Part 19 (1/2)
”Oh, I would say his temper is most certain, most predictable,” Perry said with a smile.
”Oh, Perry, do keep your remarks to yourself!” Clarissa said.
”Do not say that you antagonized Lord Montwyn,” Lindley said, coming into the room.
”I say no such thing,” Clarissa said.
”'Twas I who said it.” Perry grinned.
”Couldn't you have been civil to the man?” Lindley grumbled, fetching himself a plate.
”I was more than civil.”
”She was,” Perry agreed. ”She was blatantly entertaining. At least, I was entertained.”
”And Montwyn? Was he?” Lindley asked.
”I thought he was, when she said she was in town shopping for a husband,” Perry volunteered.
Albert and Lindley were silent, their faces as dark as gloom. Dalton, having just come in, laughed. Clarissa was not grateful for it.
”Well done, Clarissa,” Dalton said. ”If a man can't stand a little ribbing, he'll make a sorry husband.”
”I shall remind you of that sentiment when you are shopping for a bride,” Lindley said, his dark eyes glowering at Dalton.
”Do you think you can remember it for that long?” Dalton smiled sharply at Lindley. Dalton would not be pushed into marriage, no matter what Albert threatened.
”Enough,” Albert said. ”It's past now, and nothing to be done but put a brave face on it. And try to make amends in your next encounter,” he said, looking censoriously at Clarissa.
”Russell!” she said to her brother as he came in, refusing to answer Albert and all the rest. The best path for her at the moment lay in a controlled retreat. There seemed to be too much of that in her life of late, and Montwyn was ever the cause. ”Will you please accompany me to Lackington's? I am book shopping today.”
”Of course, Clarissa,” he said agreeably. She knew beyond a doubt that he had been out all night and had just had time to change out of his evening wear; Russell would not want to stay and risk his own encounter with Albert's censure.
At her departure, the room broke up quickly, for none cared to stay and face his own comeuppance with Albert. If he had been a man of milder and softer temperament, he might have evoked pity, but he did not. He had been the head of the familya”a family that consisted of nine younger brothers and Clarissaa”for ten years. It was a burden he was accustomed to, one that he had been trained for all his life. If only his siblings would take to their traces as he had taken to his.
Jane entered as he stood in silent contemplation, his dark eyes studying the view of the garden through the gla.s.s. All was cold and gray and wet, yet the sundial gave the garden form and weight when all was leafless and bare. He had once enjoyed planning gardens, before he had been required to oversee the lives of his brothers. And Clarissa. Wild, impetuous Clarissa.
”Tell me your thoughts, Jane,” he said softly, his face still to the gla.s.s. ”What of Montwyn?”
Jane shrugged, and he saw the faint reflection of the gesture in the wavering gla.s.s. ”You are worried. You need not be.”
”You heard what she said to him?”
”No,” Jane said cautiously. ”But I did observe them from my place near the fire, and the air between them did not seem hostile.”
”Not hostile? When she blatantly told him that she was shopping for a husband?”
Jane swallowed before she answered. ”Lord Montwyn seems a capable, forthright man. I do not think such bantering will dissuade him.”
”Dissuade him?” Albert turned to her. ”Was he that interested, and so soon?”
”Let me not misspeak,” she said softly. ”I think him a man of firmness, of maturity. I think that if Lord Montwyn is at all interested in Clarissa, a few thoughtless words from her will not subdue that interest.”
”You have always been observant,” he said. ”Let us hope you are right. I would not have her season so quickly spoiled.”
”Nor would I,” she agreed.
With a nod, he gazed back out at his frozen garden. Jane, without another word, left him to his contemplation.
In Lackington's, Beau spotted her immediately. Her dark red hair shone like bright embers against the dark green of her coat. But it was not her hair that drew him; it was her manner. Bright and sharp, feminine and soft, quick and prouda” all mixed and blended to such confused refinement that he was able only to smile in bemus.e.m.e.nt at the contradiction of her.
He wanted her.
It was too soon for such a conclusion, yet it was no thoughtful, logical, intellectual process that brought him to the knowledge. It was instinct. Desire. Pa.s.sion.
Poor yardsticks when choosing a wife. Yet so he found himself. He wanted her. With such a woman, having her required marriage. For her he was willing to pay the price, though it was high.
Propriety demanded a lengthier involvement before p.r.o.nouncing his intent. Propriety demanded that he proceed slowly. Propriety demanded that he appear reasonable and methodical. He had never once considered the demands of propriety, and he saw no reason to begin now. The choice was made. Clarissa Walingford would be his wife, and the sooner the better.
He could not help wondering if she knew of their inevitable union as certainly as he did.
She did not.
She stood alone, Russell having taken himself off to another part of the shop while she conferred with the clerk. She felt his presence before she saw him, her breath quickening to match her pulse. It was a most inappropriate response to a man her logic had rejected. His arm appeared over her shoulder, and in his hand he helda a small square of embroidered linen.
”Do you like it?” he said, his words warm and soft on the back of her neck.
She turned to face him and held his green eyes with her gaze. She would not run from Lord Montwyn again, of that she was certain, though the urge to retreat from his proximity was strong. He was so very tall and broad, the shadow of his dark beard leaving a clear outline underneath his skin. She could see all so clearly, so intimately, and her heart raced. Against all logic her heart raced. But she would not run; she would instead compel him to run from her.
”A trifle ornate for my tastes, but then, it probably suits you.”
He smiled and tucked the bit of linen into a pocket in his coat. ”Searching for a book on embroidery?”
”No. I am not,” she said, turning back to the clerk.
Montwyn moved to stand beside her and took the book she had been considering from her hands. His hands were large, his fingers long, his nails squared and clean. She looked away from his hands.
”A History of the Peloponnesian Wars,” he quoted. ”Not in Greek?” he asked.
”No,” she said, lifting her chin.
”You disappoint me, miss.”
”With pleasure, sir,” she said with a sharp smile. ”I'll take it,” she said to the clerk. She had been debating choosing lighter reading; the debate within her ceased upon the arrival of Henry Wakefield. Where was Russell?
”Any more shopping to do?” Montwyn asked as the clerk wrapped the book and tallied the bill.
”Yes, but only for husbands,” she said, watching the book being wrapped, not watching him. But she could feel him, feel his strength, the power of his personality. He was most unwelcome. If only he had the sense to realize it.
Montwyn laughed with genuine pleasure. The man was an obvious imbecile.