Page 57 of The Heiress's Daughter
And in the process, he’d decided to entertain himself by teasing her, and flirting. It was what he was renowned for.
The memory of the way he’d leaned against the wall, watching her, that…that look in his eye, as if he and she shared a secret—she could feel herself blushing even now.
She sat up and punched the pillow again. This ridiculous tendre she had for a completely unsuitable man—she had to cure herself of it. Somehow. And with that resolution in her head she leaned over, blew out the candle by her bedside and lay staring into the dark. Willing herself to sleep to—what was it?—“knit up the ravelled sleave of care,” as Shakespeare put it.
But when sleep finally came—and it didn’t come easily—she dreamed of a pair of laughing gray eyes and a tall, lanky and infuriatingly attractive man.
The morning after thesoirée unmusicaledawned clear and fine, so Race sent a note around to his cousin, asking her to invite Miss Studley to go for a ride. He had to see her, had to discover what she was feeling. Why had she avoided him last night? Was she embarrassed? Did she regret their kiss? Had he upset her in some way?
Half an hour later his cousin responded, passing on Miss Studley’s regrets but she was not free to go riding today. “Never mind,” Maggie had added. “There’s always the Peplowe rout party tonight.”
Very well then. The rout party it would be.
Chapter Nine
“More flowers from that Mr. Clayborn,” intoned Lady Scattergood’s butler, Treadwell, in a funereal voice. “The biggest bunch yet. He’s waiting in the hall.” He stood in the doorway of the back sitting room, gloomily clutching a large bouquet of hothouse flowers—orchids and lilies and other rare and expensive flowers.
“Wretched man!” Lady Scattergood exclaimed.
“That’s the third bunch in three days,” Mrs. Price-Jones exclaimed delightedly. “And these are even more expensive. The man is wonderfully keen, isn’t he?” She beamed at Clarissa.
“Please inform Mr. Clayborn that I am not at home,” Clarissa told the butler. She didn’t want him to be wonderfully keen, either. She just wished he would go away.
“Oh, but you must speak to him,” Mrs. Price-Jones said. “I shouldn’t spoil the surprise, but I believe that young man—that very smitten young man—has Something of Significance to say to you.” She winked.
Clarissa sighed. She knew exactly what Mr. Clayborn was going to say. He’d made it more than clear. Having “sullied her innocence” by allowing his passion for her to carry him away, he was willing, nay, eager to marry her.
He had called, and all but proposed, the day after the ball. She’d felt awkward and embarrassed receiving him—that kiss had clarified all her feelings about him—and she’d done her best to discourage him gently and steer him off the subject of marriage. It wasn’t his fault that he turned out to be a frog, and not a prince, poor man.
She thought she’d made her lack of interest clear, but he’d returned the following day with an even larger bouquet—larkspurs, lilies, carnations, stock and roses—and an even more determined smile. But after handing the flowers to her and briefly renewing his offer to marry her—which she’d refused, quite firmly—he’d asked to speak in private to Mrs. Price-Jones. And after that he had taken himself off, which was a relief.
But now he was back—again.
“I don’t want to speak to him,” Clarissa repeated.
“Quite right,” Lady Scattergood said. “Make the fellow work to win you. I made Scattergood ask me a dozen times before I accepted him.”
“I don’t want him to win me,” Clarissa said. “I don’t want to see him at all.” Ever. It wasn’t just the kiss that had turned her off him, it was his persistence in believing—and saying repeatedly—that he’d somehow besmirched her innocence.
But he hadn’t: it was just a kiss, and not a very nice one. The worst thing, though, was his attitude to her. It was as if, having kissed her, he now felt he owned her. And had no need to take any notice of what she said. It was infuriating.
Even if he’d never kissed her, the attitudes he’d revealed since would insure she could have no interest in him as a potential husband. His indifference to her repeated responses showed he had no respect for her views, and one thingClarissa was adamant that she wanted in a marriage was respect. Love was a dream, but respect was a requirement.
“I think you must at least see him,” Mrs. Price-Jones said. “When he spoke to me yesterday he explained how dreadful he felt, letting his feelings get the better of him. He feared he had deeply shocked you in your innocence, and he wanted my advice.”
The repeated references to her innocence were exasperating. “He didn’t shock me. I just don’t want to see him.”
“Nevertheless, I think you must allow him to apologize.”
“He has, repeatedly.”
There was a short silence.
“What shall I do then?” Treadwell asked.
“Put the wretched things in a vase, of course,” Lady Scattergood snapped. “And keep them out of my sight. I don’t know why people send flowers—all they do is die, and who wants to sit around all day watching dying vegetation?”
“I meant,” Treadwell said with dignity, “what shall I do with the young gentleman?”
