And why had Lord Marsden’s arm around her tightened? As if he was afraid she would escape? Why, he’d even grabbed ahold of the material of her pelisse. He also shot her a “meaningful” look that said,Don’t speak. Whatever you are thinking, hold your tongue.
And for a reason she couldn’t ever in her right mind fathom, she obeyed. Perhaps it was village loyalty. This woman was a stranger. He might be trying to protect Dora. Clarissa could appreciate the delicacy of explaining Dora’s presence, and it was obvious he and his mother were not close.
That didn’t mean Clarissa was happy with her sudden promotion from nurse to wife—and she would let him know the moment they were alone.
However, for now, she clasped her gloved hands in front of her to present the picture of a servile spouse, and as a way to keep from punching him in the side for tying her into this lie. She even attempted a smile.
“My dear,” he said, the endearment sounding formal on his lips, “this is my mother, Lady Fenton.”
To be honest, Clarissa had forgotten he had a mother. The village rarely mentioned his parents, especially since his father had died tragically in a duel with Lord Dervil. And what a surprise to learn his mother was the celebrated Lady Fenton, the doyenne of London’s political and literary salons. The woman was always mentioned in the London papers. She moved in the highest echelons of society. What must such a woman think at having a son who was a political prodigal? Had she arrived to take him in hand?
Clarissa hoped so.
Except, it was very clear that while a baby was a pleasant occurrence, a daughter-in-law was not.
Lady Fenton raised a pair of lunettes attached to a gold chain around her neck. Feeling she must do something, Clarissa made a clumsy curtsey. Lady Fenton’s lip curled with disfavor, and Clarissa discovered she was not in the mood for such nonsense. Once she and Lord Marsden were alone, she’d tell him as much, right before she beat him around theears until they were bloody for dragging her into all of this.
The image of pounding on him made her smile.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Warbler, standing to the side, watched the scene with such avid interest. This whole conversation would certainly be shared the next time the matrons gathered.
Nor did it help her growing temper when his mother repeated, “Clarissa?” as if tasting the name and finding it not to her liking. Like mother; like son.
Then, quite deliberately, Lady Fenton gave Clarissa her back. “You’ve married? I had not heard. And a child as well?” There was a beat of heavy silence, before she said, almost conversationally, “Are matters between us so far gone that we know so little about each other?”
“Oh, absolutely,” her son said cheerily.
At that moment, Dora decided she was tired of being ignored. She began her little whimper sounds that warned of a looming full-throated cry. She was probably hungry—again.
Clarissa reached for her. “Here, let me have her, my lord.” Her plan was to take the baby and make an escape.
He gave her Dora but he kept his hold on her pelisse. “If you will excuse me, Mother, we must see to our daughter. Gibson?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Take care of all of this, please.” He waved a hand to encompass the pony cart, the coaches, the mother. “I’m certain Lady Fenton is ready to head back to London—”
“I am not, Lawrence,” his mother said. “I came here on a mission. Imusttalk to you.”
“And I don’t wish to talk to you,” he replied ruthlessly. “The reason you don’t know the facts of my life is because I don’t want you to. Now come, Clarissa. Let’s see to our daughter.” He started up the stairs toward the front door, practically carrying Clarissa and Dora in his haste.
But Lady Fenton was not going to let him have the last word. Her voice carried from where she stood. “You shall not be rid of me easily, Lawrence. Not until I say what I’ve come to say.”
He ignored her, propelling Clarissa and a fussy Dora through the heavy wood door held open by a liveried footman.
However, once he was inside, in the main hall, he stopped as if both his energy and his fury had run out. That was fine because Clarissa’s temper was just starting.
She was peripherally aware of the magnificence of the home’s entrance. The ceiling was a huge dome fashioned out of glass. Shafts of light bounced off a giant brass chandelier and wall sconces. The walls were lined with portraits of lords and ladies, on rearing chargers or pretending to be woodland sprites, that she assumed were Lord Marsden’s ancestors. At any other time, she’d be entranced by the grace of the furnishings.
Right now, she wanted the nursery and she needed privacy to throw a fit that would rivalone of Dora’s. How dare Lord Marsden drag her in to such a charade?
Dora had started sucking on her fists between her complaints. She was also wet. The child deserved better treatment.
Lord Marsden didn’t help the situation when he leaned toward the footman and said in a low tone, “Peters, please pass the word amongst the staff that I am married.”
The comment startled the manservant. “Married? Um, oh, yes, my lord. Congratulations—”
“No congratulations necessary,” Lord Marsden said easily. “It will only be for an hour. However, act as if I have been married for ages.”
