Clarissa settled her skirts about her ankles and gave Sarah a suspiciously penitent look. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper, I realize, so you may save yourself the scold. There, now you can’t say I’m never reasonable.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And I hope—” Sarah chose her words “—you’ll take care to be sensible in future. Not just in your dealings with Englemere, but in general.”
“Oh, I’m always sensible,” Clarissa replied airily.
Sarah bit back a sharp retort. “I cannot call it ‘sensible’ to tool a curricle down Bond Street—”
“It was eight in the morning, with nobody about to see, and Montclair dared me!”
“Or to let Wexley take snuff from your wrist.”
“Oh, that.” Clarissa giggled. “He was saying the silliest things, and oh, his mustache tickled.” Her grin faded, to be replaced by a frown. “I think it beastly of Englemere to take me to task for that, and for allowing Arthur both my waltzes at Almack’s last Wednesday. ’Tis my first Season. Why shouldn’t I kick up my heels?” Her tone turned petulant. “I’ve promised to become his dull marchioness at the end of it. Isn’t that enough?”
“Don’t you wish to marry Englemere?”
Clarissa studied her toes, moving them so they sparkled in the light. “I suppose so.”
“He does gamble,” Sarah allowed. “Dearest, if you harbor any doubts…”
“Oh, I don’t! Not about his gambling—faith, all the world gambles, and besides, Englemere always wins.” A small frown wrinkled the perfection of her profile. “It’s rather that…well, he can be positively gothic sometimes, acting as though I should have eyes for no man but him. However, he is enormously wealthy, and the catch of the Season.”
Clarissa picked up a hand mirror, a self-congratulatory smile on her face as she patted her glossy titian curls. “Did you know, in the four years since his wife died in that carriage accident, Englemere never once showed a hint of partiality for any woman—a respectable one, that is—until he met me? I can’t wait until he makes the announcement tonight. The other girls will be positively green!”
“Will there be an announcement? I thought you just rather, ah, dramatically ended your understanding.”
Clarissa looked startled, but then her face relaxed. “I expect I vexed him, but he’ll come round. I’ll send him a little note saying, oh, that I became distraught because he seemed disappointed with me, or some such rot.” She smiled sunnily, oblivious to Sarah’s gasp of outrage. “Gentlemen are so arrogant, he’ll believe it. Even better, you write it. You’re cleverer with words than I am.”
“I most certainly will not!” Sarah retorted. “Englemere’s no fool, Clare. You threw his ring back in his face! What makes you think you’re still engaged?”
Clarissa eyed Sarah as if she were a perfect dunce. “A gentlemen never cries off.”
“No? But you were the one, ah, crying off. What if Englemere doesn’t take you back?”
Sarah watched intently, but the reaction she was seeking—horror, remorse, penitence—never came. Clarissa shrugged. “I’ll marry someone else, I suppose. Wexley perhaps, or Montclair—he’s so amusing.”
“Wexley?” Sarah echoed faintly, shocked to realize Clarissa had not lost her heart to her betrothed.
“Or Montclair, but ’tis no matter. Englemere shall marry me,” Clarissa announced before Sarah could recover. “And if he thinks to keep me under his thumb like some obedient schoolgirl, I’ll soon set him to rights.”
“You’ll not convince him to allow you free rein by shouting at him or painting your toenails like a trollop,” Sarah countered bluntly.
“Mrs. Ingram paints her toes.”
Sarah’s surprise must have shown, for Clarissa sniffed.
“I know gossip says she’s his mistress. Well, he’ll not look at her again once he has me.”
The slight change of tone, from confidence to bravado, revived Sarah’s flagging sympathy. If Clarissa felt vulnerable, who could wonder? The woman identified by the ton as Englemere’s current ladylove was no girl out of the schoolroom, but a mature, sophisticated beauty.
“Englemere may indeed admire spirit—even gilded toenails,” Sarah said gently. “But you may be sure he never asked Mrs. Ingram to be his wife.”
“Oh, stubble it, Sarah, you’re getting to be a dead bore. Just be a dear, and write me that note.”
“I will not,” Sarah gritted out, once more holding on to her temper with an effort. “I warn you again, don’t try to run a rig on Englemere. He’ll not stand your nonsense.”
Clarissa turned to face Sarah, ominous signs of impending explosion in her flashing eyes. “And how can you claim to know what Englemere will or will not ‘stand’?” Clarissa’s tone grew saccharine. “That must have been quite a little chat you had after I left. If it weren’t beneath me to make such a comment, I might say you were jealous.”
Sarah stilled, fixing Clarissa with a stony stare. After a silent moment, Clarissa’s gaze wavered. She lowered her eyes, a faint blush staining her cheeks.
“It is indeed beneath you,” Sarah replied in clipped tones. “You had better find other, equally vulgar things beneath you in future, if you don’t wish to make yourself such a byword nobody will have you.”
Clarissa dashed an angry tear. “That’s unfair! I could never be! You’re supposed to be my friend, and I think you’re being horr-rid!” She turned away, her voice breaking on a gusty sob that promised more.
Sarah watched her, wondering a bit remorsefully if she’d overplayed her hand. After a moment, she pulled her weeping friend into her arms and patted her soothingly.
“Hush, now. Here comes Harris with your tea. Let her console you while your wasp-tongued friend goes to check on the household.” Sarah pushed Clarissa to arm’s length and studied her face. “We are still friends?”
Tears bejeweling her emerald eyes, Clarissa nodded a little doubtfully. The fit of weeping had turned neither eyes nor even the tip of her perfect nose red, Sarah noted with chagrin.
She turned to go, then halted. “I nearly forgot.” Producing the ruby, she grinned. “You were right, he didn’t cry off. You must write your own note, though. Mind you make it a good one.”
Leaving her friend to the efforts of her abigail, Sarah walked out. At the end, she thought she’d reached Clarissa. With grave problems of her own to deal with, Sarah could only hope the impression would last.
Chapter Two
Sarah inspected the deserted supper room: platters, punch bowls, posies all in place. She nodded approvingly. The ball was a great success, Clarissa seemed on her best behavior, and Sarah had every reason to be pleased.
Glimpsing herself in the pier glass over the sideboard, she sighed. The stylish white dress fit well, but the color failed to show her to advantage. She looked, she thought as she inspected her mirrored image critically, like a ghost, or an ice maiden carved for a frost fair.
“So this is where you’ve hidden away.” Englemere’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “You should rejoin your guests.” Smiling, he approached her. “The gentlemen will be missing you, for you look very lovely this evening.”
She turned startled eyes toward him. His expression seemed sincere, and she frowned slightly. This must be gallantry, she concluded, since she’d just determined that she looked about as lively as a statue—
“You shouldn’t wince at compliments.”
You will not explain, the stern little voice in her head commanded. Sarah closed the mouth she had opened to do just that and pressed her lips together. Drat, what was there about the man that prompted her to almost unthinkingly respond to him? With—worse yet—honest thoughts, not the socially acceptable ones she believed she’d long ago learned to plaster over the genuine.
His lips curved in a smile. She realized she was staring—nearly as sorry a breach of decorum as candor. “Y-yes, my lord,” she stammered, feeling like a perfect dolt.
“I wanted to thank you for a lovely par
ty.”
“Prettily said, but that compliment is due Lady Beaumont.” She managed a reproving look. “As you know.”
His smile widened to the twinkle-eyed grin of a small boy succeeding in mischief. “I have this lamentable urge to give credit where it’s due. Reprehensible, I admit.”
A gurgle of laughter escaped her. “If credit were always placed where it’s due, society as we know it would crumble.” Sobering, Sarah asked anxiously, “Everything is going well, is it not? Clarissa is—”
“—a paragon of decorum. This afternoon, I received an exemplary note of apology. Only four misspellings.” He gave Sarah a penetrating look. “You must have delivered a thundering scold.”
A little flustered, she replied, “I did speak with Clarissa, but she needed no prompting. She already regretted the, ah, incident. As her behavior demonstrates.”
“You really must allow matters to run their course.”
Though softly spoken, she recognized the reproof. He had every right to reject interference, but after all her efforts she couldn’t help feeling resentful.
“I did not intend to meddle in a private matter,” she said stiffly. “If you feel I have done so, I must apologize. Now, as you justly observed, I should return.”
She started past. He caught her wrist. Once again, the touch of his gloved hand sent a tremor up her arm.
“I realize you intervene from a sincere desire to help.” With one finger he caressed her wrist. “You aren’t ‘Ice’ at all, are you, Miss Wellingford? ’Tis only right you detest the nickname.”
Trembling, Sarah stepped back and withdrew her hand. No wonder he’d won such a reputation with the ladies. His eyes held hers still; his compelling presence mesmerized.
Her mind skittered, locking on sensation: the throb of her pulse in rhythm with the distant orchestra…the mingled scents of beeswax, roses and shaving soap…the midnight of his eyes and broad, black-coated shoulders silhouetted against the dancing light of the sconces.
Coloring faintly, she turned to fiddle with the perfectly aligned flatware. “I should hope,” she managed at last, “I am neither shallow nor easily shattered.”
“Not at all.” He replaced the fork she’d just moved a fraction of an inch. “If one must compare you to ice, I’d describe you as the solid kind on which one skates. Dependable, and a pleasure to be near. Now—” he took her hand from the table and placed it on his arm “—let me escort you back to the ballroom.” In a lighter tone he added, “I expect several faithful swains await your return.”
Gallantry again. More comfortable with that than his compliments, she replied, “I don’t know about ‘several,’ but one or two might wish for a dance.”
“Which one or two?” He wagged a finger at her. “You’ve solved my romantic difficulties—let us consider yours. You ventured to London to make a match?”
At her nod, he continued. “From what you’ve said, I gather you have no male relatives to screen your suitors. Perhaps I should take on the post.”
She shot him a glance. Surely he wasn’t serious. Nonetheless, she replied politely, “You’re very kind, but I couldn’t think of it.”
He looked startled, as if he didn’t understand her refusal. Not wishing to appear ungrateful, she added, “You are funning, I realize, but—”
“Not at all, Miss Wellingford. I’m quite in earnest. After all, who better to judge than an experienced older man acquainted with everyone in the ton?”
“I being so young and green,” she countered dryly. “’Tis most generous, but I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”
“No imposition. I should look upon it almost as…a duty to my fiancée.” He drew himself up into a parody of a pater familias. “Come, Miss Wellingford. No secrets.”
The absurdity of it—having that incomparable Corinthian, the Marquess of Englemere, pass her suitors in review—wrestled with proper reserve, and won. “’Tis ridiculous,” she protested, laughing.
“Child, you wound me. Now, tell Uncle Nicholas everything.”
For whatever reason—perhaps the same one that had led her to speak frankly before—after a moment’s hesitation, she fell in with his game. Leaning closer, she said in confidential tones, “The first is rather young—Marshall Beckman, from Yorkshire.”
“The coal magnate’s grandson?”
“Yes,” she replied, hoping she didn’t detect a sudden coolness in his tone. “’Tis true, his grandfather was in trade, but his mother’s family is unexceptionable. He’s a nice lad, if a trifle…shy.” As well he might be, she added mentally, with half the ton ready to cut him for his grandfather, and the other half mocking his tall, gawky frame and spotted face.
“I know nothing to his discredit, though I’d not judge him up to your weight. Who else?”
She chuckled. “The next is surely that! Baron Broughton must outweigh me by several stone. And though I suspect he’s much more interested in a new mother for his six daughters than a wife, he has been attentive.”
The marquess frowned with mock severity. “Family’s acceptable, but for all his wealth, the baron is too fond of the green baize for unqualified approval.”
She thought she’d masked her reaction, but Englemere laughed. “The pot calling the kettle black, you think? My dear, don’t you know? I never lose. As for the baron, rumor says he spends his winnings on—well, I should think you would want more than a nursemaid’s position.”
She gazed up at him appraisingly. “Do you think I look for love, or some grand passion? I assure you, at my advanced age I’ve long since abandoned romantic notions. Should he honor me with a proposal, I am certain the baron would treat me with kindness and respect.”
“Paltry.” Englemere dismissed the baron—or her sentiments—with a wave of the hand. “If not grand passion, then devotion is a minimum requirement. I insist on it.”
One marble-perfect face flashed into her mind. “I would rather dispense with the devoted one,” she muttered.
“Devoted? Excellent. Who is this perceptive man?”
Sarah looked away, her enjoyment of their banter dashed. She didn’t wish to discuss Sir James. When possible, she avoided even thinking of him. Chastising herself for having begun this silly recital of suitors, she reluctantly replied, “Sir James Findlay.”
Englemere’s smile vanished. “Entirely unsuitable,” he said flatly. “Findlay’s already buried two wives. Suicides, rumor says. He’s received—just barely—but no matron worth her salt would let an unmarried daughter near him. I’m astonished Lady Beaumont permitted it.”
“She’s been busy, and he can be charming.”
“Perhaps, but I still think it a shocking lapse.” He looked steadily at her. “No more funning, Sarah—Miss Wellingford. The man’s a villain, and I say that based on personal experience, not rumor. Dismiss him.”
Despite her reservations about Findlay, Sarah’s independent nature bridled at the command. “I’ve heard the rumors, and I think it reprehensible that a man be condemned on that basis. Sir James comes from an excellent family and is, as you admit, everywhere received. To me, he has been all that is correct.”
“Excuse me, Miss Wellingford. I didn’t mean to dictate. Please understand I spoke from genuine concern.”
Her resentment extinguished by his swift apology, she felt foolishly churlish. “I do understand. Excuse me for flying into the boughs. And I must confess, for all that Sir James is handsome, well-bred and amusing, I cannot like him. Unfortunately, of my several suitors, he’s by far the most persistent.” Sarah sighed. “And he’s very rich.”
“They are all of them rich, aren’t they?” he mused, as if just realizing the fact. “Is wealth that important?”
She sensed, rather than heard, the change in his tone. What matter if he thought her a fortune hunter. Was that not the bare truth? His disapproval should not have hurt, but it did. “Some of us do not possess the privilege of free choice,” she said defensively.
“Naturally, one must choose
jewels, and modish gowns, and fancy carriages,” he replied, his voice sardonic.
“Jewels and gowns and carriages?” she gasped, truly stung now. “Try food, and clothing, and a roof over one’s head!” She regretted the outburst the moment the words left her lips. Her face heating, she turned away.
“I had heard Wellingford was all done up.” His quiet voice came over her shoulder. “Are things that bad?”
She was suddenly, furiously angry—at herself, for once again blundering into confession, at him for his well-heeled disdain. Even more, at that moment she hated Englemere for unleashing the burden of worry she struggled so hard to contain. Was it not enough that it haunted her dreams?
She turned back to stare straight into his eyes. “Lord Englemere, do you think me stupid enough to have thrown myself—a plain, penniless ape-leader—to the Marriage Mart wolves, were the case not absolutely desperate?”
“Tête-à-tête with Englemere? That will never do.”
The mocking voice wafted to her from the doorway, and Sarah winced. Not yet. She needed to be at her best to deal with Sir James, and now her composure was in shreds.
“I wondered where you’d gone.” Sir James strolled toward them. “Lady Beaumont sent you on another little errand, did she? I must return you to the party.”
He took Sarah’s hand. “’Evening, Englemere.” He bowed. “I’m to wish you happy, am I not? Mayhap you will soon be doing the same for me.” Sir James gave Sarah a significant look. “Come along, my dear. The next dance is mine.”
Ushered out by Sir James, Sarah could do no more than nod a brief parting to Englemere. As he bore her down the hall, she found her voice. “’Twas presumptuous of you to speak so to Lord Englemere.” She tugged at her hand. “You know quite well you have not asked, nor have I answered.”
Sir James obligingly loosened his grip. Sarah felt a strong urge to remove her hand—and her person—from his presence, though she had no reason beyond an instinctive dislike to justify such rudeness. After a moment’s inner struggle, she left her hand on his arm.
The Wedding Gamble Page 3