Page 44 of The Heiress's Daughter
After a brief exchange, Sir Humphrey moved off.
“See, told you,” Lord Randall murmured to Clarissa. “How could you miss that nose?”
She giggled. It was indeed a very large and very red nose and the man had been rather pompous.
The phaeton moved along, and for the next few minutes while Mrs. Price-Jones engaged Lord Randall in conversation, Clarissa pondered Lord Randall’s comment about her chaperone foiling her suitors. She didn’t doubt that was true, but what puzzled her was that Lord Randall seemed to include himself in that category. Surely that couldn’t be right.
She thought back to the conversation she and her chaperone had had in the carriage coming home from the ball, about Lord Randall beinginterested.
Could he be? She thought about it. He’d been quite attentive lately, taking her riding, inviting her to dance—twice in one evening—and taking her in to supper. And visiting her secretly in the garden. And now, turning up here in thepark, when heknewMr. Clayborn had invited her to drive with him.
But she couldn’t believe he was truly interested in her that way. On the rare occasions he was seen in public with a lady it was invariably some stunning, sophisticated beauty. Not an ordinary country girl like her, undistinguished in appearance, shy in company and from a family grown rich in trade.
She had tried to accept her looks. Miss Chance had told her more than once that if you felt beautiful people would see you as beautiful. Well, she’d tried that and try as she might, she couldn’t feel beautiful. But if beauty wasn’t achievable, elegance was, and with Miss Chance’s assistance, she could dress elegantly and be stylish and fashionable. And while beauty faded, elegance never did.
And although many aristocrats looked down their noses at people whose family background was in trade, they didn’t sniff so loudly if a fortune came with it.
Clarissa’s biggest problem was her susceptibility. And her heart. Clarissa feared she had the same kind of constant, loyal heart as her mother: once it was given, it stayed given, no matter what.
So if she didn’t want it broken, she had to guard it carefully. And if that meant choosing a husband with her head instead of her heart, so be it. It was what most people did, after all. Her only ambition was to be happy. Her dream was to be loved. Was that too much to ask?
She glanced at Lord Randall, who was keeping Mrs. Price-Jones entertained with some nonsensical tale. He was the very model of a heartbreaker. A bee flitting from flower to flower with never a backward glance.
As she’d told her chaperone that evening in the carriage, he was hardly ever serious about anything. Witness Sir Humphrey Shelduck and Lord Widgeon. No, Lord Randall was handsome, funny and charming company, but he was not aman to be taken seriously—especially not by a girl with a ridiculously susceptible heart.
The truth was, despite her telling him she didn’t need his protection, he was still doing it—just as Mrs. Price-Jones was.
And why did that thought not make her feel better? It should.
He was totally ineligible. She knew it, had known it from the start. She needed to get more serious about the list she’d come up with. It had everything she wanted. And didn’t want.
Lord Randall, charming as he was—and partly because hewasso charming—she didn’t trust charm—was quite definitely not the man for her.
After the park, Race rode back to the livery stables where he kept his horse. He dismounted, fed Storm an apple, gave him a good pat, and flicked a shilling to the stableboy leading him away. As he emerged onto the street, a phaeton drew up in front of the coach house next door.
It was Clayborn, now with plenty of room to spare. Race’s lips twitched as he recalled the way Mrs. Price-Jones had squashed herself in between Clayborn and his target, Miss Studley.
Clayborn was in the process of climbing awkwardly down while his groom held the horses’ heads. Race snorted. With a bad leg it was foolish to have hired a high-perch phaeton. Especially when driving with ladies. Better to have hired a barouche or a landau—lower down and more spacious seating.
He nodded as he passed Clayborn and had gone half a dozen steps when Clayborn called out, “I say, Randall,” in an imperious voice.
Race swung around. “Clayborn?”
“In the park, earlier,” Clayborn began. “I didn’t appreciate your interference.”
Race raised a brow. “Interference?” he said coldly.
“Miss Studley was with me.”
Race inclined his head. “I noticed. As was Mrs. Price-Jones.”
“That woman—” Clayborn began angrily, then broke off. “The point is, you monopolized Miss Studley today in the park. Just as you did at the ball the other night.”
Race said coldly, “Miss Studley is not a bone to be quarreled over.”
“I didn’t mean—”
In a hard voice, Race continued, “She is a free agent; free to choose with whom she dances, or takes supper, or to whom she talks. Without anyone criticizing her.”
