Page 72 of The Heiress's Daughter
There was a short silence. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Clarissa said, “I’m so glad we found each other, Zoë. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to have another sister, and I know when she meets you, Izzy will be just as thrilled.”
Zoë said gruffly, “Yeah, well, I want to thank you for all you done for me. You’re a good person, Clarissa, and…I’ve been happy here.”
Clarissa frowned slightly. It was almost as if there was abutcoming, but Zoë didn’t say anything else. She piled the used crockery onto the tray. “I’ll take this downstairs and tell Betty you’re ready for your hot water, shall I?”
“Yes please.” Clarissa glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece and flung the bedclothes back. Lord Randall would be here in one hour.
Betrothed.To Lord Randall.
After the events of the previous evening, Clarissa had arrived home utterly exhausted but despite that she’d hardly slept. Everything that had happened—Mr. Clayborn’s shocking attack, and then Lord Randall’s even more astounding proposal—had kept churning around and around in her brain.
She was betrothed to Lord Randall!
She swallowed. Within the hour, he’d be here to discuss that proposal with her.
And even though she’d spent the entire night trying to work out what she felt about it all, and even more important what she was going to do, she still couldn’t make up her mind.
Lord Randall’s proposal was merely a stratagem to distract the gossips; she knew that.You won’t have to go through with it, Mrs. Price-Jones had assured her.
That was a relief. The trouble was, Clarissa didn’t feel relieved.
He’d said he was doing it to be of service to her. Which sounded practical. And kind. But the look in those smoky gray eyes as he said it was neither practical nor kind. When he looked at her his eyes seemed to burn with sincerity and an unsettlingly intense expression she didn’t know what to make of.
Oh, she was fooling herself, letting her own impossible desires carry her away, imagining things that weren’t there. They were foolish—worse than foolish. He would break her heart if she let him. So it was up to her to protect herself.
She needed to control herself, stop wishing things could be different, and not let herself…dream.
Their betrothal was a pretense, a fiction created to distract the society gossips from the sordid incident with Mr. Clayborn. And it would distract them, she knew. As she dressed, she imagined the conversations:To think Rake Randall, connoisseur of female beauty and famous evader of marriage, has let himself be caught by a plain little dab of a girl with only her fortune to recommend her.
And he doesn’t even need a fortune…
It’s too smoky by half. There must be some other reason. Might she be expecting an interesting event?
Chivalry,someone would suggest.Didn’t you hear what happened between Clayborn and that girl? Randall steppedin to save her reputation after she’d shamelessly pursued poor Clayborn. Randall’s her guardian’s best friend, you know.The incident at the ball was bound to come up—too many people had witnessed it.
Rake Randall? Nonsense. He’s not exactly known for his chivalrous impulses, still less for those resulting in marriage.Clarissa could imagine the cynical laughter that would follow. Because of course the very idea of a chivalrous rake was ridiculous. Even though she knew he was.
I know. It’s a mystery.
The girl might yet pull out of it.
And whoever they were speaking to would scoff at the very idea.Would you? Turn down marriage to the delicious Rake Randall. Don’t be ridiculous.
She looked at her reflection in the looking glass and adjusted the drape of her shawl. The speculation would be vile. But she’d have to grin and bear it. Or try to appear magnificently indifferent to it.
And shewouldturn down the delicious Rake Randall. Eventually. She had to, primarily for her own sake, but also for his. Some repayment for his chivalrous act it would be, to entrap him into an unwanted marriage.
And since he was apparently able to maintain a cool and unemotional demeanor over the deception, she ought to be able to do the same. She looked at the plain, plump girl looking back at her from the looking glass and reminded herself: cool and unemotional.
“So it was all a lie,” Clarissa said indignantly. “Even his wound?”
They were in the summerhouse, and Lord Randall had just finished explaining to her how Mr. Clayborn had faked his injury, and even kept gravel in his boot to make him limp convincingly.
She was deeply shocked. All those little gasps of pain that had made her feel so sorry for him…Every one self-inflicted. In order to deceive.
She shook her head. “I don’t understand his purpose in creating such an elaborate—and quite painful—deception. What was the point?”
He shrugged. “To gain sympathy? Feel more important? Perhaps he thought it would make you more willing to marry him. Who knows?”
