Page 35 of The Heiress's Daughter
Wide-eyed, Clarissa leaned forward, peered around her chaperone, who was rather a large woman, met his eye and repeated, “Piqued, repiqued andgarroted?”
Mrs. Price-Jones chuckled. “Not garroted, dear—capotted,” she said. “The terms refer to a defeat in the game of piquet—it’s a rather old-fashioned card game—though what on earth dear Lord Randall means by it is more than I can guess. You haven’t heard of it? Sir Henry is an expert, aren’t you, Sir Henry?” She added with a glint of mischief, “Perhaps you would explain the game to Miss Studley.”
“Delighted,” the old chap said, and began an enthusiastic description of the game of piquet.
Race went to fetch supper for himself and the ladies. Arriving back with a footman bearing a tray with threeglasses of champagne and three filled plates—he was damned if he’d fetch food and drink for Sir Henry—Race almost laughed aloud at the glazed, blandly polite expression on Miss Studley’s sweet face. Sir Henry was still waxing enthusiastic about a card game she clearly had no interest in.
She leaned forward and gave Race a narrow-eyed look, as if he were to blame.
He spread his hands in a gesture of complete innocence, but he was laughing all the same. The situation was frustrating, but he couldn’t help also finding it amusing.
He passed around the champagne glasses and set down the plates, one for each of the ladies and one for himself. Mrs. Price-Jones immediately passed Race’s plate to Sir Henry, who eyed it greedily and said, “Oh, I say, crab cakes. My favorite.” Forgetting about the delights of piquet, he gobbled down three crab cakes—Race’s crab cakes—in half a minute. Race eyed him balefully. Crab cakes were his favorite, too.
“Not hungry, yourself, dear boy?” the chaperone asked with faux innocence, glancing down at Race’s empty place setting.
“No.” There was no point going back to fill another plate now. The crab cakes were always the first to go.
Race stepped out into the cool of the night and breathed in deeply. It was a relief to leave. London’s air was hardly clean and fresh but the atmosphere at the ball had been stifling with all those expectations and plans. Society events. He rolled his eyes. And the gossip…
It was only midnight, still quite early. He could drop in on one of his clubs, play a few hands. Or take a brandy or two with a congenial acquaintance. But he wasn’t in a sociable mood. The ball had cured him of that for the moment.
Besides, there were those damned betting books in theclubs. Irritably he kicked at a stray pebble. Didn’t people have anything better to do?
Better to take himself and his bad mood home.
He walked back toward his lodgings, deep in thought, oblivious of his surroundings. She had the wrong idea about him, he decided. That one harmless little remark about his buttons and she’d closed up tight like a sea anemone.
Please don’t try to flirt with me, Lord Randall.
And kept him at arm’s length for the rest of the evening.
Yet she was attracted to him, he was sure. He knew women, and all the signs were there. Though in her innocence, she might not understand…
Did she think he was merely flirting? Or worse, trying to seduce her? Didn’t she know he never dallied with innocents?
Of course she didn’t. Who would tell her that? On the contrary, she’d probably been warned off him by some blasted busybody. Dozens of them, if he were any judge.
He had to talk to her, let her know his intentions were strictly honorable. And were nothing to do with his friendship with Leo.
He needed somewhere in private, without that wretched chaperone sticking her nose in. He’d planned to tell her at supper, but the chaperone had ruined that little plan. And showed every sign of foiling any future plans he might have.
He strolled on, passing Berkeley Square, which lay in darkness. The mild evening breeze picked up, sending the leaves of the trees whispering and carrying a waft of sweetly scented air: the grass had recently been cut.
He stopped and stared into the verdant shadows. What a fool he’d been. Of course.
His dark mood evaporated.
“He’s interested, you know.”
Clarissa started. She and Mrs. Price-Jones were inthe carriage on the way home from the ball. It was dark, and she was sleepy. “Who is?”
“Lord Randall.”
“Oh, him. I haven’t given a thought to him since supper,” Clarissa said carelessly. It was a lie. “Why are we talking about him?”
“Because he’s interested in you—seriously.”
Clarissa’s heart fluttered, but she squashed it and managed to say coolly, “Nonsense. Everybody knows Lord Randall takes very little seriously.”
