Page 25 of The Heiress's Daughter
“We’ve met at Lady Scattergood’s several times.”
She raised her brows. “Have we? We get so many visitors. I’m afraid I don’t…” She lifted her hands in ano ideasort of gesture.
He looked a little taken aback, but bowed. “Edgar Walmsley, at your service.” His expression was peevish, his voice tinged with reproach.
“Indeed?” she said vaguely, and began to turn back to her companions. She was shaking inside—a mix of nerves and excitement. She was never rude to people, but this man and his contemptuous comments—made in front of his friends, too—had inflamed her temper.
“The first dance, Miss Studley,” he said.
“What about it?”
He looked a little annoyed. “Would you do me the honor?” His tone indicated that she must be a little stupid.
A lifetime of training said she should curtsy, thank him prettily and accept his invitation. A lady never refused a gentleman’s invitation to dance. No matter who the gentleman was.
Did he expect her to be grateful? His was less an invitation to dance than an assumption. She pretended to consider it for a long moment and when he began to shift impatiently, she said pleasantly, “I don’t think so. I only dance with people I like. Goodbye, Mr. Walmsley.”
“Goodbye?” he spluttered. “You are refusing me? But, but—” He broke off, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Clarissa wanted to laugh, but she’d shocked herself almost as much as she’d shocked him. She was never rude. But this felt wonderful.
Clarissa’s chaperone moved forward, looking concerned. “Is there a problem, my dear?”
“No, not at all,” Clarissa said. She’d done it. She’d never refused a dance in her life. She was shaking inside, but she felt victorious.
“You realize having refused Mr. Walmsley you will notbe able to dance with anyone else tonight,” Mrs. Price-Jones murmured in her ear.
Clarissa nodded. She knew that. It was frustrating—she loved to dance—but an evening spent as a wallflower was worth it to have given this horrid Mr. Smug a set-down.
Little fat plain oneindeed. How dare he talk about her like that. Even if it was true. She was more than just her looks. Or her fortune. And she deserved respect, no matter what.
“Ah, Miss Studley, there you are.” Lord Randall appeared at her elbow. Clarissa blinked. What was he doing here? He never attended society balls.
Dressed in formal blacks, with a crisp white shirt—without frills—and a gray, watered silk waistcoat that exactly matched his eyes, he looked magnificent.
Her gaze dropped to the elegant silver buttons on his waistcoat: the bottom one was undone. She frowned. That was careless. Should she mention it?
But before she could decide, the orchestra played an opening chord and sets began to form on the dance floor. “Shall we?” Lord Randall held out his arm.
Clarissa hesitated. Another assumption to dance?
“She’s not dancing,” Smugman said nastily.
Lord Randall gave him a dismissive glance. “Not with you, she isn’t, Walmsley. But she promised me this dance earlier.”
“She didn’t tell me that,” Walmsley began, aggrieved. “If she’d explained—
Lord Randall cut him off. “Why should she? Now, Miss Studley, let us make haste lest we ruin the set.”
Bemused, a little shaken but enjoying Smugman’s confounded expression, Clarissa allowed Lord Randall to lead her onto the dance floor.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he murmured. “He’s a callow young fool and not worth your time.”
“He’s a fortune hunter,” Clarissa said, “and not a very nice one, either.”
Lord Randall gave her a sharp look. “So you knew that, did you? Good for you. You look ravishing in that dress, by the way.”
A little of Clarissa’s pleasure drained away. Why did men always think they needed to lavish false compliments on her? She was used to that sort of thing from fortune hunters—insincerity was their stock-in-trade, after all. She glanced at Lord Randall’s handsome profile. She supposed it was a rake’s stock-in-trade also.
