Page 67 of The Heiress's Daughter
The doorway was filled with spectators avidly observing the scene and audibly speculating as to what was going on. Mrs. Price-Jones pushed through, and Race shut the door after her, telling the eavesdroppers, “An unfortunate accident. Nothing to worry about.”
Returning to Clarissa, he gently cupped her cheek in his hand, tilting her head to look at him. “Are you all right, my dear? Did the swine hurt you?”
“No. I’m all right.” She was trying to drag the remnants of her dress up, to cover herself.
“Brave girl,” he said softly.
She bit her lip, aware that any more sympathy from him would probably cause her to burst into tears. “He tricked me.” Mrs. Price-Jones wrapped a shawl around her. Clarissa glanced past her and saw Clayborn getting to his feet. Lord Randall followed her gaze.
“This is all an unfortunate misunderstanding,” Clayborn said in a loud voice, hurriedly buttoning his breeches. “Randall overstepped disgracefully. Miss Studley and I have had an understanding for some time.” He wiped a trickle of blood away with his cravat and continued, “And tonight we became betrothed, and in the heat of the moment, our passions overtook us.”
Clarissa gasped. “That’s a lie. Weneverhad an understanding! We arenotbetrothed. He tricked me into entering this room, and then he attacked me!”
Lord Randall turned with a low growling noise. “Attacka trusting young lady, would you, you cowardly, conniving, sniveling little worm? Try to entrap her into marriage, eh? I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.” He prowled toward Clayborn, fists clenched.
With a squeak of fear, Clayborn wrenched open the door and wriggled through the press of bodies like a desperate eel. People must have heard, for one woman called out, “Shame!” and another, “Disgraceful.” A man said, “A thrashing is too good for him.”
Lord Randall gave Clarissa a searing glance. “Are you sure you’re all right, Clarissa?”
She nodded, shaky but determined.
“I have her safe,” Mrs. Price-Jones assured him, and Lord Randall left in pursuit of Clayborn.
Someone called out after him, “Pistols at dawn, Randall? Need a second?”
Clarissa gave a gasp of fear. A duel? No no no! She didn’t want that. Lord Randall could get hurt. Oh, it was all her fault. If only she hadn’t been so stupid, letting herself get caught by Clayborn’s nasty little plot…
Clayborn broke free of the press of bodies clustered around the doorway of the anteroom, and broke into a lopsided run. As he did someone stuck a foot out and he tripped and went sprawling in the middle of the dance floor.
In three paces, Race was standing over him. “Get up, you coward.” He didn’t care if Clayborn was wounded in the service of his country; the man was going to get the thrashing he deserved. Race would never forget the sight of Clarissa’s pale face, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of control, when anyone could see she just wanted to burst into tears—and why shouldn’t she, dammit? She’d just been attacked.
He was in a cold rage. He’d seen the torn clothing, thescratches and red marks on her chest and the dark splotches around her mouth. They’d be bruises in a short while. Clayborn was going to pay for every mark on her. And more.
Clayborn gave him a fearful glance and began to roll around the floor, clutching his bad leg and moaning. “Don’t touch me, I’m injured.”
“I’ll injure you, all right,” Race growled. “Get up.”
“I can’t.” Clayborn groaned. “It’s my leg, I’ve broken something. Ow, ow, ow! The pain, the pain!”
“Allow me.” A neatly dressed gray-haired man came forward. “I’m a physician. I’ll examine your leg.”
“No! No, you can’t!” Clayborn shrieked. “Don’t touch me, it’s—it’s too painful!”
The doctor knelt down beside Clayborn. “Now, sir, there’s no need to be frightened. I’ll just remove this boot and then we’ll see what the damage is.”
“No, no, I’m fine now. Don’t touch it.” Frantic with fear, Clayborn flailed his injured leg around, trying to avoid the doctor’s grasp.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Disgusted, Race stepped forward and placed a foot on Clayborn’s upper thigh, pinning it, and him, to the floor, while leaving the wounded part of his leg untouched. Clayborn swore mightily, and tried with all his might to push Race’s foot off, but he couldn’t budge it.
“Go ahead, doctor,” Race said.
Clayborn shook his head desperately. “No no, don’t touch it, I forbid you.”
“It’s best we get the boot off quickly, sir,” the doctor said in a soothing voice. “If your leg swells up, we’ll have to cut the boot off, which would be a terrible waste, wouldn’t it, sir, such fine boots they are.” As he spoke he began to ease the boot gently off.
“No, leave it, I order you!” With his other leg, Clayborn tried to kick the doctor away.
“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Race snapped.
