He ignored Lady Clementine’s cry, directing his attention to her friend instead. “Lead the way, Miss L’arbre.”
“Oh.” She pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “I…of course. Right this way, my lord.”
* * *
Still miserable fromthe bee sting she had suffered on her inner thigh in the maze, Clementine watched from the periphery of the Fangfoss Manor conservatory as her fellow guests whirled about the flora- and fauna-lined room. It was the first Friday evening of the house party, all the guests now finally in attendance since Clementine’s dear friend Lady Angeline O’Shea had arrived at last from Ireland along with her brother, Lord Carnlough.
Miss Julia—Lady Fangfoss—had decreed each Friday evening to be spent in revelry. Tonight’s so-called Mandatory Fun, as Miss Julia had once insisted upon holding every Friday at her academy? A country dance. All the better for her guests to mingle. And no doubt all the better for them to form attachments and make matches. But despite her determination to remain unwed herself, and in spite of the fact that her betrothal to Lord Dorset was feigned and temporary, Clementine could not deny that watching him twirl about the chamber with Melanie Pennypacker was irksome.
Also silly.
Melanie was herfriend. Of all Miss Julia’s many charges, six of them had bonded in finishing school, forming a lifelong attachment. Clementine, Angeline, Olive, Charity, Melanie, and Raina. Time and distance may have intervened, but their friendships had endured through letters and visits whenever possible. They were the outliers in their own families for various reasons. Sent away to be polished, like diamonds in the rough. Was it happenstance that none of them had managed to achieve the ultimate ends of their education at Twittingham Academy?
Snaring husbands.
Clementine bit her lip to suppress a derisive snort as she watched everyone else enjoying themselves. Even Charity was dancing, and with Viscount Wilton, who was a dreadfully proper bore.
Melanie was laughing at something Dorset said. Why had Clementine never noticed how beautiful her friend was before now?
She frowned. It was not that she had any claims upon Dorset. Nor that she wanted to marry him. Certainly not. Handsome, silver-tongued rakes were deplorable creatures. And a handsome, silver-tongued rake who appearedamusedwhen she had been stung by a bee? One who had gone on to pretend they were engaged? Who had carried her in his arms all the way to her chamber—nay, never mind that part, which had been both impressive and enjoyable. For now, all she would think upon was Dorset’s deceptions, a likely ploy to obtain her dowry. Or something more nefarious.
The devil himself could be no worse.
And yet…
“Hmm,” she grumbled to herself, feeling quite displeased—and irrationally so—as Melanie and Dorset continued on.
“I thought you said that your betrothal was nothing more than temporary.”
The voice, so near, gave Clementine a jolt. She turned to find Olive at her side, gaze far too knowing behind her spectacles.
Clementine worried her lip, formulating an answer. “It is. I have no wish to shackle myself to such an odious rogue.”
“A rogue you cannot seem to wrest your eyes from,” Olive observed quietly.
Blast.
She tore her gaze, which had once more strayed to Dorset and Melanie, back to the friend at her side. “He is perfectly dreadful. You saw the way he conducted himself in the maze.”
“The marquess? He appeared to be trying to aid you.”
Clementine made a dismissive wave of her fingertips. “If he truly wished to aid me, he would never have spouted that nonsense about the two of us becoming engaged.”
“It seemed he did so to preserve your reputation.”
What was this? Her friend attempting to see the best in the Marquess of Dorset?
Oh no.Heavensno.
“He is a rakehell of the worst order,” she told Olive. “You know how I feel about rakes and rogues.”
“He did appear quite concerned with your welfare,” her friend countered. “Rather reminiscent of—”
“Do not speak of him, if you please,” she interrupted, for the mere mention still brought with it far too much grief, even four years later.
“Forgive me,” Olive said. “I did not mean to make a comparison between the two. The marquess seemed determined to see to your comfort. That is all I mean to say.”
Yes, Dorsethadcarried her all the way to her chamber, depositing her at the threshold before taking his leave so that her lady’s maid could aid her in assuaging the pain of the sting. But she was not inclined to believe it had been because he had truly cared about her aching bee sting.
