Blessedly, the dance forced them to part.
She acknowledged her current dance partner with a nod while inwardly churning. Moultonbury had framed his request for a smile as if it were but a trifle. The old Clarissa would have immediately obeyed.
The old Clarissa almost always smiled.
She smiled to encourage. Smiled to placate. Smiled to please. Her smile had been a shield, more than a sign of true pleasure.
And how terribly petty was Moultonbury to make a weapon of something so innocent, useful, conciliatory, and voluntary as a smile?
She made her decision. If she did not wish to smile, she would not.
Not for Moultonbury.
Not for anyone.
The dance brought them back together.
“Yes,” she replied without wavering.
The insect-like crease between his brows burrowed deeper. “Did you say yes?”
“Yes.” She set back her shoulders. “At the moment, it is too much trouble for me to smile.”
Moultonbury’s lips froze against his teeth in an odd expression she could not quite define, though she shivered at the arctic chill in his wintery gaze.
Step, step, step, and turn. Step-step-step. Pointed calf.
“Are you ill?” His pale blue eyes narrowed with unspoken warning—retreat.
“No,” she replied.
“Sad?”
“No.”
“Disappointed at being singled out by the most eligible man in the room?”
She gazed at him, all seriousness. “I will state this simply, for your sake. I do not wish to smile. Therefore, I shan’t trouble myself to smile.”
Doubtless, he would have lifted his dangling quizzing glass and glowered, had they not been locked in a turn. His genuine dismay bordered on the absurd.
“Is there something you wish to say, my lord?” Clarissa queried. “Because you look rather put out.”
“I daresay I would have something to say were you amiable in the slightest.”
Not amiable. In the slightest.
How marvelous.
She bit her cheek to keep from smiling as the dance ended.
“I am astonished,” he said with cold clarity.
She raised a brow. “How terribly uncomfortable for you.”
Without so much as a bow, he turned away and strode toward his squirming mass of whining puppies. She returned to Philippa with equal determination and much more grace.
She’d been raised to be a marchioness, after all.
“Oh dear,” Philippa handed Clarissa her punch. “I haven’t yet imbibed, and you look as if you could use a drink.”
Clarissa snorted into the glass. How lucky to have a “chaperone” with a broad interpretation of rules.
“What happened, dear?” Philippa asked. “Did Lord Moultonbury say something untoward?”
“Worse.” Cool punch slid down her throat. “He asked me to smile.”
Philippa tilted her head, confused. “And then?”
“And then, I refused.”
The incident, in retelling, was all the more confounding. Why would Moultonbury care what expression she wore? His request had been a tool of control, nothing more.
“Couldn’t you bring yourself to oblige?” Philippa asked.
“I did not wish to oblige,” Clarissa replied.
“Well,”—Philippa’s gaze traveled to the corner—“your refusal appears to have caused a commotion.”
Sounds of dismay echoed from Moultonbury’s minions. Three of Moultonbury’s lackeys broke from the group and purposely passed by, giving Clarissa pointed glares.
“Ignorant children.” Philippa whipped open her glorious fan. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort the whole mess by morning.”
She met Moultonbury’s gaze across the room. She wasn’t worried in the least.
She was free.
She turned her lips upward and smiled—glorious, voluntary, and entirely triumphant.
There was absolutely nothing Moultonbury could do.
Chapter Three
Markham lifted his paper and slouched in his favorite green leather seat at Sharpe’s Gentleman’s Club, avoiding the group of rowdy gentlemen who had just entered.
Why, exactly, had the most annoying of the Season’s young bachelors decided to congregate at Sharpe’s on the same night he’d sought refuge at his old haunt?
Couldn’t the new arrivals have, at least, chosen one of Sharpe’s many other rooms—the billiards room, perhaps? Or the cardroom, dining hall, coffee room, et cetera…but no. They had to invade the morning room, with its overstuffed chairs and warm, crackling fire—perfect for soothing one’s ruffled dignity.
Markham glanced over his paper. Sir Dalton was the only gentleman he recognized in his line of sight. Dalton was more typically found at the Season’s latest crush, or—in the wee hours of the morning—staggering out of a gaming hell or pleasure haven.
Markham no longer gambled. As for pleasure havens, he never frequented those, especially after hearing heartrending stories of how—and why—the young women came to work there.
He supposed he could rise and return home. But even at home, he’d been rattled.
Following the incident, he’d gone to his bedchamber and pulled off his shirt. He’d stared at the small pink cloud on his collar, remembering the pleasant feel of embracing Clarissa—if only accidentally and for a moment.
One hundred and fifty-one scowls.
What was the likelihood she’d ever welcome an intentional embrace?
Nonexistent.
He’d folded the stained shirt and—for reasons he did not care to parse—placed the bundle where his valet would not find it, and hastened to find some distraction.
His choices had consisted of the theater, a public house, or the club. He’d chosen the club, since it would be the most private of the three.
Or, so he’d thought.
“The betting book, please.”
Moultonbury.
Markham knew the voice without having to bend back his paper. Even though it had been years since their duel, Moultonbury’s voice still grated on his nerves.
“The Lady C declined to smile.” Quill-scratch sounds sliced Moultonbury’s words. “Henceforth, whosoever is the first to get her to…smile, wins this wager.”
The gentlemen joined in a lewd and chilling laugh.
“Might I be the first to volunteer?” Dalton asked. “Lady C may be wayward and coarse, but she has the most amazing,” he paused, “necklaces.”
Markham glanced heavenward. Hardly clever.
But who was this Lady C?
Lady Constance?
He frowned. Moultonbury’s pups would be fools to challenge Lady Constance. She would sweep the floor with them. Then again, Lady Constance did not fit Dalton’s physical description.
Which Lady C had impressive…necklaces?
He swallowed.
They couldn’t be talking about Lady Clarissa, could they?
His Lady Clarissa?
His?—he shook out his paper—Bloody not.
Just because circumstance had thrown him together with Clarissa on any number of occasions since Katherine and Bromton had married, that didn’t make Clarissa his.
She’d be mortified he had the thought.
As mortified as she’d be if she knew he’d tucked his shirt inside his pistol box like some sort of trophy, simply because the pink stain had been jasmine-scented.
And if Rayne knew Markham had saved the shirt just so he could occasionally inhale Clarissa’s scent in the confines of his bedchamber, Rayne would demand use of those pistols.
Besides, the unsmiling Lady C couldn’t be Lady Clarissa, even if she had impressive necklaces.
Clarissa was always smiling.
And her smile was never wider—or more annoying—than just after she’d lit the saltpeter behind some insult aimed at him.
He closed his eyes, recreating her smirk in his mind. Her glossy dark hair, her pinked, pixie c
heeks, her pinched-lip I-told-you-so expression, the long, inviting column of her neck and her—
He shifted in his seat.
Stop.
“Now that I consider,” Lord Moultonbury continued, “would simply making the lady smile serve our purpose?”
“What exactly is our purpose?”
The question had come from a man whose voice Markham did not recognize.
“The Lady C,” Moultonbury replied, “behaved in a way utterly unbecoming a woman. She must be brought low.”
Markham’s unease heightened.
“Ladies,” Moultonbury continued, “serve to gentle and uplift the character of men. A lady who refuses to behave as she ought upends Society’s proper order. She is no better than a servant who will not wash.”
“A coachman who refuses to drive.”
“A whore who refuses to—”
An older gentleman pointedly cleared his throat.
Markham’s lip curled in anger.
He hated the word “whore.” “Whore,” as a word, revealed the nature of a speaker’s mind more than it captured a sense of a woman’s character or occupation.
The buck finished his sentence in a whisper inaudible to Markham. The gentlemen laughed again.
“Hear, hear,” Dalton said. “Lady C must be made to appreciate her place, else the whole of Society is in danger.”
Utter nonsense.
He’d like to see Moultonbury—or Dalton—demand a smile from one of the reigning patronesses of Almack’s. That would remind them how the gears of Society truly functioned.
“Dalton, you were willing to make the lady smile,” Moultonbury said, “but are you willing to sacrifice yourself on the altar of courtship for the good of Society? Will you pledge to court the lady, make her smile, and then cast her aside?”
“It would ruin them both,” said the unknown man.
Twice, the stranger had questioned their purpose, and he was right. Katherine had been nearly ruined because of a rake’s scorn and a gentleman’s offhand quip. Damage from this reckless wager was likely to be worse.
Uncomfortable heat rose under Markham’s collar.
“Wasn’t Lady C rumored to be betrothed?” Dalton asked. “That didn’t ruin the man. As it is, she shouldn’t have been permitted back in good Society.”
“Have you forgotten the lady’s brother?” another young man asked. “He will order pistols at dawn when he finds out about this wager.”
“But Lord Rayne has not yet returned,” Moultonbury replied. “Has he?”
Well, that dissolved any remaining doubt about whom they were speaking.
Markham stood.
He must put a stop to this. He could not allow the same disgrace that had fallen on Katherine to ruin Clarissa.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “don’t you think trifling with a lady’s affections because she refused to smile is a bit drastic? Perhaps the lady was ill.”
Moultonbury looked Markham up and down as if he were an insect. “The lady told me she would not smile simply because she did not wish to smile.”
Had she? Well done, Clarissa.
Markham shrugged. “Who among you hasn’t grown bored during an overlong soiree?”
A few of the bucks had presence enough to look chastened.
Not Moultonbury. He sent Markham a warning glance and then dipped his quill into a bottle of ink.
“Our intention being the restoration of proper order,” he spoke aloud as he recorded his words. “The gentleman named below promises to court and then abandon Lady C. Double the winnings if she is seen genuinely smiling in his presence.” He returned the quill to the stand. “I suggest you go back to your paper, Markham. That is, unless you wish to volunteer for the task.”
Markham stalked toward Moultonbury until they stood toe to toe. “Perhaps the lady did not wish to smile at you.”
Moultonbury did not withdraw. “Her impertinence was deliberate and must be punished.”
Moultonbury intended to ruin Clarissa, damn anyone who stepped in his way. And damn Markham’s own flawed sense of chivalry, he could not allow Moultonbury to succeed.
“Would you agree that faithfulness and loyalty are womanly virtues?” Markham asked.
“Of course,” Moultonbury replied. “But why would Lady Clarissa’s refusal to smile be a demonstration of those virtues?”
“Because,” Markham said slowly and clearly, “Lady Clarissa is secretly promised to me.”
If Markham hadn’t considered the consequence of what he’d just said, Moultonbury’s startled response was almost worth his lie.
Too late now.
“I do not believe you,” Moultonbury said. “You’ve never courted a marriageable lady. Why would you choose your brother-in-law’s castoff as your first?”
Markham heated with a full-body flush. “Take. That. Back.”
“Moult didn’t mean it,” one of the gentlemen said.
“That’s right,” chimed another. “Come on, Moultonbury—you don’t want to meet Markham, Bromton, and Rayne at dawn, do you?”
“The whole pack of cards, so to speak?” Moultonbury snorted. “Hearts would never—”
Markham crushed Moultonbury’s cravat in a tight fist. “Try me. Last time, I threw away my shot for my sisters’ sake. Now that one is respectably wed, I can aim true.”
“Gentlemen.” The older man in the corner stood. “I’ll have you both ousted from the club if you come to blows.”
Now someone decides to intercede?
Moultonbury visibly swallowed. “I’ll concede the lady is, as yet, untouched.”
Markham released him.
“But if you are courting Lady Clarissa,” Moultonbury added, “why haven’t you made your intentions known?”
“As your friend over there so helpfully pointed out—” Markham started.
“Pritchett,” the gentleman in question interrupted—the unknown voice who had been questioning all along. “Mr. Jeremy Pritchett.”
“As Pritchett pointed out,” Markham began again, “the lady’s brother has been traveling. When Rayne returns, I intend to formally request her hand.”
“Well then,” Moultonbury’s eyes narrowed, “it appears I have made a mistake.”
“Apology accepted,” Markham replied, though he knew none had been forthcoming.
Pritchett stepped in, looped his arm through Moultonbury’s and pulled the man back.
“We await your happy news,” Pritchett said.
Markham nodded once, rolled his shoulders, and—before he could make a greater ass of himself—strode from the room.
Later, much later, he would wonder why he hadn’t insisted the page be ripped from the book.
…
Through the open door, Clarissa overheard Philippa bid Mrs. Sartin, the last of her guests, good night.
She frowned. After Mrs. Sartin had invited Markham outside, she couldn’t recall seeing the woman for the rest of the night.
Had she met with Markham after all?
Maybe.
She tamped down a deep-seated sense of hurt.
So what if Markham had complimented her cheeks and gone off to bed another woman? She should be neither surprised nor hurt. After all, at the same time, she had been preoccupied with throwing her life into turmoil.
Wonderful, exciting turmoil.
Turmoil she’d created…unlike the prior scandals that had been thrust upon her, first by Bromton’s hasty marriage to someone else, and then by Rayne’s abrupt departure.
Clarissa leaned forward until Philippa and Mrs. Sartin came into view.
Mrs. Sartin dabbed at her eyes. Philippa kissed Mrs. Sartin on both cheeks.
If she had had a liaison with Markham, the meeting had not ended happily.
A footman escorted Mrs. Sartin outside. The front door closed. Philippa turned into her husband’s waiting embrace.
Clarissa sat back in her chair.
No doubt, Philippa was eager to join Lord Darlington abovestairs
. However, she had expressly asked Clarissa to delay retiring. Likely because she’d come up with some plan to appease Moultonbury.
All Clarissa had to do now was work up the courage to tell Philippa she had a plan of her own.
Philippa entered the room and then removed her shoes. She closed her eyes and sighed, her expression bliss. “Those slippers are darling.” She indicated the shoes. “Diamond-studded heels, you know. But they are heavy. And they hurt like the devil.”
Stocking-footed, Philippa crossed the room and then prepared sherries for them both from the sidebar. She delivered one glass to Clarissa and kept the other for herself, taking the opposite seat.
“Now,” she said sternly, “you must tell me exactly what happened with Moultonbury.”
Must she? “Never mind Moultonbury,” Clarissa replied. “What on dit did I miss?
“What do you mean?” Philippa asked.
“Where was Mrs. Sartin most of the evening?” Clarissa sipped her sherry. “Or did I just imagine her absence?”
Philippa squinted. “Mrs. Sartin sat for a spell in my garden.”
“In the rain?”
“Was it raining?”
“It’s always raining this time of year.”
“Even if it was raining, a shelter runs along the side of my garden wall, as you are well aware.”
Clarissa hummed. “Yes, of course—the same wall that connects your residence to Lord Markham’s.”
“Yes,” Philippa replied drily. “That wall.”
Clarissa rose to her feet and went to the window. “The wall that has a shiny black door, which happens to be, even now, slightly ajar?”
Then again, Markham had gone home that way because she’d ruined his shirt, hadn’t he?
“I directed Mrs. Sartin to the shelter. What she—or Lord Markham—did or did not do once she left my house is none of my concern. Nor is it yours.” She drank from her sherry. “Besides, Farring is residing with Markham while Julia stays with my parents and Horatia. If Mrs. Sartin did have an assignation, it could have been with my brother.”
Clarissa snorted. “Farring was upstairs with your father, remember? But even if Mrs. Sartin met with Farring, it would have been only to play cards.”
“What are you implying?”
Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance) Page 3