Page 42 of The Heiress's Daughter
“A cousin is definitely a better plan. Her French is superb—how did she acquire such an aristocratic accent, by the way? And her grammar is perfect—her French grammar, I mean.” But the girl’s English was definitely a problem.
Clarissa explained about the girl’s mother and her aristocratic background. That made sense to him. “Though the lower-class governess story is less believable.”
Clarissa sighed. “I know, but what else can we do?”
“We’ll think of something. Now the reason I wanted to speak to you this morning—”
“Tea, Miss Clarissa? Milor’?” Matteo hovered in the doorway, holding a dish of little cakes and smiling tentatively. “Or hot chocolate? Alfonso has baked some little English cakes for you, and—”
“I told you I didn’t want any—” Race began, irritable at yet another interruption, but Clarissa jumped up, saying, “Oh dear, the morning has truly flown. I must get these blooms into the dryer. Lady Scattergood is expecting me to join her for luncheon and then I have an engagement to go driving with Mr. Clayborn.”
She smiled at Matteo. “Thank you, Matteo, but perhaps you can send Alfonso’s cakes over to Lady Tarrant’s. The last lot were delicious and the little girls do enjoy them, as does Lady Tarrant and her guest.”
Snatching up her basket from Race’s feet, she gave him a quick smile. “Thank you, Lord Randall. I did enjoy our little chat.”
“But—” He hadn’t even had a chance to broach the subject he’d come to talk to her about: his courtship.
But she was gone.
Matteo took one look at Race’s scowl and hastily removed himself and his blasted cakes from sight.
Race locked up the summerhouse, hid the key in the usual spot and glared at the garden. Privacy? He snorted.
To Clarissa’s surprise, that afternoon when Mr. Clayborn came to collect her for their drive in the park, he didn’t come to the door. Instead he sat in the street, in his smart, black-lacquered phaeton and sent his groom to fetch her.
It was odd, and certainly rather poor manners, but when she reached his phaeton he explained. “I must apologize for not coming for you myself, Miss Studley, but to tell the truth, with this wretched leg of mine, it’s not a pretty sight, watching me clamber up into this thing. I would spare you it.”
She wondered why he’d chosen such a high carriage then, if it was so hard to climb into it. But she supposed men had their own little vanities, so she simply smiled, saying, “I don’t mind at all, Mr. Clayborn.”
“So gracious of you, Miss Studley. Now, my groom will assist you.” He snapped his fingers at the groom, who hurried to help Clarissa up.
“Wait! Wait for me!” Mrs. Price-Jones caroled, and came hurrying down the front steps. Like Clarissa, she was dressed in a carriage dress, but where Clarissa’s was pale sage green with several rows of dark green piping around the hem and a narrow band of matching velvet around the high waist, and she wore a simple straw bonnet with a green band, Mrs. Price-Jones’s outfit was a rainbow affair in yellow and orange stripes, with wide pleated sleeves in royal blue, trimmed with orange ribbons. On her head she wore a large, broad-brimmed straw hat, lavishly trimmed with yellow and royal blue ostrich feathers.
Both Clarissa and Mr. Clayborn stared. “Ma’am?” Mr. Clayborn said, frowning.
“Mrs. Price-Jones?” Clarissa said at the same time. There had been no mention of her chaperone coming with her on the drive.
Mrs. Price-Jones shrugged. “Lady Scattergood’s orders,I’m afraid. She was fretting about you being alone with a man in public.”
“But surely—”
“I know, I know, riding in an open carriage in public—Hyde Park, no less, with all the ton looking on—is quite comme il faut, but Lady Scattergood is insistent. And besides, it’s a perfect day for a lovely drive in the fresh air.” She smiled at the groom. “Now, my good fellow, help me into this splendid phaeton.”
“But, but, but…” Mr. Clayborn spluttered.
Mrs. Price-Jones looked up at him, one finely plucked brow raised. “You have some objection to my presence, Mr. Clayborn?”
“No, no, not in the least, dear lady,” he said hurriedly. “But my phaeton—it’s a two-seater.”
Mrs. Price-Jones laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about that. It will be a mite snug but I’m sure we’ll all fit.” She stepped forward.
Clarissa had her doubts, but she took Mrs. Price-Jones’s reticule to hold while the lady climbed in. Her chaperone was a lady of considerable bulk, but Mr. Clayborn pulled, the groom pushed and after a few fraught minutes Mrs. Price-Jones was seated beside Mr. Clayborn, puffing but triumphant. She patted the few inches of seat left. “Come on up, Clarissa, don’t dally. Mr. Clayborn won’t want his horses standing about too long.”
Clarissa hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll fit.”
“Nonsense, of course you will. We will be delightfully cozy, won’t we, Mr. Clayborn?” Mrs. Price-Jones wiggled even closer to him, and he had to grab the edge of the carriage to maintain his balance.
“Quite,” he said, thin lipped.
