In fact, Clarissa had discovered that Lord Hartley was not the sort of man to do anything with excess. He spoke in measured tones. He laughed at appropriate volumes. And he complimented her new gown with painfully mundane cliches.
The harpist launched into a new piece. Something melancholy and lovely. Clarissa's mind drifted. She thought about princesses and talking horses and a prince who'd been written out of the story.
She was in the midst of crafting a horrific new villain for the princess to encounter next when Lord Hartley leaned toward her. "Isn't this piece lovely?"
"Very," she agreed.
"I believe it's Handel," he whispered.
"Ah." She nodded as if this information held some significance for her.
She needed the retiring room. Not because she had any physical need, but because if she sat here for another minute smiling placidly at a harpist, she felt certain she would scream.
And screaming mid-Handel was typically frowned upon in good society. She didn't need a book on etiquette to know that.
"Will you excuse me?" she murmured to Lord Hartley.
The corridor outside the music room was blessedly cool and quiet. She pressed her back against the wall and took three deep breaths. She could do this. Lord Hartley was kind and steady and he would make a perfectly adequate husband. Their life together would be fine. Perfectly fine.
A rustle of silk announced she was no longer alone. Lady Arabella emerged from the retiring room, adjusting her gloves. She stopped when she saw Clarissa.
For a moment, neither spoke. Arabella's expression was strange, with none of the usual cool amusement or sharp-edged poise. There was something unsettled there. And for a moment the look in her eyes was almost…wary.
"Lady Clarissa." The other woman's voice was its usual silk. But she didn't smile.
Clarissa dipped her chin. "Lady Arabella."
A silence stretched. Arabella's gloved fingers fidgeted with her bracelet. When she made no move to continue walking, Clarissa stiffened.
She waited for Lady Arabella to speak. But her continued silence had Clarissa wavering between wariness and concern. Lady Arabella looked like she wanted to say something. Her hesitation was oddly terrifying.
"Are you…well?" Clarissa finally asked.
Arabella's lips pursed slightly as if Clarissa's question annoyed her. "The music room is rather stuffy this evening. If I were you, I might consider taking some air." The pretty brunette met her surprised gaze evenly. "Or perhaps head home early this evening."
Clarissa's eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"
Was this woman really asking her to leave? This wasn't even Lady Arabella's home. Who was she to ask her to leave?
Clarissa straightened, her chin coming up. "I'm quite comfortable inside, thank you."
Arabella looked at her then, and there was the usual hauteur, yes. But underneath that, something almost desperate. But it was gone in the blink of an eye.
Arabella lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "Suit yourself."
And then she was gone, silk skirts whispering around the corner.
Clarissa stared after her. Lady Arabella was strange, she decided.
Strange and rude and inexplicable. But Clarissa had more important things to worry about.
She entered the retiring room, where she took her time smoothing her skirts and fixing her hair. A short time later, she reentered the drawing room.
And she knew something was wrong the moment she walked through the door.
The music had paused. It seemed the harpist was taking a break between pieces. And in the gap, the room should have been filled with polite conversation. Instead, there was an excited quality to the murmuring that made her skin prickle.
She stepped inside. Heads turned toward her with expressions she knew too well. She'd seen them at the Hartington ball, and at the Wooster ball. But those looks had been pitying.
