or even Dublin.”
“Clarissa,” Jane said, trying for severity.
“It is no use your trying to dissuade me, Jane. I am quite determined and have even given Lindley my pledge that all will be settled by next week. I do so want to enjoy the Christmas holiday without this hanging over me. Now, help me with my list if you would help me.”
“I shall help,” Dalton said, coming into her room, “and gladly. What is it you wish to know?”
“Oh, Dalton, just the one I need,” Clarissa said, laying aside her shawl. “You know everyone in society. Just who has Irish lands?”
“Irish lands, is it? Well, I suppose I’m not surprised. You will have your way and go back, and if it takes an aging husband to get you there, then you’re hardly likely to balk.”
“Of course not,” she said, hesitating only slightly. “If you’ll only help me compile my list?”
“Yes, of course,” Dalton said with a slight smile.
“Dalton, you’re not to encourage her,” Jane said.
“But how can I not, Jane, when she is being so very reasonable, so extremely logical?”
“Exactly,” Clarissa said with a nod to Jane.
“Well, then, you must have Lord Benson on your list. He has a prime estate in County Wicklow.”
“Lord Benson,” she repeated, forcing herself to add him to her list. Benson was past fifty and had a small pastry for a nose.
“Then there is Lord Esherton, recently available, with an estate in Waterford much talked of.”
She had already met Lord Esherton; he was without a single hair on his head, and he had a most peculiar odor about him. His first wife had most likely died of asphyxiation. Still, Waterford was so very near Wexford, the place of her youth. Esherton was added to her list.
“I almost hesitate to mention…” Dalton said leisurely, “but you did a
sk for my complete help.”
“Yes, who is it?” she said sharply, redipping her quill.
“There is Lord Montwyn, whom I know you have met. He does have an estate of some merit in County Meath, I think it is.”
“Ah,” she said, trying not to smile. And failing.
“I thought you’d be glad to add Montwyn to your list,” Dalton teased with a chuckle.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dalton,” she barked, laying aside her quill. “If I must shop for a husband, I would be rather stupid not to have a shopping list from which to make my selections.”
“And you are certainly not stupid,” Dalton said merrily. “Tell me, what exactly is on your for a future husband?”
“Irish lands, of course. That is of primary importance.”
“And of secondary importance?”
“His annual income.”
“A most practical list,” he said, smiling.
“For a most serious purpose,” she said with a small scowl.
“Assuredly. Shall I inform Lord Montwyn that he is on your list?”
“Don’t be an imbecile, Dalton,” she snapped. “It would be so like you to do it, just for a laugh. But tell him, if you must. I’ll wager it will matter little,” she said, grinning.
“That confident, are you?”
“Not another word from you, Dalton,” she said, turning her back to him and sipping her chocolate most delicately.
Dalton limited his response to a bark of laughter, and then left her room with Jane at his elbow, whispering words of wise counsel, no doubt. It was unfortunate for Jane that she was hampered by an obstinate family, ruled for the most part by their own stubborn ways.
But not Clarissa. She was proceeding wisely and most cautiously. Did she not have her list? And what a welcome addition Montwyn was to that list, especially when compared to his competition. But really, to be honest with herself, he had no competition. With Irish lands behind him, he became just possible for consideration as a husband. He was still rude and overbearing and proud, yet he was compelling in a blatant sort of way.
He just might do.