Page 78 of The Heiress's Daughter
He was silent a moment. “So I see.”
They arrived at Lady Scattergood’s back gate. “So,” Clarissa said, trying to appear calm and matter-of-fact, “will I see you at Almack’s tomorrow evening?”
He looked a little disconcerted. “Almack’s? Ah. Yes, Wednesday, is it not?” He took her hand and bowed, most romantically, over it. His eyes smiled into hers. “Until then, my little dragon defender.”
Clarissa slowly climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. She’d seen quite a different side to Lord Randall this morning. The way he’d treated the little girls, with sympathy and understanding—and so gentle. He’d make a wonderful father.
She’d never had a sympathetic or gentle word from Papa in her life.
And then, when Milly had spoken about him in such arude and dismissive way, her rarely roused temper had flared. She hadn’t been able to stop herself.
Hislittle dragon defender.
And yet, Milly’s impression of him was exactly what Clarissa herself, not to mention half the ton, had thought about him all this time.
But she didn’t feel like that any longer. She paused on the stairs as the realization hit her. She was falling deeper and deeper in love with Lord Randall.
And it scared her half to death.
Chapter Twelve
Almack’s. Race gazed up at the imposing edifice on the other side of the road. People were already flocking inside, the ladies in their silks and muslins, the gentlemen, to a man, wearing old-fashioned knee breeches. As was he.
He didn’t want to move.
Women had always pursued him. Once he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in marriage, it was only married women and widows who pursued him, and he’d soon discovered that too many of them had motives that had little to do with him, or even the simple finding of pleasure in each other’s company.
It was ironic. It was solely for Clarissa’s sake that he’d begun to attend society events. But because of that, the rumor had spread that he was finally ready to take a bride—which was, he had to admit, true. But he was not afteranysuitable bride: he wanted only Clarissa.
Still, in society’s eyes he’d placed himself firmly on the marriage mart and was considered fair game. And now,since the events of the Frampton ball, he needed to show he was already taken.
For years he’d avoided society balls and routs, especially the ones that the latest crop of newly presented brides-in-waiting attended. Or the second- or third-season hopefuls, who were, frankly, a little unnerving in their desperation.
He’d attended Almack’s precisely twice, years ago, very early in his career. He’d lost his father the previous year and, having come into a title and a substantial fortune, found himself the target of ambitious matchmaking mamas and their equally purposeful daughters.
He’d never again darkened Almack’s door.
Until—God help him—tonight.
He bent and straightened his knee breeches, took a deep breath, crossed the road and entered.
There was a sudden hush, followed by a twittering of excited speculation.
In minutes he was discreetly but relentlessly mobbed by maidens and matrons, all curious about the incidents at the Frampton ball. And though everyone was agog at what had been revealed about Clayborn, most of their queries, direct and indirect, amounted to the same question: Were the rumors true, that he and Miss Studley were betrothed?
To each, he answered in the affirmative, adding how delighted he was about it. Not a few narrowed their eyes in skepticism and glanced significantly around the room. Where his betrothed was conspicuous by her absence.
Where was she? She’d been very clear that she intended to be here tonight, and that she expected him to attend as well.
He waited and bowed and chatted, and waited and parried intrusive questions, and drank some disgusting beverage and waited as the clock inched with agonizing slowness toward the magic hour: eleven o’clock, when the doors to Almack’s were firmly closed against latecomers, no matter what their rank.
Finally, the hour came and Race made his way from thebuilding. Where the hell was she? Could she still be avoiding him? He didn’t believe it. He was sure they’d come to a new level of understanding—of closeness—since the events in the garden, both with the distressed little girls, and again when she’d defended him so fiercely against the very slight insult delivered by that Milly girl. That defense still warmed him.
So where was she? She wasn’t the sort to lie, saying she’d do something when she had no intention of doing so.
So something must have happened to prevent her. Perhaps she’d had a headache and gone to bed early. But surely in that case she would have sent him a note.
His brain sprouted all kinds of possibilities. He picked up his pace.
