CHAPTER NINE

“Perhaps the pink satin?” Annie asked as Clarissa looked over the gowns that might be suitable for dinner. She found herself contemplating them rather longer than usual, and Annie had picked up on her indecision.

“Should I not have packed the darker pieces, Miss Crompton?” she asked, looking concerned.

“Not at all. I am just so used to white that I have forgotten these others. You are right. The pink will do very well, thank you, Annie.”

The gown was dutifully fitted, and Clarissa contemplated the evening ahead. Lord Bolton’s presence in her life was unexpectedly troublesome and she was struggling to interpret her own feelings.

Before they had come to the house, the idea of an attachment had not entered her head. She had been focused on whether it was wise to come at all and not on who she might meet.

She had been surprised by how friendly everyone had been. True, the attendees were chiefly made up of Lady Eleanor’s, or her own, family. But Lady Bartholemew and Garriton had also been very amiable. There wasn’t a hint that anyone had considered the scandal since the night of the ball. As a result—she had let down her guard.

She had not expected Lord Bolton to be a part of the party, and now that he was, he presented a complication she had not planned for.

Given his history, nothing could recommend him. Rosemary’s reassurances of his character were of little consequence. Considering that she was his sister and would likely think well of him whatever he did, Clarissa did not put much store by them.

She would be civil but drove any other thoughts out of her mind.

Even so, she still felt a flutter of nerves in her gut at the prospect of another evening in his company. She chided herself for such foolishness, but try as she might, she could not banish those feelings.

As she prepared to head down to dinner, she was surprised to be summoned to the sitting room. Upon entering, she found both her parents waiting for her.

Her stomach in knots, she chiefly concentrated on her father. He was by far the most sensible of the two, and she made a bargain with herself that whatever he asked, she would see it done—just as she had since Catherine left them.

Her father’s brow was rather furrowed, and her mother was bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Lord Crompton cleared his throat. Before he began speaking, his gaze moved to his wife before finding hers. Clarissa thought she could detect an element of apology in it.

“Your mother has brought to my attention that you may have formed an attachment with Lord Bolton.”

“He is the most virtuous of men, Clarissa,” her mother interrupted. “To think that you have managed to ensnare an earl with title, wealth, and a great estate. It is beyond my wildest imaginings. This connection could change everything for us.”

Clarissa could not miss her mother’s true meaning. Lady Bernadette Crompton was a social climber. Their fall from grace as a family had hit her the hardest. Clarissa knew how much her mother longed to enter a room and attract attention for the right reasons again.

Before the scandal, Lady Crompton had been the centre of her circle of friends. She had been a shameless gossip, and everyone had been eager to talk to her. She had not coped well when she had learned that the same circle she had belonged to for so many years was only as loyal as her money and reputation allowed.

The knot in Clarissa’s stomach now felt like a snake, coiling and turning over on itself. The nausea she had experienced when her mother had first suggested Lord Bolton as a potential match had returned. She attempted to compose herself before her father saw her reaction.

“Lady Eleanor is such a great friend,” Lady Crompton continued. “She has favoured us by inviting us here.”

Before Lady Crompton could exult in Lord Bolton’s virtues for a moment longer, Lord Crompton cleared his throat again, and she was silenced.

“We are all aware of the precarious position we find ourselves in. I believe that we have all been concerned for your prospects, Clary. Despite your obvious attributes and accomplishments, since Warrington’s abandonment, I had not considered that you would find a match such as this.”

Clarissa wanted to scream. There was no match. It was highly likely that Nicholas would leave England and forget her immediately. This was all much too fast and too humiliating to be born. Her parents had jumped to conclusions despite her best efforts to conceal her emotions.

What if Lord Bolton has noticed my regard for him? What if he is repulsed by it?

Her father’s eyes were mixed with hope and concern. As they looked at one another, Clarissa could feel the heavy weight of responsibility on her shoulders that she had carried for so long.

She could barely remember a time before Catherine had left. All was blurred and forgotten in the wake of such a disaster. To her, it seemed as if the entirety of her family’s fortunes, happiness and success rested with her.

The panic in her chest fluttered to the surface so quickly she could not prevent it. Her mother’s vibrating figure, all but bouncing off the furnishings, did not help matters.

“Papa, I can assure you, you are much mistaken. I have no interest in Lord Bolton,” she said desperately, the lie falling easily from her lips. “You cannot be ignorant of his reputation. I most certainly am not.” She cast a glance toward her mother. “Lord Bolton is a known rake. Given the circumstances, he would hardly be a suitable person for me to attach myself to. Someone of his experience would not be a candidate I would seriously consider. He is accustomed to flirtation perhaps, but I have seen no evidence of any true regard for me.”

Save for a touching of hands that still burns my skin.

She was aware of the irony in her words. She was using Lord Bolton’s rakish behaviour to justify rejecting him. Yet every time their eyes met across a room, her heart would skip a beat in her chest.

“I could not risk such a connection and have no plans to entertain it,” she concluded.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Clarissa,” her mother spat, “you speak as if he were a murderer. All men have their rakish ways, why I am sure even your father had his share of flirtations before he settled down with me.” Clarissa watched her father turn pale with anger at that comment, but her mother barrelled on. “Lord Bolton will settle down, all men do. He is by far the best prospect you can ever hope for, and you must not—”

“My dear,” Lord Crompton interrupted, gently touching his wife’s arm. “We should not labour the point. Clary has told us of her intentions, or lack thereof; we should leave it at that.”

Lady Crompton opened and closed her mouth in shock. Clarissa did not meet her eyes. Looking at the heavily patterned carpet beneath her feet, she wished she had never come to the party at all.

“We should all head to dinner,” her father stated, and Clarissa could not get out of the room quickly enough.

Not only did she have to contend with her confusing and unwanted feelings for Lord Bolton, but she now had the added pressure of her mother’s expectations. A good match would secure their future—yet she could not believe Lord Bolton was the answer. Her own sister had had her head turned by the wrong man, and look where that had left them all.

***

At dinner, Clarissa was placed opposite Lord Bolton, who looked unfairly handsome. He had done something with his hair that made him look almost regal. His cravat and cream waistcoat meant that his eyes, already such a vivid green, were startling in the candlelight.

On his right arm was Lady Wilde, who was intent on monopolizing every moment of his time. But on his right was Emily. In that easy way of hers, she was asking him a myriad of questions. It was clear that Emily saw Lord Bolton as akin to an older brother and had no designs upon him herself. To Clarissa’s quiet delight and surprise, Lord Bolton was extremely patient with her and answered every question with great enthusiasm.

He had impeccable manners, always ensuring that he gave time to both ladies as he spoke. Clarissa was seated beside Lord Wilde, who was rather more interested in his glass of wine than he was in conversing with her.

“You see, I have heard that there are wondrous carriages proposed, capable of travelling at great speeds along iron rails,” Emily was saying as she extolled the marvels of modern engineering.”

“Indeed, though I believe it may not be as simple as it sounds. I attended a lecture on the subject not long ago. Such contraptions rely on intricate machinery and a great deal of power to function. It is said that the motion is achieved through a system of pulleys and levers, harnessing the energy of the horses or perhaps employing some new contrivance of steam.”

“I would be utterly captivated to witness one in action. None of my friends share my enthusiasm for such advancements, but I can imagine nothing more thrilling than observing the future of travel.”

Clarissa was mesmerized by Lord Bolton. His eyes were fixed on Emily as though she were the most important and interesting person in the world. He murmured his assent at her excitement and agreed that he would very much like to experience that kind of future travel.

“They do seem rather dangerous,” Lady Wilde added, and Lord Bolton turned to her. “I have heard that they can travel at over ten miles per hour. That seems exceedingly fast to my mind.”

“You are right, my lady.”

“And on rails,” Lady Wilde added with a shudder. “How on earth could one be expected to trust a line of metal going over the English countryside in such a way? I would not hear of such a thing. I would prefer a carriage and a team of four over something so unruly.”

Clarissa tightened her grip on her wine glass as Lord Bolton laughed and Lady Wilde began to titter along with him. Clarissa was unsure whether it was the laughter's high-pitched nature or to whom it was aimed that made her jaw clench.

“And what would you prefer, Miss Crompton?” Lord Bolton asked suddenly, looking up at her. Lord Wilde took another large gulp of his wine as his glass was refilled for the third time.

“I would say that you are both correct,” Clarissa replied honestly. “These advancements are exciting, but I must admit I would be cautious to try anything before it has been truly tested.”

She was eager to show some agreement with Lady Wilde’s opinion. For reasons she could not understand, the widow appeared to dislike her a great deal. Clarissa was far too familiar with people judging her on sight and making incorrect assumptions.

Lady Wilde, however, just took a sip of her wine and gave her a tight smile. Clarissa examined her through the candelabra between them and could not deny she was an uncommonly beautiful woman. Her hair was tied up in a beautiful bun, and on her hands and neck were a multitude of jewels that made Clarissa feel positively plain in comparison.

Why would Lord Bolton just not wish for her company? She is beautiful and diverting, and no scandal dogs her footsteps—merely good breeding and a better fortune.

Clarissa could not help but feel utterly inferior. She returned to her plate without saying anything more.

“Clary is the most sensible person I have ever met,” said Emily, surprising her enough to look up at her cousin. “And I think she is right. Either method of transportation has its methods, but one must understand the risks before one leaps headfirst into something new.”

Clarissa could almost hear her own voice in her cousin’s words and blushed a little. She had said many things like that over the two years Emily had lived with them, usually sourced from her own bitter resentment at her sister’s abandonment.

“Indeed, and what else does Miss Crompton do well besides making sensible choices?” Lord Bolton asked Emily, but his gaze was on Clarissa. She could not look at him, feeling overwhelmed and suffocated by her indecision.

“She reads more than anyone I have ever met,” Emily said with a grin. “How many books have you read this year, Clary?” she asked playfully.

Clarissa wanted to scold her, as she was embarrassed at being called out like this. Lady Wilde looked as though she had swallowed something unpleasant, and Clarissa was not sure what to say.

“I’ll wager she has read ten books this year,” Lord Bolton said, clearly guessing a low number to begin a debate. Lady Wilde brightened.

“I would say twenty,” she said, trying to catch his eye. To Clarissa’s astonishment, Lady Eleanor had been eavesdropping from the head of the table and shouted out that thirty would be more likely for a woman of good education.

By the end, Clarissa was laughing, as everyone except Emily and her parents had given their guess. Her father had a twinkle in his eye that she had not seen for a very long time, and she rejoiced in seeing its return.

“A shilling that it’s ten books,” said Lord Bolton, and those wicked green eyes caught hers across the table. She could not prevent a smile as they all waited for her answer.

“This year has been a rather slow one,” she remarked as her father gave her a knowing smile from his end of the table. “I am at the end of my current volume, which I confess is only my forty-second book this year.”

There were cries and exclamations of everyone but Emily, who giggled prettily and clapped her hands with delight.

“My goodness,” Lord Bolton stated, but his eyes were intimate and warm as he raised his glass in a toast. “To Miss Crompton,” he said to the company as Clarissa blushed fiercely. “Who makes everyone else here look quite stupid, to be sure.”

The whole table erupted with joy. Lady Wilde leaned in to say that she had read almost that many books herself, and Lord Bolton dutifully responded. But Clarissa could not take her eyes off his hand around his glass.

He had raised it and toasted to her intelligence in front of the entire room. It was as much a declaration of his regard as anything could be. She felt a stirring of unease ripple through her as Lady Crompton’s eyes met hers, and her mother raised her glass in a triumphant salute. Clarissa did not look at Lord Bolton again for the remainder of the meal.

After dinner, the party assembled in the drawing room.

Clarissa had not been in the room two minutes before Rosemary pulled her aside. The rest of the group was conversing around the fireplace. Emily was standing beside Lord Addison and asking him just as many questions as she had to Lord Bolton.

Clarissa frowned as her friend pulled her to the corner of the room.

“I suspected yesterday, I confess, but after that display, I can hardly ignore the obvious any longer. It appears my brother and you have grown fond of one another.” Rosemary’s face was open and interested, but Clarissa was cold all over at her implications.

Yet another person speaking of her attachment to Lord Bolton wrong-footed her again, and she could not come up with an adequate response. Rosemary raised her eyebrows and waited for her reply, and Clarissa gathered herself as best she could, cursing her easy blushes.

“Lord Bolton is a very intriguing man, but nothing more,” she persisted. “I cannot think he would find any interest in a lady such as myself; he has far too much to occupy him on the continent.”

She did not know whether she should speak plainly of Nicholas’s reputation, but she should not have worried. It appeared his sister was all too aware of the details.

“He certainly has had his fair share of rumours,” Rosemary agreed. “But I believe that some of those rumours were untrue and unkind. Nicholas has experienced great heartache in his life and I believe it was that experience that led him to leave England. He has never confided the truth to me, but I am sure his heart was broken.”

Clarissa’s eyes moved to Lord Bolton.

Yet more contradictions about the man only confused her further. Who was it who broke his heart? She wondered. What woman would ever refuse him?

Her mother was also looking at Lord Bolton from the other side of the room, speaking in hushed tones to Lady Eleanor, and Clarissa felt rage growing within her. She was so tired of people speaking about her behind her back.

Before Clarissa could say more, Lady Eleanor clapped her hands to get the attention of the room.

“Tonight’s entertainment will be a game of snapdragon!” she said loudly, and there were several murmurings of pleasure from those present. Rosemary smiled happily.

“Oh, I do love that game,” she said as they all moved to the centre of the room.

On a high table, a bowl filled with brandy had been placed. Within it floated a multitude of raisins. Clarissa had never played the game before and was astonished when a servant came forward with a match and set the bowl alight. The leaping blue and red flames were beautiful to watch as they licked around the side of the bowl.

“Whoever picks out the most raisins will be the victor!” Lady Eleanor proclaimed, and the whole party gathered around the bowl.

The leaping flames illuminated their faces in a ghostly blue light as the alcohol burned merrily between them.

Clarissa watched her mother, father, and Lady Eleanor expertly stab their hands into the bowl and retreat with their raisins, popping them into their mouths with aplomb and apparent relish.

She enjoyed the spectacle of the thing, and the servants had blown out all the other candles in the room, giving everything an ethereal glow as they played.

Lady Eleanor declared that it was Clarissa’s turn next, and she stepped up to bowl. Despite her misgivings at reaching through fire, she was determined to have her turn. But when she was close to the flames, she lost her nerve, uncertain how she would not be set alight by the action.

Her breath caught in her throat as someone came to stand beside her. Lord Bolton was suddenly at her elbow, his presence both calming and alarming. His proximity made her chest tight, and her lungs struggled for a full breath.