Page 70 of The Heiress's Daughter
“It’s the best solution,” her chaperone insisted. She gestured. “Out there gossip is already humming like a swarm of wasps, and you—and your reputation, or what’s left of it—are at the center of it. We need to replace that gossip with something different, something better.” She looked at Race again. “Something that will surprise them all. Don’t you agree, Lord Randall?”
Clarissa followed the chaperone’s gaze to Race. “I cannot ask it of you. It’s not fair. I won’t agree. I won’t.”
“I will do anything in my power to protect you, Miss Studley. It was my fault the swine tricked you into this position. Allow me to make amends.”
“How can you say that? You rescued me.”
“I should never have let him entice you in here in the first place.” He’d seen her follow Clayborn, and his unease at the situation had caused him to loiter outside the anteroom. And when he’d heard her scream…He would never forget it.
She shook her head. “No. It was all my fault. I should have been more careful. In any case, I am not your responsibility.”
Race took a deep breath. It was not how he wanted this to play out, but when the moment presented itself…He took her hand. “Miss Studley, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Her face crumpled and she snatched her hand back, shaking her head distressfully. “No, I can’t,” she choked out. “It’s not fair that you…that you—”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Price-Jones said briskly. “The man’s right. It will solve everything. The minute it gets out that Rake Randall has finally succumbed, everyone will be talking about that.” She patted Race on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, your lordship, I will deal with Clarissa’s fears. You may consider yourself betrothed.”
“But I—” Clarissa began, her eyes shimmering with tears.
“Foolish child, you won’t have to go through with it. After a few weeks, when the talk has died down and some other scandal has taken the ton’s imagination, you can quietly cry off if you want, and no harm done. Isn’t that right, Lord Randall?”
“It is,” he said curtly. Ladies could call a betrothal off. A gentleman could not.
Clarissa bit her lip and turned a look of entreaty on Race. “Lord Randall, you can’t possibly want to do this.”
“I do, very much,” he assured her.
“Because of the damage to my reputation?”
“And to be of service to you.” Which wasn’t at all what he wanted to say to her, but he could see she was on a knife’s edge of losing her control, and he wasn’t going to add anymore pressure. She’d endured enough as it was, and was doing an impressive job of holding herself together. So far.
“See?” Mrs. Price-Jones said. “Now, dry your eyes, thank Lord Randall for his very kind offer, hold your head up high as you walk through that crowd, and let Lord Randall take you home, safe and sound.”
He frowned. Let him take her home? Alone? The chaperone gave him a meaningful look. “I’ll meet you at the front door, after I’ve spread the good news.” Redirected the gossip, she meant.
Clarissa looked up at Race, her beautiful eyes swimming with tears. “Are you sure about this, Lord Randall?”
“Very, very sure. And deeply honored.” Race wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her until all doubts faded from her mind. But he couldn’t. Not here, not now, especially with that chaperone watching his every move with her beady bright eyes, not to mention the crowd of vultures on the other side of the door.
He handed Clarissa his handkerchief, and she blotted the tears from her face. “I will call on you tomorrow to make arrangements.”
She looked up, startled. “What arrangements?”
“Just the official announcement, that sort of thing. Nothing to worry about,” he said soothingly. “I trust that butler of Lady Scattergood’s will allow me entry to the house this time.”
“He’d better.” She gave a halfhearted choke of laughter and blew her nose on his handkerchief. “But if he doesn’t, go around to the garden—yes, that’ll be better. I’ll meet you in the garden, in the summerhouse at nine.” She glanced at her chaperone. “Where we can be quite private.”
“Agreed.” He presented his arm. “Shall we?”
Attempting to plaster a wobbly smile over her tearstained face, she pulled the shawl tight about her and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at him and nodded. Mrs. Price-Jones opened thedoor, and the small cluster of people still loitering outside fell back as the newly betrothed couple emerged.
Lord Thornton and his wife were among them. The wife moved forward as if to comfort Clarissa, but if he was any judge, Clarissa was still teetering on the verge of tears, and sympathy was the most likely thing to set them off, so Race didn’t slow, just nodded at Thornton and as they passed, said, “Wish us happy, Thornton, Lady Thornton.” A buzz of conversation followed them out.
Behind him he heard Mrs. Price-Jones saying, “Yes, it’s quite true. They’re betrothed and have been for some time—of course that’s what caused Clayborn to panic and try to force the issue. We’d been keeping it secret until Lord Salcott—Miss Studley’s guardian—returned to make the announcement officially, but it’s out now, so there’s little point in keeping it secret any longer.”
Chapter Eleven
“What, and then ’e grabbed you?” Zoë was sitting cross-legged on the end of Clarissa’s bed. They were drinking hot chocolate and eating fresh pastries. The morning sun was streaming through the window.
