"Clarissa," John started quietly. "Perhaps you ought to consider your criteria. If he doesn't?—"
"My criteria is a man who won't lie to me." She interrupted him rudely, but she couldn't bring herself to apologize. "Someone who won't pretend to be something he's not."
Her chest ached at that. And it wasn't Edmund she was thinking of as she'd said it, much as she wished it was.
"Lord Hartley is exactly who he appears to be," she continued. "And that is worth more to me right now than all the romance in England."
John was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded. "If that's what you want."
"It's what I want." She picked up her mother's letter and tucked it into her pocket. "Lady Hartley sent an invitation last week. A garden party at their estate in Richmond."
The invitation had arrived before the scandal, she reminded herself. Before the whispers and the pitying looks and the world turning upside down. It was possible—likely, even—that Lady Hartley would quietly rescind it now that Clarissa's name was tangled up in fresh gossip.
But she hadn't yet. And an invitation was an invitation.
She caught John's expression. "Don't look at me like that."
His eyes went wide. "Like what?"
She bit back a laugh that tasted far too bitter. "Like you're watching me settle."
His silence was answer enough.
She stood and kissed his cheek. "I'm choosing for myself, not settling. There's a difference."
Even as she said it, she wasn't sure she believed it. But for now, she had a letter to write and a future to arrange, and if neither of those things made her heart race or her belly ache from laughing, well…
That was for the best.
18
Strictly speaking, Kit had not been "invited" to the garden luncheon.
But he'd come anyway. He told himself it was because his aunt was attending, and he was living in her house, and also because Clarissa would be there and he still owed her an apology—assuming she'd allow him to actually complete a sentence next time they spoke.
But now, as he stood on the terrace watching Clarissa smile up at Lord Hartley…
Well. Kit had to admit that perhaps he was the sort of man who enjoyed torturing himself. This was a new revelation about his own character, and one he didn't particularly care for.
But as he watched them, there was no denying that this was precisely what he was doing. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away no matter how much the sight made his insides boil.
He'd noted, however, that Clarissa wasn't laughing. She hadn't laughed once in the quarter of an hour he'd been watching them.
He wasn't sure why that fact made him feel a little better. It wasn't like he wished her to be miserable. No, he wanted her to be happy. Just…
Not with Lord Hartley, that was all.
Then with whom? This nagging voice had grown tiresome of late. What gentleman of the ton would he be content to see her with?
He couldn't think of one. Not without stoking this burning fury that seemed to overtake him every time he watched her smile at Hartley.
And she was doing quite a bit of that. Her smile hadn't faded once in all the time he'd been watching her.
Did her cheeks ache? Because that could not be a real smile, could it? She couldn't possibly be enjoying their conversation that much.
With a huff, he set down his empty glass. He could interrupt. Make some excuse and take her away so he could…
What? Apologize? An apology wasn't enough. He owed her an explanation.
