Page 61 of The Heiress's Daughter
A shocking thought froze him. Had she promised herself to that blasted Clayborn already? If that were the case, she would definitely repudiate Race’s attentions, loyal creature that she was. Dammit, he had to find out. He needed to talk to her, privately, away from this crowd.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” a sardonic female voice at his elbow said. “That I have lived to see the irresistible Lord Randall given his congé—in no uncertain terms—by a plain little dab of a girl with neither looks nor charm to speak of.”
He turned. “Lady Snape,” he said coldly. He’d never liked the woman, and these days she hated him. It was a case of Hell having no fury…
She laughed. “I heard every word she said. It was glorious.”
“Indeed,” he said in an icy voice.
“You haven’t a hope, you know. She told me the other evening that she regarded you as an uncle—abenevolentuncle.” She laughed again and turned away, still laughing as she threaded her way like a serpent through the crowd.
An uncle?
He glanced across to where Miss Studley was chatting and laughing with Penny Peplowe and her mother. Protection, he realized. From him?
She’d accused him ofbotheringher. Andspying. And according to Lady Snape, she thought of him as an uncle. Anuncle!
He needed to clear that up, and the sooner the better. But he wouldn’t approach her again this evening. She’d made herself clear—for tonight, at least. And he needed to get away from the press of over-scented humanity, the sharply speculating eyes and the gossiping tongues.
He needed to go where nobody cared what his matrimonial intentions might or might not be, somewhere congenial. He headed for his club.
Thank goodness. He was leaving. Clarissa hoped she looked serene. Her insides were like jelly, and her hands were still shaking. Thank goodness for evening gloves. She smiled and nodded at something Penny Peplowe was saying, oblivious of whatever it was—some amusing story.
The short exchange with Lord Randall had completely shaken her. It had taken every bit of resolution she had to confront him and ask him not to keep following her around, tell him that Leo had nothing to worry about.
Of course she hadn’t been able to explain the real truth of the matter, that his mere presence unsettled her. It was hard enough to battle her inappropriate attraction to him without giving him any inkling of it.
Fatal to let a rake see that little weakness.
And she’d managed—she’d told him, clearly and to his face, that she didn’t need him watching over her on Leo’s behalf.
And then, look what he did! He’d walked straight off and a minute later was in close conversation with that horrid Lady Snake who had her hand on his arm and was cooing up at him in the vilest seductive manner.
Men. You couldn’t trust them as far as you could throw them!
The pleasantly familiar atmosphere of Race’s club surrounded him as he entered, a mélange of fragrances—old leather, woodsmoke, tobacco, freshly ironed newspapers, port, wine and brandy. It was a scent that spelled ease and comfort to masculine nostrils, and was very welcome to his bruised spirit.
Upstairs he found a dim sitting room lit by a glowing fire, and containing half a dozen old gentlemen snoozing comfortably beneath their papers, a couple playing cards and a few sole drinkers brooding silently into their glasses. One of the brooders was an old friend from his schooldays, Barney Temple. He was slouched bonelessly in a red leather armchair.
“Castaway, are you, Temp?” said Race, sitting in the next chair.
“Devil a bit,” Barney said gloomily, and lifted his glass in a silent toast. “But I’ll get there. What brings you here, Race?”
“This and that. You?”
Barney gestured. “Sanctuary. The mater can’t get to me here.”
“Like that, is it?” Barney’s mother was forever coming up with schemes to marry off her marriage-shy son.
Race ordered a cognac and the two men drank in companionable silence for a while, each one brooding on his own particular problems.
Race pondered the contradictory behavior of Miss Studley, but could make no sense of it. He swirled his glass, eyeing the fire through it. He might as well be shredding one of those blasted daisies with she-loves-me, she-loves-me-not for all it helped.
He felt sure that she liked him, and that she was attracted to him. But was that enough for marriage?
“If you were a woman, Temp, would you want to marry me?”
Barney glanced at him sharply, then leaned away a little. “Sorry, not that way inclined, old thing.”
