by Nicole Byrd
And yet, once when she paused on the top of a knoll to look out over the pleasant Kentish countryside, she felt a strange sensation as if someone or something watched her.
His hackles rising, the dog suddenly whirled and growled.
“Here, sir,” she instructed. “No chasing after foxes, if you please.”
With obvious reluctance, the retriever, who had run a few steps toward a nearby clump of trees, returned at her command. Whining a little, he gazed wistfully toward the forbidden and unseen lure.
Clarissa looked up at the sun and decided it was time to return to the house. So, with the dog at her heel, she avoided the grove that had excited the animal’s interest and retraced her steps.
She slipped quietly back into the house and climbed the staircase to her room. This time she submitted to her maid’s ministrations, bathed, and then dressed. After her walk, she was more than ready to eat, and even the larger crowd at the long dining table, which had had several more leaves added since last night to lengthen its expanse, did not totally kill her appetite.
She had a different young man on each side of her this time—Lady Gabriel was doing her duty as a good hostess and making sure that Clarissa met plenty of eligible young men. Again, she made polite and uninspired conversation with one or the other. And once, when she had taken a good-sized bite of roasted chicken, she remembered her first, and now departed, governess’s admonition that ladies must eat only small portions.
Oh, hell. The chicken had a wonderful sauce, and she was hungry. If the young man beside her, who was busy telling her with great detail about his morning’s shooting and how well he had done, was not impressed, too bad.
But still, she ate less of the second course, and some of her nervous qualms seemed to have returned. Why did she have to suddenly remember the obnoxious governess’s many criticisms of Clarissa’s deportment. Take small steps. Glide, do not clump like a plow girl. Keep your shoulders back and your head up, but don’t stare. . . .
The list had seemed endless, and Clarissa had never been able to remember—or carry out—all the admonitions. She sighed.
Afterward, most of the ladies retired to rest or to begin their extensive preparations for the evening’s festivities.
Clarissa went up to her room, too, and allowed Matty to put up her hair in rags to create pleasing curls about her face later on. But she felt no need to nap, and her mind was all too active. She had begun to envision new disasters on the dance floor, and to counter those awful thoughts, she took up her book of dance forms and studied it earnestly.
Her new ball gown had been pressed and was laid out on a chaise, awaiting the appointed time for her to don it. As beautiful as it was, Clarissa found she did not want to gaze at it; the sight of so much elegance and so much implied expectation made her stomach roil. Oh, she needed more time! All her newfound confidence seemed to have evaporated while her worst anxieties had all returned.
So when Matty came in after an errand and said, “You are wanted in the library, miss,” Clarissa looked up sharply.
“What? Who wants me? Is it Lady Gemma?”
Looking mysterious, Matty shook her head. “But I think you will wish to go, miss. Trust me.”
Biting her lip, Clarissa put her book aside. “We must take these out,” she said, patting her hair.
Matty removed the curling devices and brushed out her hair. Clarissa left her room, shutting the door quietly behind her. Gemma and Matthew were in the next guestroom, and if Gemma was napping, Clarissa did not wish to disturb her. And, to be truthful, neither did she wish a chaperone.
Following Matty’s instructions, she reached the ground floor and located the large library, then she slipped inside.
Lord Whitby was waiting.
Dominic turned when Clarissa came through the door. Her smile lighting her face, she looked up at him.
“My lord, you are here!”
She came forward and Dominic bowed. “I wanted to apologize for not making it yesterday. I had a report from one of the runners I’ve hired saying that a man had been detained at Dover who matched the description of our missing dance instructor. So I posted down, but it was a wild-goose chase. I found only a clergyman with his wife and four children, all agitated about missing their boat to France.”
“Poor man,” she said, but she continued to smile.
“Are you looking forward to tonight?” he asked, and was at once sorry he had reminded her of the coming festivity, as her expression clouded.
“Not really, though I could not confess as much to Gemma or my hostess. I keep thinking of all the mistakes I could—and well may—make. I’m not sure I shall ever be able to act like a perfect lady, my lord,” she told him, as if confessing some dreadful sin.
He smiled tenderly at her. “Don’t try.”
“What?” She looked startled. Her delicate brows rose.
“No matter what all the old biddies tell you, being a lady is more than insipid manners and meaningless conversation. You have so much more, Clar—Miss Fallon.”
“But what about your bet?”
He had all but forgotten that meaningless wager. Her eyes on his face, she waited, and he made a gesture as if waving away such a trifle.
“It doesn’t signify.”
She had endured so much, this plucky girl with the beautiful face and the amazing spirit, gone through such hardship and yet emerged with her spirit still shining bright. And now, she should worry about social solecisms? Ridiculous!
He continued, watching his words more carefully. “You have such courage, such life, such fire inside you. Anyone who knows you will admire you, Miss Fallon.”
Her eyes had widened. “You really think so?”
“I know so. Just be yourself.”
“But I always say the wrong thing or—”
“A little fresh air can do wonders for a stuffy room. If you shake up the Ton’s staid propriety, so be it. They will be the better for it.”
He was rewarded with one of her flashing smiles. He couldn’t resist taking her hand and lifting it gently to his lips. Her skin was soft and her hand so small inside his. He wanted to pull her into his arms, but that—in the privacy of the empty library—could lead rapidly to another session of lovemaking, and this time, he might not be able to stop at a few kisses. He was accustomed to self-control, but every man had his limits. . . .
Her expression changing, she looked away. He turned his head and heard it, too, voices in the hallway.
They both stood without speaking, in silent collusion, until the people outside walked past, then he told her, keeping his voice low, “You should go now. I don’t want to incite gossip. I just wanted to let you know my progress, or lack of it, and to wish you good fortune. I will see you tonight. I hope you will grant me several dances?”
“Of course,” she murmured, but her lips lifted again.
He pressed her hand one last time, then released it with reluctance and watched her go quietly away.
And if he ached for her, she was too innocent to know, and just as well.
Clarissa made her way back to her room, but this time, her heart was light. If the earl approved of her, admired her, to Hell with the rest of the Ton. Of course she still did not wish to disappoint her brother or sister-in-law or the friends who had been so kind, but just knowing that Dominic—Lord Whitby—believed in her made her feel stronger and less anxious. So she put aside her book of dance steps and dressed for dinner with an easier mind.
Because she did not wish to spill a drop of soup on her amazing ball gown she had decided earlier that she would change after dinner, not before. So she donned a different frock for the meal and went downstairs when the time dictated, feeling a little guilty that she had not been in the drawing room with the ladies earlier.
But Gemma did not scold, and even though at dinner, Clarissa did not have the luxury of sitting beside the earl, who was seated farther up the table as his rank demanded, she knew that he was there, that he sometimes
glanced her way without being obvious about it, and that he always had a special look in his dark eyes when she managed to casually meet his gaze.
Compared to the earl, the young men beside her were so boring that she struggled to keep up an appearance of polite interest in their conversation. But out of pity if nothing else, she managed to maintain an air of attention that caused the young baronet on her left to babble on what seemed like forever about his home in Dorchester and his new methods of agriculture. Only as dinner wound to an end did it occur to her that he might have been trying to impress her, and perhaps he was nervous, too, an amazing idea. She was glad she had listened and answered him politely.
When the ladies withdrew from the dining room, Clarissa was not the only lady to retire to her room or to the lady’s withdrawing room to change her dress or repair her hairdo before the ball began. Matty was waiting in her bedchamber, and this time, Clarissa gathered her nerve and put on the ball gown. Her maid buttoned up the back and helped arrange the sash, then fastened her pearls about her throat. Her hair had been put up in the back, with soft curls about her face, and a handsome pearl comb that Gemma had given her adorned the coil of fair hair.
“Oh, miss, you look that lovely,” Matty told her.
Clarissa finally had the nerve to stare into the looking glass. Bloody hell! Or rather, goodness, who was this stranger?
No one could deny, at least at first glance, that this golden vision was indeed a lady. The dress was a marvel, its alabaster-hued silk with glints of gold and gold-trimmed lace made her skin appear almost translucent and her hair a matching shimmer of gold. Her hazel eyes were bright with excitement.
She looked, well, downright pretty!
Clarissa gazed at herself with astonishment. No grimy face today, no dusty gown, no rips in her sleeve. How had this happened? She looked elegant and poised and sure of herself.
Was it only a facade? She thought for a moment about fairy changelings, beings who were not what they appeared. What was a fine dress with no substance behind it?
Then she remember the earl’s amazing assertion. She had spirit, he’d said. No empty shell after all.
A knock sounded at the door.
Taking a deep breath, Clarissa took up her gold-trimmed fan and licked her suddenly dry lips. “Yes?”
The door opened, and it was Gemma. “Are you ready, my dear? Oh, you look quite beautiful!”
Clarissa smiled at her in gratitude. She thanked Matty and went into the hall, where her brother made her a solemn bow. “I am dazzled, Miss Fallon.”
She laughed at his formality. “Thank you, sir. I only hope I don’t trip over my feet this time.”
“Never,” Gemma predicted. “You will have an enchanting evening.”
In such a dress, she could indeed feel that she had strayed into a fairy tale. Uplifted by her wave of self-assurance, Clarissa was only slightly daunted when they made their way to the ballroom where she learned she had to stand in the receiving line with Lady Gabriel and Gemma and Matthew and greet all the guests.
She had noted at dinner that Lord Gabriel had not yet arrived. When they entered the ballroom, Clarissa saw that Lady Gabriel looked a little worried, although she shook off her frown and greeted them cordially. “Clarissa, you are a vision. You will indeed be the toast of the evening.”
“Thank you for everything,” Clarissa told her. “You’ve been so generous. I should never have expected such an amazing dress, and the ballroom looks wonderful.”
“This is a special night, my dear,” their hostess said. “I’m so sorry my husband has apparently been delayed. I expect him at any time.”
“I hope his journey hasn’t been difficult,” Clarissa said, then gave way to Gemma and Matthew, who also greeted their hostess, while Clarissa looked around her.
The big room was festooned with greenery and bright flowers from the garden. So many candles burned that the crystal chandeliers above them glinted and the looking glasses that lined the wall reflected soft halos of light. The sky outside was still layered with lavender and rose as the sun sank behind the trees, and the air through the open windows was soft and sweet with the scent of growing things. It was going to be a magical evening. Even she could not destroy such a mood.
Buoyed by this sudden burst of confidence, Clarissa took her place in the receiving line and the party began.
The stream of guests seemed endless. Clarissa smiled warmly at Lady Sealey and blushed when the earl appeared, wearing his aloof Society expression, though his dark eyes met hers with a private smile tucked deep in their depths.
The rest of the company blurred into an unending stream of faces, polite smiles, silk gowns and well-tailored evening wear. It was a relief when she heard the musicians hired for the event tuning their instruments, and at last her brother, who had as he’d threatened put aside his sling for the evening, bowed to her.
“May I have the first dance, my dear?”
He led her to the dance floor. Clarissa’s heart beat quickly, but it was a familiar tune that the musicians struck up, and with Matthew’s comforting guidance, she was able to follow the dance form without difficulty.
“I hope your wound is not paining you?” she asked, a bit anxiously.
“Never mind me, I’m quite well,” he told her. “I want the ball to be perfect for you, Clarissa.”
“Oh, Matthew, you are a wonderful brother,” she told him. “I am so lucky to have you.”
He smiled down at her, and tonight his mood seemed easy. And when the set ended and they walked off the floor, she saw that the earl was waiting to claim the next dance.
He made her heart beat faster, too, but in quite a different way. He looked incredibly good-looking in his perfectly cut coat and well-fitting pantaloons, his spotless linen and his white neckcloth tied just so. Even the slightly too long dark hair suited him, and she had long ago ceased noticing the scar on his left cheek. She pitied the rest of the young men, who paled to insignificance beside him. And it was not just his attire, of course, nor even his handsome face, but the intelligence in his dark eyes, the character and decision that firmed his jaw, the dry wit and irreverent comments that always made her laugh.
“Yes,” he told her now, nodding at her expression as he led her onto the dance floor. “This is how you should be. At ease with yourself, then the rest of the world will worship at your feet.”
She laughed at such nonsense, but didn’t try to argue.
The music rose and fell about them, and she felt as if she were skimming the clouds, not just the polished floor. Her earlier fears and doubts seemed to have evaporated, like early morning mist touched by warm sunlight. She glided through the dance without hesitation, and if her feet felt light and free, her joy seemed ready to spill over. The warmth and surety of his touch on her hand, the intimate glance that he shared with her, the intoxicating sense of being near him as they circled and met and turned and met again was heaven. How had she ever thought otherwise?
The music seemed to fill the room while the ever-moving dancers created a mosaic of graceful pattern, and the bright colors of the ladies’ dresses, the elegant dark and white starkness of the gentlemen, only added to the effect. Clarissa felt dazzled, and she gave herself to the moment, to the lyrical tune, to the rise and fall of the violin’s trill, and most of all, to the delight of the earl’s closeness.
They danced two sets, and when the last note faded, she almost protested when he led her off the floor, then remembered to hold her tongue. More than two dances would cause comment, of course. He was only thinking of her, as he always did.
The earl bowed over her hand. “Are you overwarm, Miss Fallon? Your cheeks are flushed.”
“Only with pleasure,” she murmured.
He smiled at her. “We will dance again later,” he promised. “And I have secured your sister-in-law’s permission to take you in to supper.”
With that to sustain her, Clarissa was able to smile at the next young gentleman who came to claim her ha
nd.
And if this time, the music was less sweet and the dance itself less intoxicating, the poor man couldn’t help his fatal flaw of not being Lord Whitby. To compensate for her private disappointment, Clarissa smiled at him so sweetly that the young man flushed and stuttered and seemed quite captivated. For her part, Clarissa, once more keeping one part of her mind on her steps, answered his polite stammers absently.
Her next partner looked familiar, and after a moment, she realized it was Mr. Galton, the young man who had made the ungentlemanly wager with the earl.
“I hope you are having a pleasant time?” she asked politely, while she considered stamping on his foot.
He nodded. “Of course, wonderful country seat Lord Gabriel has, and his wife throws a smashing good party. And you look quite the thing, downright dazzling in that get-up, and perfectly ladylike, too. Didn’t think you had it in you, I must confess.”
She laughed at his candor. “You’re too kind,” she told him, her tone teasing. “I shall consider dropping my plate at supper, just to save you your wager.”
Looking appalled, he reddened. “Whitby told you? I do beg your pardon. I should never have—that is—I mean—”
“No, you shouldn’t. But don’t fret, Mr. Galston; I forgive you. Although, I retain the right to make a wager about you, you know.”
“Quite right,” he agreed. “And one good thing if I’ve lost, Whitby’s so rich he’ll never notice if I pony up. Just as well, as I’m quite out of pocket till the end of the quarter.”
She shook her head at him, and they finished the dance in a state of amicable accord.
Gemma came up after Mr. Galton had bowed and taken his leave. “Are you having a good time, Clarissa? I have heard only the most glowing remarks about you.”
Clarissa chuckled. “That is the most amazing thing yet. But yes, it is a wonderful party, Gemma. I’m glad you persuaded me to submit to such pampering!”
Her sister-in-law laughed, too.