“In love,” Miss Julia proclaimed, peering around the marquess and giving Clementine a beaming smile. “Oh, how wonderful! My darling Lady Clementine and the Marquess of Dorset. Such a match you shall make! And your children. Oh, what beautiful children you will have.My heart. It is overflowing with happiness. When shall the wedding be?”
The wedding?Good sweet heavens.She was suffering from a bee sting, and the man who had compromised her, it was clear, was a rogue.
“Miss Julia,” Clementine began, intent upon correcting her former teacher’s assumptions. Assumptions which had been propagated by the cunning, deceptive Marquess of Dorset.
“Lady Fangfoss,” Miss Julia—er, the countess—corrected.
Drat.Where were her manners, which she prided herself on being so impeccable? Likely abandoned with her drawers. If Mother and Father learned of this dreadful situation…
She shuddered. “You are mistaken, Lady Fangfoss. There will not be—”
“My bride means to say that we have yet to decide upon a date,” the marquess interjected smoothly. “Our declarations are so new. But for now, I do think it in the best interest of Lady Clementine that she make haste to her chamber, all the better for her to seek proper treatment of her sting. She suffered the injury on her limb, you see, and is now unable to walk.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Lady Fangfoss said, cheeks flushed, hands waving about as if she were chasing a swarm of bees herself. “Reinhold! One of our guests has been stung. Perhaps you should carry her to her chamber.”
Miss Julia in a fit of excitement had always been an awkward sight to behold. Whilst her status had changed, other things had clearly not. A footman appeared at the periphery of the gathering, his old-fashioned wig terribly askew. Why, the poor fellow must be dreadfully overheated in his livery. He most certainly did not appear strong enough to carry Clementine to her chamber.
Indeed, he did not appear strong enough to even lift her from the bench upon which she was mired.
“I shall carry my betrothed to her chamber,” Dorset announced, stepping between Clementine and Reinhold.
“I can walk there on my own,” she protested, thinking of how far they were from her chamber. How difficult it would prove for even a man as broad-shouldered and well-formed as the marquess to haul her that lengthy distance, let alone the poor footman who had appeared at Miss Julia’s behest.
“Nonsense, my darling beloved.” Dorset turned toward Clementine, his expression inscrutable. “I shall see you safely returned to your chamber. Lady Fangfoss, as our hostess, perhaps you might choose a chaperone?”
“My dear Lord Dorset.” Miss Julia’s voice was light and bright, filled with approval, “what an excellent idea. Reinhold, see to the cream ices instead, won’t you?”
Her thigh still throbbing, along with her pride, Clementine had no recourse save allowing the Marquess of Dorset to scoop her into his arms. He did so with surprising ease, and she suddenly found herself aloft, suspended in his capable arms. Alarmingly near to his handsome face and his sensual lips.
Sensual lips? What was she thinking?
She ought to be ashamed of herself. These thoughts were an affront to her upbringing and to the memory of all she had once held dear.
Still, there was an undeniable connection between them. An awareness. Their gazes clashed, his disturbingly, beautifully green. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her.
“Miss L’arbre,” Miss Julia said, breaking the profundity of the connection. “Accompany Lord Dorset and Lady Clementine to her chamber, if you please.”
Chapter 2
Lady Clementine was a petite woman, and Dorset generally considered himself a sporting fellow, one who took pride in his athleticism. But by the time he reached the front hall of Fangfoss Manor, Miss L’arbre trailing behind chattering about antiquities, Lady Clementine and her monstrosity of a dress in his arms, he was decidedly out of breath. So out of breath that he needed to pause and settle his new betrothed upon her feet.
“I can travel the rest of the way on my own,” she huffed, the first words she had issued to him during their travels from the maze.
She appeared nettled. Excellent. He hoped she was. He did not like the troublesome baggage. She had caused all manner of difficulty for him, both past and present. To say nothing of the countless others whose lives she had affected with her meddling. She ought to have been stung by a hundred bees rather than just the one.
When he could catch his breath, he would give her his opinion on the matter.
“…the Roman ruins.”
Blast.He turned to find Miss L’arbre standing at their side with an expectant expression. Behind her spectacles, her eyes glittered with excitement, and he could not deny the dark-haired woman was lovely. However, he did not give a damn about history. Which explained why he had allowed most of the lady’s soliloquy to be drowned out by his own thoughts.
And mayhap the ragged nature of his inhalations.
“Yes,” he managed to mutter in her direction. “The ruins. Fascinating.”
His bloody forehead was sweating. Why the devil did summer have the effrontery to be such a disagreeably warm season? He removed his hat, which he had not been capable of doffing upon entry to Fangfoss Manor thanks to the lady who had been hoisted in his arms. But just as he was about to seek out a footman—surely there was one to be found—a young, towheaded lad came racing into the hall and plucked the hat from his fingers.
Dorset watched in disbelief as the boy raced away, laughing and clutching the purloined headwear. He was too breathless from carrying Lady Clementine from the gardens to give chase. Instead, he looked to the ladies at his side.
