“For Miss Clara,” the young fellow intoned.
Lady Bella directed him where to place the flowers before inspecting them. “Quite lovely, Clara.” She turned to the footman. “Was there not a note accompanying them?”
“I’m afraid not, my lady.” He bowed and exited the room.
Clara didn’t require a note to know who had sent them. The earl.
“Perhaps the answer is in your pocket, my dear,” the duchess observed shrewdly, never one to mince words.
Clara fished the note from her pocket with reluctance, opened the envelope, and found once again a missive marked with his bold scrawl.
Dearest C.E.W.,
I never said he didn’t threaten my person. Merely that he didn’t use a firearm. Something very much like ‘Do you want me to kill you after all?’ I’ll call at 3.
R.
Lord in heaven. She was smiling again. Realizing she had an audience, she folded the note, marshalled her lips into a rational line, and cleared her throat. “No, I’m afraid this note is from Lady Bo. Perhaps the lilies were sent here in err.” She stuffed the note back into her pocket for good measure.
“Pish,” the duchess dismissed, waving her hand in the air as if combatting an irritating fly. She was animated, bold, beautiful as a butterfly, and older sister to Clara’s dear friend Bo. Once, Her Grace had acted as Clara’s chaperone at a country house party where Clara had unabashedly run her quite ragged. They’d forged a camaraderie of sorts, with the duchess taking Clara under her wing. Of course she could see straight through Clara like a window pane that had just been washed. “If you wish to keep your secrets, you may. But the smile upon your face is quite telling, dear girl.”
“Our Clara fancies herself in love,” Lady Bella revealed with a grim air as she searched Clara’s face, perhaps for a sign of repentance. Or madness, perhaps? One shouldn’t presume to guess.
Some part of Clara—the wicked part—still sometimes found the blindingly beautiful English rose her father had married a rather irritating interloper. In truth, Clara was the interloper, and perhaps that was the real issue. She’d never, from the moment she’d first stepped ashore in England, felt as though she belonged. Their world had already existed without her, and hers without them.
“I don’t fancy myself in love,” she lied, not without compunction. But she’d told the tale so many times that it came more naturally now. “Iamin love. I sincerely hope to make a love match with the earl.”
Knowing her stepmother and the duchess as she did—the two could not have been closer had they been sisters born and raised—Clara was certain that the duchess was privy to what had transpired. Ah, well. It seemed there were never any well-kept secrets in London anyway, and soon she would be far, far away from this nonsense.
“A love match with Ravenscroft?” Tia inspected her with keen interest. “I’ve known him for years, and I’ve never known him to be the sort who charms young ladies or entertains them in his study at midnight. If you were a widow or a wealthy married woman with a husband who turns a blind eye to peccadilloes, I would believe your story. But you’re too young for him, too sweet, too…innocent.”
Innocent she was not. She recalled all too well what the earl had done to her. What he’d said to her. Part of her wanted it again. Wanted more. No innocent lady would have such a response to his depravity. But here was a rather salient piece of information. The duchess and her husband-to-be were acquaintances.
“You know Lord Ravenscroft?” Why hadn’t she realized that? “What precisely do you know of him?”
“He is a charmer and a flirt, but I do believe he has a genuine heart. He was quite good to my sister Cleo, and they remain friends.” Tia paused, appearing to choose her next words with judicious precision. “You are aware of his reputation, I trust?”
There it was again, the ever-present reminder that the earl was a wicked man. And he was, for she had experienced his skill firsthand. “His past is not my concern, Your Grace.”
“Ah,” was all Tia said, and Clara couldn’t shake the feeling that her abbreviated response said far more than anything else could.
“It is not too late to turn away from all this, Clara,” her stepmother entreated. “You can change your mind. The damage has not yet been done. Don’t be at home if he calls today.”
“I will be at home.” Clara was firm, unrelenting. If anything, Lady Bella’s heartfelt persistence swayed her in the opposite direction of her intent. “Her Grace says that he has a generous heart. Does that not mollify you?”
Lady Bella pursed her lips as though she’d tasted something sour. “Not in the slightest. A generous heart does not excuse a blackened reputation. The earl is a scoundrel of the first order. How I wish you would see he’s not the man for you.”
“I can see why you’d be drawn into his web. He’s deadly handsome, I’ll own,” the duchess continued. “But dear Clara, don’t forget that surfaces can be deceiving. Bitter scars can hide beneath the most beautiful of facades.”
Clara didn’t care to hear any more of their well-intentioned guidance. She had a singular pursuit now, and that was marrying the earl so she could gain her freedom. It would seem that if she had any hope of either of those two things occurring, she needed to play the game her father had devised for her. She needed to be courted.
Julian arrived at the Whitney residence precisely at three, buttoned up, jaw freshly shaved, smart waistcoat, rakish hat, looking for all the world like a gentleman intent upon wooing his lady. In short, he’d been ready for a proper courting. Or rather, as proper a courting as a man who’d fucked half the ladies of the Upper Ten Thousand for his supper could manage.
But he’d been met by a harried Lady Bella who’d informed him there was a family matter—urgent, her mother suddenly ill and in need of attendance—that would prevent her from acting as chaperone. A lady’s maid would not be sufficient. The bloodthirsty Mr. Whitney was not at home, leaving no way for Julian to see Miss Whitney. She was so very sorry, but could he possibly call another day when the dowager marchioness was not ailing?
So he’d done the gentlemanly thing, bowed and apologized, offered his sincere hopes that the fierce old curmudgeon that was Lady Thornton would prevail. He’d gone back to his carriage, but as he drove along, he’d seen the strangest thing. A lone woman hurried along the street, head down, dressed in the first stare of fashion though she clearly sought to be unnoticed, a large hat tilted to conceal her face. He recognized that form, even though he’d held those lush curves in his arms but once. She turned and he saw her face.
Damn it all to hell, she was a troublesome one.
