“Quick, girls! Lord Stormont has come to call. Rissa — ?” Mama looked confused. “You are Rissa, are you not? ‘Pon my soul, twenty years and I still cannot tell.”
“Of course I am Rissa,” Rissa snapped.
Unremorseful, Mama actually looked pleased for a change. “This makes three times he’s come visiting — far beyond the necessary for courtesy calls. You were right, Rissa. Lord Stormont is most definitely a suitor.” In a rare show of emotion, Mama clasped her hands together. “I am most pleased. You have succeeded, Rissa. A fine title! Twenty thousand pounds a year! I am beside myself with joy.” Her expression changed to disapproving as she looked toward Clarinda. “You must also come down.”
“I think not, Mama.”
“Whyever not?” Mama inquired indignantly. “Twice you have made excuses, don’t think I didn’t notice. If you refuse to come down again, you are being most rude, especially since Lord Stormont might soon become a member of the family.” As an afterthought, Mama added, “Besides, Lord Stormont specifically asked to speak to you.”
“He did?” Clarinda’s heart took a leap.
“He wanted news of Sara Sophia.”
“Only you would know,” Rissa interjected with a smirk.
Clarinda’s spirits plunged again. “Very well, Mama, I should be happy to tell Lord Stormont the latest news of Sara Sophia, not that there’s much to tell.” She didn’t want to see him — would much have preferred to stay in her room, but she was curious. Why would Lord Stormont want news of an insignificant orphan who had no standing and was poor as a church mouse?
Soon, Clarinda and Rissa were dressed alike in gowns of white muslin with a tartan belt and band around the hem. For once, Clarinda was glad she looked exactly like her sister. She looked forward to their entrance into the drawing room. Despite Stormont’s boast he always knew who she was, this time she would take pains to ensure he would not be able to tell them apart.
When they finally entered the drawing room, Clarinda was exactly in step with Rissa, and her head was tilted exactly the same. Let him just guess which was which! How she would love to see him fumble.
Spying them, Stormont set down his tea cup and stood. As he rose to full height, Clarinda was reminded once again of how splendidly tall he was, and how magnificently tailored. But no matter. She could hardly wait to see the embarrassed look on his face when he couldn’t tell them apart.
Stormont bowed to her sister. “Lady Rissa,” he said without hesitation, “how lovely you look today.” He bowed again, this time to her. “And Lady Clarinda,” he continued, looking her directly in the eye. “You cannot imagine how devastated I was to hear of your headaches. I trust you’re better now.” Only a slightly raised eyebrow gave his amusement away.
How dare he tease her! But what was most astounding, how did he know Rissa was Rissa and she was she? Astonishing, considering even Mama could not tell them apart. She wanted to ask how he knew, but no, she would not give him the satisfaction. He would not be privy to her feelings in any way.
She dipped a slight curtsy and gave him a radiant smile. “I am most grateful for your concern over my headaches. They’re much better now. ‘Tis the most amazing thing, how I seem to get a headache every time you come to call.”
“Clarinda!” Mama began in a shocked voice, but Stormont starting laughing.
“Alas, it appears I have that effect on some young ladies,” he said lightly. He motioned towards the settee. “Come, sit down, shall we? Were you told, Lady Clarinda, that I wanted news of Sara Sophia?”
After they were seated, Clarinda related some of Sara Sophia’s letter — only the good parts, though. Sara Sophia was much too proud to want anyone to know the travesty her life had become. “And so she is doing quite well at Rondale Hall, m’lord. May I inquire why you ask?”
“I was not asking for myself,” Stormont replied, “although of course, I’m concerned for her welfare. It was…” He paused, seeming reluctant to say more, finally continuing, “My good friend, Lucius, Lord Wentridge, has an interest in her. He will be pleased to hear Sara Sophia is doing well.”
“Well enough, I suppose.” Bite your tongue, you foolish girl. She had just implied Sara Sophia was not doing well. Most men would not pick up on such a subtle insinuation, but she suspected Stormont would. Those dark eyes of his, so sharp and assessing, were focused on her now.
“Only well enough?” he asked, confirming her suspicion.
“Sara Sophia can take care of herself wherever she goes,” she answered firmly, hoping that would assuage Stormont’s curiosity.
It did. Or so she thought. Nothing more was said concerning Sara Sophia. The rest of Stormont’s visit was taken up with frivolous conversation, led by Rissa, who preened, giggled, and did everything but stand on her head to keep Stormont’s attention. How I would love to dump a pitcher of cold water over her head, Clarinda mused idly as she watched in disgust. Despite herself, she felt a growing anxiety. Stormont appeared more than attentive to Rissa’s blandishments. He seemed to be quite taken with her. You don’t give a fig, she told herself. But whom was she fooling? Of course she did.
When their visitor had left, Rissa clasped her hands in delight. “He likes me. Don’t you think, Mama?”
“Most definitely.”
Rissa addressed Clarinda. “What do you think? Does he like me?”
“It would appear he does,” Clarinda answered, a heaviness settling around her heart. There had been no warmth in Stormont’s eyes when he looked at her. He had, in fact, been only as polite as courtesy decreed, and no more. Again, for at least the thousandth time, she wondered what had gone wrong and why Stormont, who once had trembled with passion as he held her in his arms, could now, it appeared, hardly stand the sight of her.
*
A heaviness weighted Robert’s shoulders as he swung onto Sham and started home. Perdition. He had failed miserably, all the way around. Was there anything he had not mucked up? He thought of poor Lucius, beside himself in London. “Sara Sophia said she wouldn’t write and she hasn’t,” he had cried. “I have no idea how she is. Robert, can you at least find out if she is happy and in good health?”
Robert shook his head as he rode along. Lucius’s transformation from high-living dandy to love-sick clod was astounding. Well, not clod. That Lucius had a truly deep, abiding love for Sara Sophia was beyond all doubt. One could not fault him for that. But dear God, how the man had suffered for his hopeless love! To their friends’ astonishment he had become practically a recluse, eschewing Tattersalls — White’s — his old taverns of choice — and most astounding, all enticements from his various lady loves. Now former lady loves. Lucius had lost his charming, acerbic wit. He hardly ate anymore, and to Robert’s amazement now led a celibate life. He might as well become a monk, Robert thought dismally.
He had told Lucius, “Rest easy. I am returning to Hollyridge tomorrow. The first thing I shall do is visit Graystone Hall. Surely Lady Clarinda will know how Sara Sophia is faring.”
And so he had, but instead of gleaning reassuring news of Sara Sophia, he had ascertained just the opposite. He must find out more news of Sara Sophia. That meant talking to Clarinda.
Clarinda.
He had spent the past weeks trying to convince himself he most definitely did not love her. Indeed, heeding his father’s advice, he had vowed long ago not to love any woman until he was ready, and he most certainly was not. His life was too comfortable, too well-arranged, to allow a woman in to ruin it. Time and again he recalled his parents’ miserable marriage: the screaming — carping — name calling — constant complaints. No. His father had it right. “Do not marry under any circumstances before you are forty,” Papa had admonished him, “and when you do, find some young chit who’s attractive enough, but more important, she must be quiet, docile and uncomplaining. Even a large dowry is unnecessary, my son, you don’t need the money. A small dowry will work to your advantage. She will be so everlastingly grateful you married her, she
will never complain.”
Papa was absolutely right, Stormont assured himself for at least the thousandth time as the gables of Hollyridge came into view. Although…
An astounding thought struck him. Why, he was as bad off as Lucius!
Father, did the juices of hot passion never flow through your veins? Did you never want a woman so badly you could not eat — sleep — think straight? Did you never want a woman as much as I want Clarinda … ?
Curse the woman. With a moan, Stormont pulled Sham up short. Before this visit today he had vowed he would remain aloof to Clarinda’s charms. As far as appearances went, he had succeeded. His behavior had been impeccable. He had even managed, God knew how, to show a decent interest in her ninny sister. But inside…
I do not love her, he told himself again, but his words rang hollow. The trouble was, even if he did love her, what was the use? He started to laugh — a bitter, haunting laugh that went on so long that Sham turned his head and regarded him with one big, brown, curious eye.
His laughter stilled. Stroking the horse’s mane, he softly inquired, “Sham, how could I love a woman who called me a toad? Complete folly, would you not agree?”
He did love her. No sense fooling himself. But it was hopeless. The worst of it was, for the sake of his desperate friend he would have to see Clarinda again — find out the truth about Sara Sophia.
He must be careful. She must not think he had any purpose in mind other than to find additional news about her friend. Never should she know she was ruining his sleep at night because he could not stop thinking of her. Never should she know he loved her as he had never loved another woman in his life.
How could he see her and talk to her alone? He thought to pay another visit but immediately realized Mama and the sister would be hovering like vultures, not giving them one moment by themselves. Besides, she would likely plead a headache again and not come down. But perhaps he could contrive to meet her elsewhere. He thought to write a letter, but concluded, too risky. Writing notes to single young ladies was an exercise fraught with peril, especially if her parents found out. But he had to see her. There was only one way, he finally concluded. He was sure she still rode, probably Dublin, and probably, now the weather had warmed, every day, no doubt early. And where would she ride? That was easy — in the exact opposite direction of Hollyridge Manor. In order to avoid me, he thought with irony.
The next morning, Clarinda, riding sedately sidesaddle on Dublin, was traveling along the river path when she saw an approaching horse and rider. Her pulse leaped. Even at a distance one could not help but admire the tall, straight carriage of the rider atop his noble stallion. It had to be none other than Lord Stormont riding Sham.
How awkward. She had taken great pains to avoid him, yet here he was, cantering toward her at a fast clip. Her mind raced, wondering how best to handle what could be a troublesome confrontation. She decided she would nod curtly as he rode by, but not slow Dublin, thus making it clear she had no desire for conversation.
“Ah, Lady Clarinda, what a surprise!” he called as he approached. “How delightful to find you out riding early, and on Dublin, I see.”
To her chagrin, her plan to ignore him was thwarted when Stormont stopped Sham in the middle of the narrow path, thus blocking her attempt to pass him by. She reined Dublin to a halt. “Good morning, m’lord.” With a lofty toss of her head, she continued, “I often ride this early, and on Dublin.”
“To the neglect of Donegal,” he commented.
Her anger spurted. She opened her mouth for a sharp retort but he laughed and raised his hand.
“Forgive me. That slipped out. I confess, this meeting is not accidental. I had a fair idea you’d be out riding this morning. I need to talk to you.”
“What could we possibly say to each other?” Clarinda asked. Dublin chose that moment to do a little dance along the path, so the frosty glance accompanying her words was lost. After she settled the gelding, she declared, “I must return home. Will you kindly clear the path, sir?”
“Return home?” he asked skeptically, “why the urgency?”
She regarded him scornfully. “I must work on my sampler.”
Stormont did not move. Instead, he frowned at her, directing his gaze to her sidesaddle. “Ah, I see we have become a lady now. No more racing full tilt across the field, legs astride.”
Infuriating! “How I ride is none of your concern,” she retorted, making no attempt to conceal her indignation. “Now I must insist — “
“You are not getting by.” Stormont dropped his reins and crossed his arms. “Not until I talk to you. By God, you’re stubborn.” He was silent for a moment, apparently lost in his thoughts, his face a reflection of some inner turmoil that appeared to be raging inside his head. “I have not come here to argue with you,” he finally said, his voice restrained. “Instead, I’ve come to beg a favor.”
Her pique subsided. It was difficult to be angry with a man who’d come begging. “And what might the favor be?” she asked.
“I want to know the truth about Sara Sophia.”
“I told you — “
“No, you did not. Yesterday at tea you were dispensing pap. I read between the lines.” Stormont leaned forward in his saddle. “I shall be honest. I said my friend, Lord Wentridge, had an interest in Sara Sophia, which is true. What I did not say — and would not say because it is no one else’s business — is that Lucius has fallen madly in love with Sara Sophia, and she with him. Their situation is hopeless” — Stormont threw up a hand — “but nonetheless, he is in London pining away for the girl, in a state of — how shall I say? — extreme love sickness?” Stormont looked uncomfortable, but carried on. “The man cannot be consoled. I promised I would find out what I could, for what good it might do. I had thought that perhaps if I brought him news that she was well, and reasonably happy, he might be able to carry on with his life, but because of your little — shall we say, hesitation? — yesterday, I felt compelled to get you aside and ask for the truth.”
So that was it. She felt hideously deflated, realizing he had only sought her out because of his friend. “I shall tell you what I know…”
She proceeded to relate everything she had read in the letter from Sara Sophia, plus what Sara Sophia had not said, but could be read between the lines. “…so as you can see, she’s miserable, and her situation is not likely to improve.”
“Wentridge asked her to run off to Gretna Greene with him,” Stormont commented. “Perhaps she should have.”
“She was tempted, yet her sense of honor compelled her to say no. It’s terribly sad. My heart aches, just thinking about them.”
Stormont nodded his agreement. “Surely a romance doomed from the start.” He heaved a disappointed sigh. “Perhaps I shan’t tell Lucius the truth after all,” he mused aloud.
She nodded grimly. “In this case, it might be better to pretend you don’t know.” With a great show of casualness, she gathered up her reins. “Is that all, sir?” The words had almost stuck in her throat, so miserable was she that their meeting was about to end. She longed to tell him how she missed him, how she dreamed each night of those brief moments she had been in his arms. It was obvious, though, he was not going to give her the opportunity. Not a word of a personal nature had he said. Furthermore, his eyes, though friendly, contained none of the passion she had seen that day he kissed her on the riding path. Naturally they wouldn’t. For reasons she would never understand, he no longer cared. She had better stop torturing herself and accept his indifference. And more, she must show him she, too, did not care. Thank goodness, an aching heart did not show.
Stormont gazed at her with guarded eyes. “That’s all,” he replied. “I am in your debt, and if you hear anything more of Sara Sophia — ?”
“I shall keep you informed.” She knew she could achieve a graceful exit if she tapped Dublin with her riding crop and left this instant. But somehow she could not move. Their gazes locked. Was it her imagination or was
there a faint glint of raw hurt deep in those dark eyes?
As if they had a will of their own, almost before she knew what she was saying, the fatal words slipped from her mouth.
“Why did you not come that day?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.
Stony faced, Robert continued staring at her. For a moment she thought he might ask, “What day?” but he did not. She should have known he was too blunt, too honest to pretend he didn’t know.
He looked away, looked back, regarded the sky, looked back again. “The words you spoke at Lady Lynbury’s had wings,” he said sardonically. “Have you not learned by now not to speak your mind in front of the servants? Let alone Lady Lynbury who reigns supreme as the purveyor of gossip throughout the countryside.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your remark to Lady Lynbury,” he responded with biting sarcasm. “Perhaps you remember? He laughed wryly. “Not exactly flattering to a man.”
Her mind was reeling. “You mean you think I said something insulting about you?”
“You did say it. Don’t deny it. Servants don’t lie, at least not about something such as this.” With a supposed easy laugh he continued, “But never mind. As you can see, I am not Lucius. My heart is far from broken. As to your question, naturally I was not eager to keep our rendezvous once I heard your opinion of me.” His eyes turned hard and cold as ice. “You had best reconsider, though, before you make such a remark again.”
“I never made any such remark,” she cried, feeling sick in her stomach at his sudden hostile demeanor. “There must be some mistake.”
“You brought it up,” he said harshly. “I haven’t asked for an apology, nor do I expect one. I heard of your remark through two different sources — the servants, and Lady Lynbury herself, who called on me personally.” He laughed bitterly. “You can imagine her distress at having to impart every tiny detail of your visit — your pink velvet spencer, your white silk dress, even your gold necklace with the “C”.” He shot her a twisted smile. “It was you all right. Do not do me the discourtesy of lying to me now.”
The Rebellious Twin Page 18