“It was an attempt at preserving his own honor,” she said, “nothing more. I consider myself fortunate indeed that we are not truly betrothed.”
“And yet you seem so very much like a betrothed just now, glowering at her fiancé dancing a quadrille with another lady.”
“With ourfriend,” Clementine pointed out.
“Melanie hasn’t eyes for Dorset,” Olive said. “You needn’t worry on that score.”
“And how can you be so certain?” She gave her scholarly friend a searching, narrow-eyed look.
What did Olive know that she didn’t? Did not the six of them shareeverythingwith each other? They had been friends from the moment their paths had first crossed at Twittingham Academy.
Olive flushed, her lips firming. “I cannot be, of course.”
A lie if Clementine had ever heard one.
Her brows snapped together. “Melanie has set her cap at someone else, then? Someone she has mentioned to you?”
Someone who was not the Marquess of Dorset, in other words. Not that Clementine cared. For she did not. Not a whit.
Maybe a tiny speck.
No!She banished the thought. If only she could banishhim. But there he remained, dark-haired and tall, dancing about with Melanie, wielding his sensual grin upon her. He was handsome, the Marquess of Dorset. Insufferably, irritatingly so.
“I am sure I would not know if she had,” Olive said with a sigh. “You know Melanie.”
“What are you doing sitting here with me?” Clementine asked. “Should you not be dancing with the rest of the guests?”
Olive shrugged. “I came here to see the Roman ruins and to spend some time with my dearest friends.”
“Not to find a husband?” Clementine teased. “You know Miss Julia’s fondest wish is to see us each betrothed before this house party is at an end, do you not?”
It was almost as if, having found love with her earl, their former headmistress could not resist one last attempt at seeing her ladies happily situated. Unfortunately for Miss Julia, she would be doomed to disappointment. Clementine herself had no intention of getting married. Not ever. And certainly not to a handsome scoundrel like the Marquess of Dorset. Her heart would forever only belong to one man.
She would not think his name now.
Olive grinned. “We never found it difficult to circumvent Miss Julia’s plans at Twittingham Academy. Why should this house party prove any different?”
Why indeed?
The quadrille ended, and to her dismay, Clementine discovered the Marquess of Dorset was approaching their quiet corner of the conservatory. His verdant gaze connected with hers.
“Speaking of betrotheds,” Olive said,sotto voce.
“We arenotbetrothed,” she grumbled.
But she could not seem to tear her stare from Dorset as he sauntered to them. How was it that the manner in which the manwalkedcould transfix her? His legs were long, his shoulders wide.He has a reputation as a dreadful rake,she reminded herself.
Despite her inner warnings, the memory of his scent, rich and musky, hit her. She had been tempted to bury her face in his throat to inhale deeply on more than one occasion during their impromptu trip from the maze. She had also found herself ridiculously fascinated by the shadow of whiskers on the slashing angle of his jaw.
He reached them and bowed. “Lady Clementine, Miss L’arbre. We meet again.”
She dipped into an abbreviated curtsy thanks to her smarting thigh, Olive following suit. “Good evening, Lord Dorset.”
“I wonder if I might borrow my betrothed for a turn around the room.” Dorset addressed Olive, as if she were Clementine’s keeper.
In truth, her chaperone for the house party, her mother, had been forced to return to Derbyshire for Clementine’s older sister’s lying in. Clementine had remained at Fangfoss Manor to visit her friends, with Lady Fangfoss promising to Mama that she would oversee Clementine in her absence. The trusted and former headmistress of Twittingham Academy had persuaded Mama with ease. Clementine could not lie. The arrangement suited her fine.
“Of course you may borrow her,” Olive said with a ready grin and a wink for Clementine.
