Page 48 of The Heiress's Daughter
And it wasn’t the sort of question one could put in a note.
He’d asked his cousin to call on her, but it turned out she had another engagement, and anyway, her gleeful curiosity about his motives for wanting her to call caused him to clam up. He was very fond of his cousin, but discreet she was not.
He was walking along in a brown study, not taking much notice of where he was going—his head was full of what Clayborn had claimed—when a voice hailed him. “Randall, well met, old fellow.”
He looked up. “Grantley,” he exclaimed. “Good lord, haven’t seen you in years.”
Grantley chuckled. “Away at the wars for most of it. How are you, Randall? Heard your father died. My condolences.”
Race nodded. “Years ago now. And how are your parents?”
“Father gone, mother still fighting fit. The grandchildren keeping her active, you see.”
“Grandchildren?”
“All ten of them.”
“Ten?” Race couldn’t help but exclaim.
Grantley chuckled. “Not just me—I have two sisters, you know. But I have three of my own—two boys and a girl.” He linked his arm through Race’s and began walking. “Married a Spanish girl—marvelous woman. Stayed with me through every campaign, didn’t turn a hair at the dirt or the danger. A true lady. Ah, here we are.”
Race looked up at the building they’d stopped in front of, looked at the discreet brass plate—The Apocalypse Club—and halted.
“Join me for a spot of lunch?” Grantley said. “They do avery good steak and kidney pudding here. Or an excellent grilled flounder if that’s your preference.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think so.” He glanced again at the nameplate. “Not my sort of place.”
“Why not?” Grantley gave him a shrewd look and then said, “Oh, I know. Expecting it to be full of old war horses reliving their days of glory?”
Race nodded. “Something of the sort.” He hated having to listen to former soldiers boasting of their conquests and near misses.
“War’s not glorious at all,” Grantley said. “You and I know better, don’t we? This is a club for real soldiers.”
“Then it’s not for me. I was barely a soldier at all.”
“Nonsense. Not your fault that your regiment was recalled to England after Colonel Grant was wounded. As I recall the 15th Hussars—that was you, wasn’t it?”—Race nodded—“were damned successful. Defeated two French cavalry regiments in a single battle. And…weren’t you mentioned in dispatches? Something about rescuing a fellow whose horse was shot from under him, wasn’t it?”
Race shrugged it off. He hated talking about his brief, inglorious career as a cavalry officer. He’d been twenty-three and gone to war full of romantic ideas of glory. The battle Grantley spoke of had been hideous, bloody and ghastly. The weather was freezing: they were all so cold their hands were numb. They’d been ordered to ride their horses in a line at the chasseurs, who’d met them with a hail of gunfire. The sound of screaming horses and men—on both sides—had given him nightmares for several years. The horses in particular haunted him. The men at least had chosen to go to war; the horses hadn’t.
He’d lost any illusions he’d had about war that day.
Afterward the 15th had been recalled to England, and for the next two years he’d kicked his heels, bored and frustrated, reading about the battles other men fought from a newspaper. And then his father died, and Race sold hiscommission to take up his duties on the estate, and in Parliament.
He rarely spoke about his military service, feeling a little ashamed at its brevity and that he came through his only battle quite unscathed, except for a few minor wounds, whereas others…
“Come in and dine with me,” Grantley urged him. “I promise you, there are no glory hounds here. Just men who’ve been there, and who want a quiet, convivial meal with good English cooking. I tell you, the steak and kidney pud is superb.”
It had been years since he’d seen his old friend so, dismissing his initial reluctance, Race accepted the invitation and entered the club.
Clarissa walked toward the French doors leading out to Lord and Lady Carmichael’s garden. It was a fine night and she was tense with nerves. She’d been waiting all night for this moment.
She was about to go outside with Mr. Clayborn and, if he wanted to, she planned to let him kiss her. She’d never been kissed, had never had the opportunity. Until now.
She was shaking a little, but determined on her course.
She recalled what her chaperone had once said:You need to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince.It had shocked her a little at the time, especially coming from a lady who was employed to guard her virtue.
But then Lady Tarrant had told her:a discreet kiss or two in private wouldn’t hurt.
