Page 28 of The Heiress's Daughter
And if that lady was to be believed, everyone would be watching.
What was he doing at a ball anyway? she thought aggrievedly. He was well-known to avoid ton events. Why had he chosen to attend this one?
A waltz. The most romantic dance of all. And with Lord Randall. Followed by supper.
It was too late to wriggle out of it now.
Although…She could claim to have a headache and go home early.
No, that would be cowardly, and she was determined not to give in to her fears. So she would dance the waltz with him.
Oh, Mama.
Though Mama, even if she weren’t long dead, would have been no help at all. Mama had fallen for a tall, handsome, apparently charming but utterly worthless rake who had turned out to be a perfectly dreadful husband. Unfaithful, callous and cruel.
Yet Mama doted on him regardless, making excuses for every vile and cruel thing he did or said…
And that, Clarissa told herself, was what she had to keep in the forefront of her mind. She was too much like her mother—in temperament as well as looks—which made it all the more important to avoid fortune hunters. And rakes.
Lord Randall wasn’t interested in her fortune. He was rich, everybody said so. And he might not be cruel, but you couldn’t really tell, could you, when you met men only on their best public behavior?
It wasn’t until after the wedding, when Papa realized most of Mama’s fortune was tied up in a trust, that he became so nasty.
But none of that mattered, because she wasnotgoing to let herself fall for him as Mama had fallen for Papa. It was just a matter of being firm with herself.
Besides, he was only being polite, she was sure of it. Nomatter what he claimed, she knew he was here to keep an eye on her for Leo. She’d heard his cousin saying so. And why else had he turned up at this ball, when everyone knew he hardly ever attended society events?
Flirting and charming ladies were second nature to him. She’d seen the way he strolled lazily across the dance floor, his progress followed by the eyes of half the women in the room. She glanced in his direction—yes, there he still was, head and shoulders visible, surrounded by that small cluster of women, all posturing and fluttering and vying for his attention.
Most of them were a good five or more years older than she was—some looked even older than Lord Randall—and all those she recognized were married. Not that it seemed to make any difference to him. He said something that set them all laughing again. He glanced across at her and she averted her gaze.
Don’t be foolish. Keep your dreams for someone worthy.
It was also foolish to feel nervous at the prospect of waltzing with him, she told herself. He wasn’t serious in the least—he never was, everybody said so. There was no danger from him—and as long as she controlled her ridiculous susceptibility there would be no danger for her.
She watched as one of the ladies placed a hand on Lord Randall’s arm and he bent his head to hear what she had to say. They looked quite intimate.
Clarissa made a decision. She would dance the waltz with him. And she would enjoy it. If other ladies could flirt and dance with Lord Randall and enjoy it without any consequence to their peace of mind, so could she.
Playing with fire, a small voice in her head whispered.
Nonsense, she told it. Forewarned was forearmed. She just had to remember: a rake was a rake was a rake.
Was. A. Rake.
And while she had his attention at supper, she wouldtake the opportunity to confront him, to explain that while she appreciated his protection, she didn’t need it, and that any promises he’d made her guardian on her behalf were quite unnecessary.
It was a plan.
“Miss Studley, what a pleasure to see you here. And what a pretty color that dress is. It suits you wonderfully well.” Clarissa turned. It was one of her most devoted suitors, Cuthbert Clayborn.
She smiled. “Mr. Clayborn, I didn’t know you were planning to attend tonight.”
He looked very elegant. Over his tastefully frilled shirt, he wore a gold-embroidered blue waistcoat that emphasized his light blue eyes and the gilt of his hair. His curls, tousled and pomaded into appealing disorder, gleamed under the light of the chandeliers. His dark blue pantaloons were tight, and he wore high black boots, which was quite unconventional for a ball. He always wore boots, though, explaining that he needed them to support his bad leg.
“I came solely to see you, dear lady. You mentioned the other day that you would be attending, and my great-aunt and I had invitations, of course. I came especially to ask you for a dance. So, will you grant me the next dance?”
Clarissa hesitated. Surely, with his leg…
