Page 45 of The Heiress's Daughter
Clayborn flushed. “I wasn’t—”
“As for the park today, I would have said I was keeping her entertained. It didn’t look as though she was enjoying the drive very much.”
“That was the fault of that damned interfering chaperone.”
“My point is, Clayborn, neither you, nor I, nor anyone except Miss Studley—and perhaps her guardian or chaperone—has the right to decide who she may or may not talk to or associate with. Is that understood?”
Clayborn muttered something Race didn’t catch. Not that he cared what the man said. He went to move on.
“I don’t know why it’s any of your business. It’s not as if you’d be interested in a girl like her,” Clayborn said sulkily. “Not seriously.”
“What the devil do you mean, ‘a girl like her’?” Race clenched his fists. He wanted to punch the stupid, ignorant ass, but you couldn’t hit a man who’d been wounded.
Clayborn shrugged. “Everyone knows you’re only interested in beauties. Even your convenients are reputed to be absolute high fliers. A plain girl like Miss Studley—”
The man knew nothing. Race made a disgusted gesture and turned to leave.
“Anyway, I do have the right,” Clayborn added.
Race turned back and waited for the man to finish.
“The thing is, Miss Studley and I…” He swallowed.
“Miss Studley and you…?” Race prompted cynically.
Clayborn took a deep breath and said in a rush, “Miss Studley and I have an understanding. So I do have the right to decide whom she may talk to or not. And I’ll thank you to stop bothering her.”
Race stiffened. “An understanding?” His voice was icy.
Clayborn reddened slightly and raised his chin defiantly. “Yes. A private one, you understand. With her guardian away…”
“I understand you very well,” Race said crisply, and strode off, furious.
Anunderstanding. What the hell did that mean? Surely she wasn’t considering marrying Clayborn? She couldn’t possibly. The man was a fool. A blind, pompous ass. Clarissa Studley would be wasted on a fellow like that.
Even if he was pale and handsome and tragic looking and wounded in the service of his country—a war hero. Apparently.
But women seemed to flock around pale and handsome tragic heroes. Especially wounded ones. Dammit!
Chapter Seven
The following morning Clarissa and Betty visited another orphanage and came home with a nice, levelheaded girl called Joan, who was thrilled at the prospect of becoming a lady’s maid, and was very grateful to be chosen.
The minute they got home, Betty whisked Joan upstairs to get her settled in and begin training her to be Izzy’s personal maid. The first thing they did was to begin going through the clothes Izzy had left behind and deciding what needed to be done to adjust them for Zoë.
Twenty minutes later Zoë came scooting down the stairs in distress. “They’re altering all Miss Izzy’s clothes to fit me—and she doesn’t even know I exist.”
Clarissa smiled and patted her on the arm. “Izzy has already taken most of the things she wants—they’re over at her husband’s house across the other side of the garden, and knowing her, I have no doubt she’ll want to purchase more when she gets home.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry. Betty knows what she’s doing.”
Zoë shook her head. “I dunno. People get transported to the other side of the world just for nickin’ a handkerchief, and this is more—a lot more.”
Clarissa hugged her. “Nothing is being stolen, and you’re not going anywhere.”
Zoë was still doubtful. She glanced up the stairs, and then said, “Would it be all right if I went to visit Lucy, I mean Lady Thornton—she told me to call her Lucy. She’s a painter, did you know?”
