Page 49 of The Heiress's Daughter
So emboldened by their words, she was preparing to receive her first kiss. She looked out into the garden. Only a few lanterns had been hung in the trees—not enough to cast light on what was, for the most part, a garden of mystery and shadow. It was an invitation to dalliance: several couples had already vanished into the darkness.
Was she on a quest for romance or was she about to be foolish?
She shivered.
“The breeze is a little fresh. Are you sure you want to step outside?” Mr. Clayborn asked.
“No, it will be refreshing after the heat and stuffiness in the ballroom,” she said, making her decision. She wanted to know what it was like to be kissed. Specifically, she wanted to know what kissing Mr. Clayborn would be like.
She glanced at him. Would he even want to kiss her? She had no idea. He’d been perfectly proper in his attentions so far. Was she supposed to signal somehow that she was willing? How? She had the feeling that this sort of thing was generally initiated by the man. Ladies, she had always been taught, were supposed to prevent such intimacies. But nobody had ever tried to kiss her. Yet.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she told herself, and stepped out onto the terrace.
“Ah, Clayborn, glad I found you,” a voice said from behind. Lord Randall strolled up to them. “Your great-aunt seems to have had a bit of a turn. You’d better go to her.”
Mr. Clayborn hesitated, glancing from Lord Randall to Clarissa, but disappointed as she was, there was no question of what he should do. “No, don’t worry about me, Mr. Clayborn. You must go at once. Shall I come with you?”
“No need, Miss Studley. Several other ladies are tending to her,” Lord Randall said. “But of course she wants her beloved nevvie. Don’t worry, Clayborn, I’ll look after Miss Studley. You run along.”
Mr. Clayborn gave him an irritated glance. “I am so sorry, Miss Studley—” he began.
“Time is of the essence,” Lord Randall reminded him.
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Clarissa called after Mr. Clayborn as he stomped unevenly away, wincing with each step.
“It’s not,” Lord Randall told her.
She turned and stared at him. Then narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re looking rather pleased with yourself, Lord Randall.”
“Who, me?” He smiled. “Why would I not be pleased to be with a lovely lady? I gather you were about to take a walk in the garden. Shall we?” He took her arm and moved forward toward the steps down into the garden.
She shook his hand off. “Was it true, about Mr. Clayborn’s great-aunt?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps just a little too much champagne.”
“That’s—that’s outrageous!”
“Do you think so? But plenty of elderly ladies take a few drops too much on occasion. It’s not a crime.”
“I don’t mean that and you know it.” She glared at him. “I think you deliberately stopped Mr. Clayborn from escorting me outside.”
He gestured carelessly, making no attempt to deny it. “He shouldn’t have been taking you outside. He’s done it before, and he should know better. So should you, for that matter.”
“A harmless stroll in the fresh air?”
“First it’s a harmless stroll, then the gossip starts and next thing your reputation is besmirched—
“Besmirched?”
“Besmirched,” he said firmly. “And then before you know it you’re betrothed. Whether you want it or not.”
“Nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense, it’s how society works.” Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he led her down the steps into the garden.
“I don’t care about my reputation.”
He turned his head sharply. “What? But you must.”
