Chapter Two
Clara’s insides wereknotted tight as she stomped away from the Scotsman. Her hands were clenched tight and though she headed to the lecture on beekeeping, she knew she would not be able to focus on it. No, when she got this distraught, there was only one thing for it.
She walked.
She loved London and knew its many corners. Thankfully, her brother Aaron had taught her the rudiments of fisticuffs and fencing. He’d also gifted her with a walking stick nearly identical to his own, one with a sword inside. She’d never had use of the blade so far, but the stick had come in handy when thieving children from the rookeries had accosted her. She knew to keep away from those areas, but there was still plenty of St. James’ to wander, not to mention Piccadilly and Mayfair. She’d be pickpocketed for sure, but she barely cared for the few coins in her purse. She had a more substantial sum tucked in a secret pocket stitched onto her stays.
All that information flashed through her thoughts along with a steady stream of beekeeping information that she already possessed. She was unlikely to miss anything by avoiding the lecture. She tried to calm her frenzied thoughts by listing all the facts she already knew, but even that would not settle her. She would have to face her fury in the only way that worked.
She stomped on their faces.
Not literally, of course, but it absolutely gave her satisfaction as she stormed down Bond Street to imagine every foot stomp was on her mother’s face. The woman knew she had no intention of marrying. Clara had declared as much from her earliest days. She’d thought her mother understood. Indeed, Mama had given her a bookshelf for Christmas last year and had declared that—since Clara was well and truly on the shelf—she might as well have a nice place to sit.
It was one of the few times she’d ever won an argument with her mother. But now she saw that the woman had merely cast her net farther afield—to Scotland!—to find a man who would lower himself to marry her. She didn’t blame Lord Loughton. She knew that a man wasn’t considered mature until he had a wife on his arm and children to carry on his name. But that said nothing about what a woman wanted.
Clara had no quarrels with any woman who chose to marry into a lifetime of drudgery as she served her husband’s needs, but that was not Clara’s choice. And thank God, she had the money to stick with her choice despite her mother throwing men at her at every turn.
She’d liked Lord Loughton! That was the worst of it. He didn’t steer the conversation to his favorite topics. He didn’t try to tell her how to dress or behave. He let her do and say as she willed and either enjoyed her conversation or made himself scarce. They had yet to discuss the plumbing at his castle, but she supposed that was due to Mr. Russell’s churlishness.
And now she wouldn’t ever get to talk about his life in a Scottish castle because—damn it—she had to dissuade him from pursuing her hand in marriage.
Stupid, stupid Mama! Why wouldn’t she accept that her daughter was unmarriageable?
Stupid, stupid men! Why couldn’t they ever be friends rather than suitors?
By the time she’d harumphed down Bond Street, she’d made her plans. First was to write a letter to Mama to tell her that her schemes with Lord Loughton had come to naught. Clara did not for one moment believe the man had pursued her this fervently without encouragement from someone. Since it wasn’t her father or brother—they had long since given up on her marriage prospects—it had to be Mama.
Next was to give the Scotsman the cut direct. It was a harsh thing to do, but he needed to understand that she was serious. And she’d learned to her cost that most men—when absolutely determined upon a course—would not be dissuaded without firm, consistent denial.
She went home and wrote her letter.
Then she gave Lord Loughton the cut direct at the musicale evening she attended two nights later. She didn’t know how he knew she’d attend. She rarely went to society functions, but he was there as if he too enjoyed the mezzo-soprano Fiona Verany. He sat close to the center of the room and listened with rapt attention while Clara twisted and fidgeted. She kept questioning the wisdom of giving him the cut direct. She didn’t want him to think that she was opposed to Scotsmen, and that would certainly be the appearance. But she absolutely could not let him believe that she was open to his suit.
It ruined the evening for her, especially since when she finally did cut him, his response was a full and open laugh. And she heard—as did several others—as he remarked that her backside was as appealing as her front and was no displeasure to him.
Most unsettling! She spent the next few days in research on beekeeping as penance for her inability to remove him from her thoughts.
And then he was there again at the next meeting of the Naturalist Society. He said not a word to her at the beginning, but winked whenever she looked at him. He had some understanding of the material because he asked intelligent questions regarding the anatomy of an African civet as compared to a hyena. She wondered if he was showing off his knowledge for her benefit, but she could not be sure. What Englishman even knew of the hyena, much less could intelligently compare it to a civet? But he could and she would have discussed that very fact with him, were he not trying to marry her.
Unless, of course, he really did have a passion for comparative anatomies. She resolved to find out.
She allowed him to meander to her side after the lecture. And as he bowed over her hand, she blurted out the one question she had resolved to discover through subtlety.
“Are you here to pursue me or to discover African mammals?”
“I love all sorts of warm-blooded creatures—”
Excellent. She understood shared academic interest.
“But it’s your warm blood that appeals the most.”
She winced. He was here because of her. “My blood is not for you,” she said tartly. Then she felt her cheeks flush as she realized her wording had been unfortunate.
“Then perhaps I’ll just admire the packaging of it.”
She frowned at him, thoroughly flustered. “I believe I have explained that we will never marry. You should direct your attention to ladies who wish to become servants to the men who would master them.”
His brows arched. “I begin to understand your objection is to marriage and not my person.” He smiled. “That is excellent progress.”
