Page 4 of The Heiress's Daughter
She stared out through the gray blur of the windows, feeling blue. She knew how that ended:If it wasn’t for the money…no man would want her.And Mama had agreed.
A spurt of anger made her straighten her back. Mama and Papa were wrong. Everybody deserved to have the chance to be loved and though she could notmakeit happen, she would not deny herself even the possibility. She picked up the pen again and wrote it down in big black letters. And now number eight read:8) Love.Love.
Horatio, Lord Randall, known to his friends as Race, ran a finger around his stock, which suddenly felt so tight about his neck it was near to strangling him.
It was ridiculous.
He was merely doing a favor for a friend. Leo was, after all, Miss Studley’s guardian, and Leo was Race’s closest friend. He’d been best man at Leo’s wedding.
“It needn’t be a hardship,” Leo had assured him. “Iknow Clarissa’s devilish shy and not much of a conversationalist—not your type at all—but you can’t deny, the girl can ride. Just take her out on the heath from time to time—you know how she loves a good gallop, and her chaperone doesn’t ride.”
Race had promised. It wouldn’t be a chore to take Clarissa Studley riding—far from it. Besides, she was an excellent horsewoman.
“And I know how much you dislike society events,” Leo had continued, “so I won’t expect anything of you there. I’ve told her chaperone, Mrs. Price-Jones, to be especially vigilant for any lurking fortune hunters. I’ll deal with them when I return from my honeymoon. Clarissa’s fortune makes her a target and according to her sister, she’s too softhearted for her own good. I wouldn’t put it past some plausible rogue to persuade her into an elopement. So if there are any problems, I’ve told Mrs. Price-Jones she can call on you for assistance in my place. I hope that’s all right.”
Of course Race had agreed, and so now here he was, on the front step of Leo’s aunt’s home, where Clarissa lived, facing Lady Scattergood’s butler.
“I’m sorry, Lord Randall, but Lady Scattergood is not at home.” The ancient butler delivered the message in a sonorous, faintly smug voice.
Race frowned. “Dash it all, Treadwell, Lady Scattergood is always at home.” The old lady had been housebound for several years, and on the rare occasions she ventured out of her home it was inside a covered palanquin with all the curtains drawn—the very palanquin he could see sitting in the hall, unoccupied.
The butler repeated without a blink, “My lady is not at home.”
He made to shut the door, but Race shoved his boot in to prevent it. “Then be so good as to inform Miss Studley that Lord Randall is here and wishes to speak to her.”
“Miss Studley is not at home.”
“Her chaperone, then, Mrs.—” Race couldn’t recall the chaperone’s name, blast it: something Welsh and hyphenated.
“Mrs. Price-Jones is not at home.”
At that moment the sound of female voices followed by a gust of feminine laughter floated from somewhere behind the butler.
“Damn it, Treadwell, I can hear the ladies. Theyareat home.” It was too early for morning calls, which for some unknown reason invariably took place in the afternoon, so who else could it be but the ladies of the house?
Through the butler’s granitelike mien, a faint smirk was allowed to escape. “Perhaps, my lord, but not to you—ever.” He closed the door in Race’s face.
Race stared at the door, resisting the impulse to kick it. Not to be admitted,ever? Had the butler gone mad? Or was it Lady Scattergood? She was, and always had been, eccentric.
The morning had dawned fine and sunny, and he’d intended to take Clarissa for the first of many rides. But now, thanks to that wretched butler, he couldn’t even get past her front door.
Irritated, he returned to his lodgings and swiftly penned her a note, inviting her to come riding with him on Hampstead Heath.
“A note? Froma man?” Lady Scattergood raised her lorgnette.
“Yes, from Lord Randall.” Clarissa looked down at the bold black handwriting. A note from Lord Randall. Personal and handwritten. A shiver of pleasure passed through her. Lord Randall!
Lady Scattergood snorted. “That rake! What does he want?”
“He’s invited me to go riding with him this morning,” Clarissa said breathlessly. It wasn’t the first time she’d gone riding with Lord Randall, but the other two times had been with Leo, her guardian, and her sister Izzy. This time it was an invitation just for her.
“How delightful,” Mrs. Price-Jones began, but Lady Scattergood cut her off.
“The rogue! Such cheek! Send the villain a curt refusal.”
“Oh, but there’s no harm in Lord Randall, surely,” Mrs. Price-Jones said.
The old lady snorted. “Have you forgotten his father? ‘Rake Randall’ they called him, and with good reason. The way that man behaved! Disgraceful. And I hear the son is just as bad.”
