Page 43 of The Heiress's Daughter
Clarissa climbed up and did her best to squeeze into the small space left.
“Perfect,” Mrs. Price-Jones declared, wriggling a bitmore. She patted Mr. Clayborn’s arm. “Now, Mr. Clayborn, let us depart.”
With the groom clinging to the back, they headed off. It soon became clear to Clarissa that there would be no opportunity to talk with Mr. Clayborn—indeed, she couldn’t even see him unless she leaned forward to see around her chaperone.
Even if she had been able to see him across her chaperone’s bulk, the lady’s large straw hat and feathers got in the way. Several times Clarissa leaned forward to look, to signal a silent apology, only to see Mr. Clayborn’s gloved hand swatting irritably at an ostrich feather that dangled in front of his face.
She sat back, listening to Mrs. Price-Jones happily chatting on, relating this story and that, while Mr. Clayborn’s responses became shorter and curter. She struggled not to laugh. Poor man, he obviously had planned quite a different sort of outing. And Mrs. Price-Jones was, seemingly, oblivious of his irritation.
“I will put you down once we get to Hyde Park, Mrs. Price-Jones,” he told her firmly as the gates of the park came into view. “You will wish to walk with your friends.”
“That would be delightful,” her chaperone agreed.
The phaeton swept through the gates and immediately slowed. It seemed that quite a few others had decided a drive in the park would be just the thing on this fine day and there was a line of carriages—phaetons, curricles, landaus, broughams and barouches—all moving at barely more than a walking pace.
The line stopped from time to time, as the occupants of a carriage stopped to speak to people on the ground or others in a different carriage. Some got down from one carriage only to be taken up in another. It was all very leisurely and convivial.
“Let me know where you would like to be put down,” Mr. Clayborn said.
“Yes, of course, dear boy. I will tell you as soon as I see my friends.”
But strangely, for all the fashionable and familiar ladies promenading in the park, many of whom waved and exchanged greetings, none of them seemed to be someone with whom Mrs. Price-Jones felt inclined to walk.
“Miss Studley, Mrs. Price-Jones, what a surprise to see you here on this lovely afternoon,” a deep voice said from Clarissa’s left.
“Lord Randall,” she responded. He was on horseback, on his beautiful Storm, and his face was more or less level with hers.
“A surprise, is it?” He’d known perfectly well she would be going for a drive here with Mr. Clayborn. She’d mentioned it only this morning.
“A most charming and unexpected surprise,” he assured her blandly. His eyes were dancing.
Mr. Clayborn leaned forward and glared at Lord Randall. “Randall.”
Lord Randall coolly inclined his head. “Clayborn.”
“How delightful to see you here, Lord Randall,” Mrs. Price-Jones said. “Finally, someone I’d love to talk to. And I don’t even need to get down and walk—I can sit here in comfort. Isn’t that splendid, Mr. Clayborn?”
“Splendid,” he grumped.
Lord Randall leaned closer and murmured in Clarissa’s ear. “In comfort?”
She bit her lip and said nothing. Her chaperone burbled on in the background, apparently intent on finishing a story she’d been telling Mr. Clayborn.
“I’m pleased to see it’s not just me whose attempts to converse with you she ruins,” Lord Randall said.
Clarissa blinked and looked at him in surprise.
“Didn’t you realize?” he said. “Today it’s Clayborn she’s foiling. Last night at the ball it was me. Does she do it to all your suitors?”
“Suitors?” Clarissa echoed, startled. Surely Lord Randall didn’t class himself in that group. No, he couldn’t. He had no serious intentions toward her, and even if he did, she had none toward him. He was a rake.
“All your gentlemen friends,” he amended smoothly. Before she could respond, he said in a low voice, “Prepare yourself, Miss Studley, you’re about to meet Sir Humphrey Shelduck, red nose and all.”
“Sir Humphrey Shelduck?” she repeated. The duck?
A large gentleman approached, seated on a gray horse. Seeing them he moved closer, lifted his hat and bowed ponderously from the saddle, which creaked. “Ladies, Randall, Mr. um…” He gave Mr. Clayborn a brief, dispassionate glance then dismissed him.
“Sir Humphrey, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Price-Jones, Miss Studley and Mr. Clayborn. Ladies, Clayborn, this is Sir Humphrey Sheldon, a fellow member of my club.”
