Page 103 of The Heiress's Daughter
Race ordered a brandy from a club employee.
“Clarissa’s chaperone and her two silver swains are escorting them,” Leo said once his glass had been filled as well.
“Silver swains?”
“My wife’s term.” Race smiled to himself at the pride and quiet enjoyment with which Leo saidmy wife. Leo continued, “Apparently Mrs. Price-Jones has two elderly silver-haired suitors vying for her hand. I’m told she will choose between them once Clarissa is married.” He raised a quizzical brow at Race.
“Indeed,” Race said enigmatically.
“No progress there yet?”
“I have hopes, but no, nothing definite.” He took a sip of the brandy and felt it burn pleasantly down his throat. Tomorrow when he spoke to Clarissa he should know more. In the meantime he was living on tenterhooks.
For the next few minutes they talked of this and that; Race discussed a couple of issues that had come up on his estate, Leo told him about a mutual friend who’d lost a pile at the tables and had been forced to sell his horses. But Leo kept shifting uncomfortably, darting glances at Race and then looking away, and Race could tell there was something on his mind.
He was about to tell his friend to spit it out, when Leo said gruffly, “Got a question for you, Randall.”
“Yes?”
“People have been talking—well, women mostly.”
“Go on,” Race said wearily. Women often talked about him. Mostly nonsense.
“Thing is, they’ve been asking me questions. Intimate and damned embarrassing questions.”
Race raised a brow. “Indeed? What have you been up to?”
“Not about me, you fool, about you.”
Race put his glass down. “Intimate questions about me? And they’re askingyou?”
“I know! As I said, damned embarrassing. And inappropriate.”
“What sort of questions?”
“About…” He swallowed. “About the state of your arse.”
Race was incredulous. “Myarse?”
“Exactly.”
“What about my arse?”
“Whether the heart-shaped mark on your left cheek is a birthmark or a tattoo.”
Race stared at him. “The devil, you say. I don’t understand. I don’t have any kind of mark on my arse, no birthmark and certainly no tattoo.”
Leo frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” Race snapped. Why the hell would anyone be asking about a nonexistent mark on his arse? “What did you tell them?”
“To go to the devil, of course, and that I had no knowledge of—or interest in—the state of your backside! It was a damned cheek asking.” And then he added sheepishly, “No pun intended.”
“Yes, of course,” Race agreed hastily. After a minute he asked, “Who has been asking about this?”
“Women, actually. Some of your better-known flirts, as a matter of fact.” He started listing names.
After half a dozen names, Race cut him off. “All right, all right, I get the idea.” He shook his head, pondering the mystery. “Why on earth would they be wondering about such a bizarre thing? I don’t suppose anyone has asked you about your arse.”
