Page 73 of The Heiress's Daughter
She didn’t understand it, either. Mr. Clayborn was handsome, pleasant company, and was heir to his great-aunt’s fortune. Why fake an injury? “And all those times when he was so becomingly modest about his Waterloo achievements—which everyone believed were prodigious—I suppose they were lies, too.”
“He wasn’t even present at Waterloo.” Lord Randall related the story Lord Thornton had told him.
It was horrid. To think she’d actually imagined—for a short time, anyway—that Mr. Clayborn might make a suitable husband. She shivered. She’d had a lucky escape.
She rose and strolled to the open door and stood in the doorway, gazing out over the garden, her mind teeming. The garden in the morning smelled fresh and lush, the kind of fragrance she’d love to be able to re-create one day, but knew it was impossible. A couple of birds chittered noisily in a nearby bush, squabbling, or perhaps mating. The sound jerked her out of her reverie.
“I don’t know Lord Thornton very well,” she said, turning, “but I’m well acquainted with his wife, Lucy. They’re visiting London and staying with his aunt, Lady Tarrant, who lives over there.” She gestured. “Lady Tarrant is a good friend of mine. In fact, you can probably hear her little girls playing in the garden now—her stepdaughters.”
He rose and joined her, and she instantly forgot about everything except the sensation of his tall, strong body standing so close they were almost touching. She could sense hiswarmth, smell the fragrance of his cologne. She took a deep, surreptitious breath, breathing him in, the scent of Lord Randall. Her betrothed? She couldn’t believe it. But it could never go any further than that. She leaned a little closer and breathed him in again; the scent of a man. The scent of a rake, she reminded herself.
“I don’t hear anything. Just birds,” he said.
She frowned. He was right. There was no sound of the usual childish laughter and shouts echoing through the garden, which was strange. She’d seen Nanny McCubbin ushering the three little girls outside into the garden earlier. They’d looked rather subdued, but she hadn’t stopped to investigate—she had a meeting of her own to go to.
Clarissa let the moment stretch as long as she could. She was dreading the next part of the conversation—the part their meeting was really about. Their false betrothal.
“You’re not going to duel him, are you?” she asked abruptly, and moved back inside.
He shook his head. “It would only make the talk worse, and in any case I wouldn’t kill him. Wring his neck, possibly, or beat him to a pulp”—he gave a rueful smile—“but he’s a pathetic, cowardly character. In any case, according to my sources he’s already left London. Fled in case I did decide to challenge him, I suppose.”
“I’m glad. I was worried you might, and though I know you’re too much of a gentleman to shoot to kill, he certainly isn’t and I don’t want you dead.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said dryly with a smile that did things to her insides.
Flustered, she plopped down without thinking on the nearest seat—the chaise longue. He sat down beside her, close, so that they were almost, but not quite, touching. She was achingly aware of him.
It was on this very chaise longue that Leo had seduced Izzy. Or was it the other way around? She’d never been quite sure.
She ought to change seats but that would look strange. Impolite. As if she didn’t want him sitting beside her—which was true. And at the same time a lie.
Lord Randall lounged back, leaning casually against the padded support, one long leg crossed over the other. He was dressed informally, in buckskin breeches and long riding boots. She could smell the leather.
She sat up straighter, folded her hands primly in her lap and tried not to notice how the soft buckskin clung to his hard horseman’s thighs.
“I suppose we ought to discuss this false betrothal,” she began.
He sat up and faced her. “It’s not a false betrothal.” His voice was hard.
“But I thought—”
“Our betrothal is genuine and binding—until you decide it’s not.”
She gave him a troubled look. “UntilIdecide? Why can’t you decide to cancel it?”
He relaxed back against the back of the chaise. “Because a gentleman cannot.”
“That doesn’t seem very fair. Why not?”
“A gentleman’s word is his bond. To break it, or to renege on a promise, would be quite dishonorable.”
She frowned. “But a lady can? Why is that not just as dishonorable?”
“Because it is the prerogative of any member the fairer sex that she is entitled to change her mind.”
“Why? Because women are frippery creatures, too silly and unreliable to understand the concept of honor?” she said crossly.
He shrugged. “I didn’t say that, and I don’t think that. I didn’t make the rules.”
