Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance)

by Wendy Lacapra

  “But I have,” he replied. “You and Julia and I have been together on numerous—”

  “I mean before.”

  My. The Pandora’s box she’d opened was thrusting forth all sorts of unexpected responses.

  “Before?” He considered, frowning. “You mean before you met my sisters?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I…” He thrust a hand through unruly hair. “You were rumored to be engaged, Clarissa.”

  “Yes, and all of you were so in awe of Bromton, no one ever bothered to ask me to dance.” Why did she sound so petulant? She had to restore control. Dignity. But the box, evidently, had not completely emptied. “I remember you. You were friends with Moultonbury. Moultonbury! You used to make fun of the wallflowers.”

  Blasted tears. She swallowed them back.

  “I would never make fun—”

  “Oh,” she interrupted, “You may not have actually hurled the insults, but you did nothing to stop them, did you?” Her arms felt remarkably useless. She folded them across her chest. “That was before Bromton remade you in his image, of course.”

  He jerked back as if he’d been slapped.

  “I knew you found me tiresome,” he responded. “But I—I had no idea you held me in such deep contempt.”

  The problem was, she didn’t.

  Oh, she wanted to, but she could not.

  Markham was just—he was just a man who found it entirely too easy to be charming.

  “I don’t hate you.” She sent him a shadowed glance. “Your dimples, perhaps.”

  He flattened his cheeks with his palms. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about those. But have I done something specific to spark your ire?”

  Had he?

  He had not.

  Unless she counted the way he’d deceived Katherine into accepting Bromton’s courtship.

  Which, in truth, only Katherine had a right to censure.

  She sat down. Hard.

  How had she gone from consummate control to no control at all?

  As if suddenly remembering his manners, Markham pulled a chair next to hers and then sat down, too. He lowered his face until he caught her gaze. His gaze—rudely direct and searching—left her feeling warm and confused and just a tad squeamish…rather like an unexpected taste of Hartshorn jelly.

  Oh, devil take him, he had no right to look so hurt.

  “No,” she conceded. “You have not done anything specific to me to spark my ire. However, I find it terribly annoying that Katherine forgives your every transgression.”

  He lifted his brows. “Not always.”

  “When? When has she ever held you accountable?”

  “To start,” he replied with a wry lift of his lips, “Kate sank my entire fleet of toy ships when I told her she’d have to listen to me the way she had to listen to Father.”

  Clarissa snorted. Then she scowled.

  “Oh no,” she said. “The dimple trick will not work on me.”

  “I was smiling at the memory. Believe it or not, I am well aware of my shortcomings.”

  “Are you? Are you really?”

  “Of course. I frequently overstep. I am entirely too irreverent, though not nearly as bad as Farring. And, I insert myself into impossible situations, especially when a lady’s honor is at stake.”

  She flattened her lips. “You don’t sound remorseful.”

  “Believe me, I am.” He closed his eyes. “Right now, I am very, very sorry I have not yet learned to control my impulses.”

  Her heart answered the crease that marred his brow with an involuntary pang. With his eyes closed he looked so young. So innocent. “I’m being terribly rude, aren’t I?”

  He opened one eye. “Slightly.”

  Why did wetness keep reappearing between her lashes? “Last night, I—I made a big decision. And, for reasons I do not understand…everything since has been difficult.”

  His expression slacked into sympathy. “Does everything include smiling?”

  Dash it. “What is it with men and asking for smiles?”

  “I haven’t the faintest.” He shook his head in commiseration. “But you seem to be laboring under several misapprehensions about me. I have never—not once—requested a lady smile.”

  “I have resolved only to do so when I am genuinely pleased.”

  His lip turned up in a half grin. “Then I hope, one day, to genuinely please you.”

  Her gaze moved from the single dimple to his eyes. She’d never been close enough for long enough to notice anything beyond their green. But they weren’t just green, were they? They were brownish at the center, emerald at the edge, and flecked with gold throughout.

  Markham had magical eyes.

  Enchanted eyes.

  He took hold of her hand and threaded his long, thin fingers through hers. “I have offended you somehow. And for that offense, I apologize.”

  Goodness—she lost her breath.

  Not to mention her mind.

  “Do you accept?” he asked.

  Her anger evaporated—vanished in his warmth like morning dew. She’d never been the focus of a man’s fixed concern. The effect was as potent as a third glass of sherry.

  This must be why Katherine always forgave him.

  The door swung open and Farring entered. Markham did not let go.

  “I accept,” Clarissa said.

  “Well!”

  Farring exhaled, missing the subtle shake of Markham’s head, Clarissa noted.

  “I had not expected that to be so swiftly settled.” Farring strode to her side. “May I be the first to congratulate the future bride?”

  “Whose future bride?” Lady Darlington entered the room behind her brother.

  “Why Markham’s, of course,” Farring said.

  For a terrifying heartbeat, she was lost. And then, a shower of cold droplets tinged her skin like rain falling in a white blanket of mist.

  “Really, Farring.” Clarissa snatched back her hand from Markham. “I’ve known you to be silly, but never absurd.”

  Farring lifted his brows. “Was I being absurd?”

  “Of course,” Clarissa replied. “I would not wed Lord Markham even if my reputation were at stake.”

  “I am afraid”—irony laced Markham’s deep baritone—“that is exactly the case.”

  Oh, no.

  She refused to look in his direction. One look and she’d never be able to sort out the implications of what he’d just said. Instead, she fixed her gaze on Farring. “First, you implore me to give the pup a chance, and now this?”

  “Clarissa, dear,” Farring said, in a voice usually reserved for his sisters, “will you allow me to serve as your brother in Rayne’s absence?”

  Oh, no-no-no, no, no. Farring was being serious. Farring was never serious.

  “I do not need you to serve as my brother,” she said. “I know my own mind.”

  “Of course you do,” Farring soothed. “But you don’t know Markham’s. I’m afraid that Markham, impulsive, good-hearted pup that he is, has cast himself upon his sword in defense of your honor.”

  She concentrated on Farring’s face, though his words were a jumble of beads she could not string.

  Impulsive. Good-hearted. Her honor.

  Lady Darlington seated herself and covered her throat. “You don’t mean he’s challenged Moultonbury?”

  Farring’s lips thinned. “He has averted a duel. For now.”

  Sword. Duel. Challenge.

  “Allow me to explain,” Markham began.

  She examined Markham anew as he laid out the events of the prior night in a rapid clip.

  Had he learned nothing?

  Less than two years past, he’d wagered his own sister, and now he had inserted himself into her life. Arrogance of the highest order.

  And yet, if he had not acted with generous impulse, right now she’d be suffering the attentions of one of Moultonbury’s minions—unwittingly on her way to yet another humiliation.

 
; If she had fallen for the ruse.

  Which she wouldn’t have…because she had already decided not to marry.

  Lady Darlington wrung her hands. “I knew Moultonbury would cause trouble.”

  So had Clarissa.

  And she’d been prepared to face anything.

  Anything, that is, but losing her precious newfound autonomy to a forced betrothal.

  …

  Clarissa’s expression darkened, but the tears that had been hovering in her eyes dried. For that much, Markham was grateful.

  He hated tears. They left him feeling useless.

  Helpless.

  A small child at the foot of a bed yelling Mama to an unresponsive form.

  He’d been fooling himself. He was just as defenseless now, with or without Clarissa’s tears. In light of our mutual discord…

  He’d known Clarissa disapproved of him, but he had not expected loathing.

  A part of him wished he could wash his hands of the situation—of her. But this wasn’t a woman he barely knew.

  This was Clarissa.

  The woman who had accepted Katherine with open arms, even though Katherine had wed Clarissa’s former intended. The woman who had embraced Julia, even though she suspected Julia was the cause of her brother’s sudden departure.

  Clarissa was—Markham stood up and paced—better. Better than he was. Better than anyone he knew, in fact.

  Then I hope, one day, to genuinely please you.

  Lord, help him.

  Why on earth had he been so honest?

  He’d broken every one of his rules, hadn’t he?

  No mess? Well that ship had sailed. No informal address? Likely because of his sisters, he’d been calling her Clarissa ever since she and Katherine had become inseparable. No wagers or gambling? He’d inserted himself into a wager, like it or not. As for excess—well, what could be more excessive than attempting to fool the ton with a fake courtship?

  What was it about this woman that made him lose his head?

  One deep gaze and he’d been lost, willing to give up everything for the chance to delve into her secrets. Damn his infernal weakness.

  Whatever lay behind Clarissa’s eyes wasn’t his concern.

  Only, he was concerned. And fascinated. And all of those things he’d assiduously avoided.

  “Markham…”

  His name snapped him back to attention.

  “…and I should not be forced to marry just because Moultonbury is vicious and cruel.”

  “I would never,” he cut in, “base such a grave decision as marriage on something like this.”

  Her brow smoothed with instant relief, causing an odd pang of—what? Sorrow?

  His future bride would definitely not be a woman who left him light-headed and confused. When he did choose a wife, it would be with the understanding that they’d share a neat and tidy arrangement. Respect, of course. Affection, hopefully.

  But no excessive emotion.

  And with none of the chaos that rioted in his chest when he looked into Clarissa’s eyes.

  Not that she wasn’t worthy of respect…of devotion.

  Whatever man did capture Clarissa’s regard would have something of honest value. He was, perhaps, the tiniest bit jealous…jealous enough to flush scarlet, anyway.

  He cleared his throat. “Moultonbury placed you at risk for slander and ridicule. If his lackeys discover I lied, they will swarm. I know you find the idea of me deplorable, but if—if you were to allow me to court you—just until your brother returned—perhaps it would be enough.”

  Farring nodded. “I daresay someone else will have deeply offended Moultonbury in the intervening time.” He took Clarissa’s hand. “Clarissa, I know the pup acted rashly. But it could have been worse. Moultonbury could have challenged him.”

  “Or,”—her eyes finally returned to Markham’s—“Markham could have let them proceed with their mischief without intervening.”

  Markham winced as he rubbed the back of his neck.

  So, Clarissa preferred ruination to him. Why did that feel like a crushing blow?

  Lady Darlington wrung her hands. “What’s to be done? Lord Rayne will be incensed if I allow this courtship to proceed without his permission.”

  “You allow?” Clarissa and Markham asked in unison.

  “Everyone knows Clarissa and Katherine are friends,” Farring argued. “If Clarissa spends a bit more time in his company, not a single eyebrow would raise.”

  “Leave Lord Rayne to me, Lady Darlington,” Markham added. “I will speak with him as soon as he returns.”

  “There is an edge to your voice I find unsettling, Markham.”

  He shifted his gaze to Clarissa. “I give you my word that the enmity between your brother and I has nothing to do with this.”

  She lifted her brows and then nodded slowly. She believed him, at least.

  A memory from the past summer suddenly surfaced—Clarissa had taken his outstretched hand as they’d scrambled to catch up with Julia on a ramble through the Bromton woods—a similar sign of trust. She’d been flushed. Smiling. Laughing at Julia’s antics.

  No vista in the breathtaking North could have been as stunning.

  She tightened her lips. Then she turned away. “If not a real betrothal, what are you proposing?”

  “A courtship,” Markham replied. “Conducted with the utmost propriety. A courtship that would last only until Rayne returns.”

  “After which I will be jilted again?”

  “After which,” Markham retorted, “you would yield to your brother’s good judgment and decline.”

  She lifted her chin. “I yield to no one’s judgment but my own.”

  “Which I deeply respect.”

  She swiveled back, surprised, and—dare he hope—pleased?

  “Do you mean that?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  Magnificent. The word came to mind unbidden. He backed away from examining its consequence as unexpected warmth flooded his veins.

  He cleared his throat. “I have placed you in an untenable position. Had I known just how distasteful my presence was to you—”

  “You would have thrown me to the wolves?”

  She was not quite smiling, but her lips were infinitesimally upturned.

  He inclined his head. “I would have given a more considered response.”

  “I see,” she said slowly.

  What did she see? He could not tell.

  Was she considering his proposal, or was she not?

  And why was he holding his breath, hoping that she’d agree? A fake courtship would restore her reputation, but what could he possibly gain?

  Time. Proximity. A chance to get to know her. Her laugh. This time, all for him.

  Inwardly, he winced. Now was definitely not the time for flights of romantic fancy.

  The Darlington’s butler interrupted, announcing Katherine. Katherine and Clarissa exchanged an inscrutable glance as she entered the room.

  “If you would allow,” Clarissa said. “I’d like to confer with Lady Bromton and Lady Darlington. Alone.”

  “Very well.” He sent Katherine a pleading glance as he passed.

  Katherine smiled, decidedly not for reassurance, but because his fate was now entirely in her hands.

  And he had no idea if Katherine was on his side.

  Nor did he have any idea which side he considered his.

  Chapter Five

  Clarissa stared out the window into the rain. Again, her world had abruptly changed, and she hadn’t a father or brother or wayward fiancé to blame.

  This time, the forces of destruction consisted of a Pandora’s box she’d intentionally emptied—the sum of a lifetime of bottled restraint—and a pair of enchanting green eyes.

  She was rather entranced by those eyes…the way they crinkled at the corners. Even when serious, the very fine lines beside Markham’s eyes indicated he laughed heartily and often. She’d heard him laugh on any number of occasions, as
a matter of fact. Why did the very idea of his laugh now leave her yearning?

  She turned to Katherine. “I blame you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. This is what comes of forgiving Markham too easily.”

  “Oh dear.” Katherine pressed a knuckle to her lips. “I know this is not what you want to hear, but Percy acted only—”

  “Percy?” Philippa interrupted.

  Katherine glanced askance. “Percival William Henry Stanley, better known as Lord Markham.”

  Lady Darlington frowned. “Did I know his name was Percival?”

  Clarissa had.

  For some strange reason, she remembered everything Julia and Katherine had told her about their brother. Habit, probably.

  After all, Bromton had been a schoolroom subject along with Reading, Writing, Latin, History, Mathematics, and Elocution.

  “Markham hates being called Percy,” Clarissa murmured.

  “That’s right.” A curious light flashed within Katherine’s gaze. “I call him Percy only when I’m mad at him. Well, mostly. Sometimes I call him Percy when he gets that small, lost—well, never mind.”

  “You must have had a lot of practice being mad,” Clarissa commented drily.

  “I did.” Katherine snorted. “Remind me to tell you about what I did to his fleet of toy ships.”

  “He already told me,” Clarissa said.

  “Did he?” Katherine sounded pleased.

  “Don’t,” Clarissa lowered her voice, “get any ideas.”

  “I’m not!” Katherine covered her heart. “And make no mistake, I am mad at Percy right now. But I was trying to tell you he intervened because he did not want you to suffer my fate.”

  Philippa scoffed. “Happily wedded, you mean?”

  “No. Banished to the country to rusticate after being humiliated by a young man with a too-high opinion of himself. Markham swore to me that had been his reason.”

  Clarissa had seen him swear to something out in the garden, hadn’t she?

  She hadn’t considered the parallels between her situation and Katherine’s misfortune. If he’d noticed them, he’d have been incensed.

  Had his gesture truly been protective?

  But even if he’d meant to be protective, why should she warm?

  “But,” Philippa said to Katherine, “Clarissa plans to rusticate.”