Page 53 of The Heiress's Daughter
He hurried after her, babbling apologies and excuses, interrupted by small gasps each time he stepped on his bad leg.
Clarissa did not respond. She thought about the advice Mrs. Price-Jones had given her and Izzy when they first entered society:You need to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince.
It had shocked her at the time—chaperones were not supposed to say such things—but now she knew: LordRandall’s kisses were…magical, but with his way of life, he could never be her prince.
And Mr. Clayborn, suitable though he was in so many ways…He was definitely a frog.
Anxious to leave Mr. Clayborn and his irritating, useless apologies behind she picked up her pace but then, the sound of his agonized efforts to keep up with her pricked at her conscience. She relented guiltily and slowed her pace.
She was angry with him for disappointing her, she realized. She’d been hoping his kiss would confirm that he was the man for her, and instead it had confirmed the very opposite. And his breathless torrent of apologies was just making her crosser—all that nonsense about her purity and innocence!
The moment they entered the ballroom, and he made it clear that he wished to continue the conversation, she cut him off, saying, “I’m terribly thirsty, Mr. Clayborn, could you fetch me a drink, please? Lemonade for preference.”
He hesitated, then inclined his head in agreement. He was not the sort of man who footmen and waiters noticed, so after a frustrating few minutes trying to get their attention, he stumped off to fetch the drink himself.
Clarissa heaved a sigh of relief. She needed a few minutes alone to clarify the swirling chaos of her very mixed feelings. So much for experiencing her first kiss. In the last half hour she’d kissed two men—two!—and with very different results. It was terribly confusing.
Why, oh why couldn’t Lord Randall have been the frog?
“Your little plot failed, didn’t it?” a sardonic voice behind her said.
Clarissa turned in surprise and found a sharp-featured, fashionably dressed lady standing rather close. “Were you talking to me?” she said. The lady’s face was familiar but she couldn’t recall her name.
The lady didn’t respond for a minute. Her gaze raked Clarissa slowly up and down, then she snorted contemptuously. “You haven’t a hope, little miss butter-won’t-melt. Race Randall isn’t the sort who’d let himself be trapped by a dreary little dab like you. He has much better taste than that.”
“I beg your pardon,” Clarissa began. Lady Snape, that’s who she was. Clarissa didn’t like the woman’s attitude or her tone, and the suggestion that she’d tried to entrap Lord Randall was positively insulting.
Lady Snape continued as if Clarissa hadn’t spoken. “Going out into the night with one man and returning with another? Quite the little schemer, aren’t you? You must be positively desperate.”
“How da—”
The woman swept on. “You’d be better off hanging on to that angelic-looking cripple. You might get him to the altar if you try hard enough. Forget about Race Randall. He isn’t the slightest bit serious—he couldn’t be. He’s the sort of man who’s attracted only to the most beautiful women.” She preened herself in a suggestive manner. “And I should know. We are intimate friends. In-tim-ate.”
Clarissa had no idea what to say.
“A plain little dumpling like you?” Lady Snape’s gaze raked her and she snorted again. “You realize you’re making a complete fool of yourself, chasing after him as you are.”
Clarissa hadnotbeen chasing after Lord Randall—quite the opposite. Izzy would have snapped back at this nasty creature with something clever and cutting, but Clarissa could never think quickly enough. And when she was angry and tried to be cutting, she invariably messed it up. But she had her own way of handling malicious creatures like this one.
“It’s terribly sweet of you to worry about me,” she said warmly, “but there’s really no need at all.”
Lady Snape started at her in blank surprise. “Sweet?” she repeated incredulously.
“Yes, indeed, very sweet and most kind of you,” Clarissa cooed. “But fear not, I have no designs on Lord Randall, nor he on me. He is only taking care of me while my guardian is on his honeymoon. He’s been rather like…an uncle to me.”
The woman’s mouth dropped open. “Anuncle?”
“Yes. A kind and helpful uncle. Quite stuffy, really, but terribly well-meaning. There’s nothing personal in it at all, so you see, you needn’t worry that I’m stealing his attention away from you. Or even those beautiful ladies you mentioned that he prefers.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed.
“But thank you for yourverykind concern, Lady Snake,” Clarissa finished, “even though it was quite unnecessary.”
There was a moment’s silence, then, “Stupid, too. And the name is Snape, not Snake,” the woman muttered, and swept away.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Clarissa murmured as she watched her leave. She mightn’t be quick with a sharp retort, like Izzy, but responding unexpectedly, meeting nastiness with apparently oblivious warmth disconcerted some people just as effectively.
The woman’s darts couldn’t hurt her—oh, they had, a little, but as long as the harpy didn’t realize it, Clarissa felt she had come out of the encounter the victor.
