Chapter 19

C larissa studied Rupert in the dappled light of the orangery. Everything was starting to make sense, except for one thing.

What had made Rupert believe she didn’t want to marry him?

Her heart was racing. Because it was true—she hadn’t been thrilled about her proposed union with the man everyone said was an idiot.

But now that she’d met Rupert, she saw that she had been overly hasty.

There was more to Rupert Dupree than met the eye.

He’d looked nervous for much of their conversation, but his eyes turned tremendously kind as he prepared to answer her. “I arrived in Boroughbridge to meet you a couple of days ahead of schedule. I was sitting in the Crown Hotel, eating a chop, when a young lady came in to collect her family’s post.”

Clarissa’s heart dropped to the level of her stomach. Because she had always been the one most eager for new letters, and, therefore, she had usually been the one to collect the family’s mail.

She had obviously said something , but what was it? She honestly couldn’t remember.

“It was me?” she asked in a tiny voice.

Rupert inclined his head. “The barmaid, Becky, was teasing you about your impending nuptials.”

This Clarissa could imagine easily enough. Everyone had been teasing her about her betrothal. Something about the combination of the bluestocking and the dunce, the innocent spinster and the legendary Lothario, had made people feel compelled to comment.

Rupert cleared his throat. “Let’s just say you made it clear that you didn’t want there to be any nuptials.”

She could almost remember it. “What, exactly, did I say?”

He shook his head. “Look, I don’t want you to feel bad—”

“ Tell me .”

He sighed. “She’d made a comment about how you were scowling now, but from what she’d heard, your future husband knew how to put a smile on your face. You said I wasn’t your future husband, not if you had any say in the matter, and that you wished Lady Milthorpe hadn’t involved you in her ‘ridiculous scheme.’ And then…”

He trailed off. Clarissa’s cheeks were aflame, but she was determined to hear the worst of it. “What did I say next? Please, do not sugarcoat it. Tell me as exactly as you can remember.”

He kept his eyes fixed on the floor as he added, “Your exact words were, ‘He’s supposed to be a blithering idiot, from everything I hear. What could Lady Milthorpe have been thinking? I would never consider such a man for my husband, not if he were the last man on earth.’”

A pregnant silence descended over the orangery. Clarissa remembered it now. Becky had always had a saucy sense of humor, and working at an inn, she’d been as worldly as Clarissa was sheltered.

She remembered how humiliating it had been, feeling as if everyone was laughing at her behind her back. And even worse, the topic of the teasing had been one she was entirely unequipped to discuss—her wedding night. Her wedding night with a stranger , who was apparently some sort of libertine.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Becky had brought it up in the middle of a crowded tavern. She remembered feeling like every eye in the room must’ve been fixed on her, that everyone would be whispering about what she would be doing in the most private moment of her life.

But it was still no excuse for her to have insulted Rupert.

Something about the words niggled around in her mind. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she had a distinct sense that there was something else about those words that she was failing to grasp…

She shook herself. This was no time to worry about that. Right now, the important thing was making amends.

Clarissa lifted her chin but couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him. “I would like to apologize.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is,” she insisted, keeping her eyes fixed on the orangery’s wall of windows. “I was embarrassed by Becky’s remarks, especially as they regarded such an intimate topic. I was extremely innocent. I had never even been kissed…”

Clarissa trailed off, wishing she hadn’t phrased it that way. She still hadn’t been kissed, but it was too humiliating to admit as much at the age of five and twenty, so all she could do was soldier on. “What I really wanted was for Becky to stop discussing a very private matter in a very public setting. My true aim was to shut her up, but I went about it in the wrong way. I should have taken her to task for her inappropriate remarks and left you out of it, and I am sincerely sorry that I disparaged you.”

“It’s all right, Claire.”

Claire . Her sisters were the only ones who ever called her by that nickname. Yet, for some reason, it felt right coming from Rupert’s lips.

“It’s not all right,” she countered. “I am horrified that I said it. It’s no excuse, but I remember feeling shocked that Lady Milthorpe had arranged the match for me in the first place. My reputation is for being shrewish and strident, and I had assumed I would never marry. I’m sure you weren’t any more enthusiastic about our proposed union than I was.”

He said nothing. After a moment, Clarissa summoned the courage to meet his eyes.

The overwhelmingly kind expression was still in place. “Honestly? I was looking forward to meeting you. Lady Milthorpe had told me how clever you were, and…” He looked away, his eyes sorrowful. “You’re just the kind of woman I want to marry.” He jerked upright, seeming to realize himself. “I mean, wanted! I mean…” His shoulders sagged. “Want,” he admitted.

Clarissa felt horrified. She had somehow blundered into the one and only man in all of England who regarded being the world’s biggest bluestocking not as a disqualification to matrimony but as an attribute greatly to be desired, and she had managed to ruin things before they’d even shaken hands.

One of them was an idiot, all right. And it wasn’t Rupert Dupree.

And yet… he had said want , present tense. Did that mean… was it still possible that he… that he…

She summoned her courage. “Rupert, I—”

She was cut off by the faint creak of the glass door opening. She froze, her eyes flying to Rupert’s.

The door clicked shut, and a woman’s voice filled the orangery.

“ As I rode out one May morning across yon fields so early,

I spied a maid, a most beautiful maid as sweet as— ”

A housemaid came around a cluster of orange trees. The song died on her lips as she saw Clarissa and Rupert standing guiltily together.

She glanced back and forth between them once… twice, then dropped a hasty curtsey. “I’m sorry, miss, sir. Cook sent me to fetch some lemons for tonight’s dinner. I didn’t mean to… to…”

“Quite all right,” Rupert said easily. “I just arrived myself and was surprised to find that the orangery was already occupied.” He gestured to Clarissa. “How I would hate for anyone to form the impression that there was anything irregular going on. It’s fortuitous that you arrived in time to play chaperone.”

The maid brightened. “Oh, well, in that case.” She gestured to a cluster of trees in the corner. “You don’t mind if I pick a few lemons before we head back to the castle, do you?”

“Not at all,” Rupert replied. “In fact, may I be of assistance?”

Clarissa joined in, too, giving Rupert a meaningful glance while she tugged a branch laden with lemons low for the maid to do her work. Rupert responded by waggling his eyebrows.

“There!” the maid exclaimed once she had a dozen lemons cradled in her apron.

Once the lemons were picked, they had little choice but to return to the castle with their new chaperone. Once inside, they parted ways with the maid and Rupert escorted Clarissa up the stairs. Bending his lips toward her ear, he murmured, “We forgot to discuss the mission.”

She frowned. “The mission?” Her thoughts were still swirling with what she’d learned about the real reasons behind their broken engagement. She stiffened as she recalled the reason they’d gone there in the first place. “The mission!”

“Meet me in the library at midnight,” he whispered.

Clarissa nodded. “The library. Very—”

“Look where you’re standing!” a singsong voice called from the top of the stairs.

Clarissa glanced up to find a delighted Lady Emily skipping down the steps. She pointed to a spot above their heads. “You two are the first to get caught under my mistletoe!”

Sure enough, a jaunty sprig of the white-berried plant hung suspended over the landing by a bright red ribbon.

Time seemed to slow down. Clarissa was conscious of Lady Helmsley lingering near the bottom of the stairs. Lady Ashington and the Duchess of Kimbolton, who happened to be strolling through the foyer, paused their progress to see if they were actually going to do it. This would be the juiciest on dit of all, that Rupert Dupree and Clarissa Weatherby had not merely made up their spat but had kissed under the mistletoe.

Clarissa’s heart was thundering. Rupert’s words echoed in her head. You’re just the kind of woman I want to marry .

And she still wasn’t sure, but she was starting to think that maybe, just maybe , he was the kind of man she wanted to marry, too.

He was looking at her, his usual jovial expression gone, his blue eyes intense. Lady Emily’s voice sounded far away. “It’s just a silly tradition. You don’t mind, do you?”

Rupert moved slowly, giving her a chance to protest, a chance to say no.

Clarissa did not say no. She found she was giddy to have an excuse to kiss Rupert Dupree.

And maybe it was the fact that it was her first kiss. Maybe it was the way he stroked his thumb across her forehead as he brought his hands up to frame her face, as if he treasured the experience of touching her. Maybe it was the way he was looking at her, with a mixture of longing and sorrow. Maybe it was the way his breath hitched in the moment before his lips brushed hers.

But his kiss ruined her.

It was the sort of closed-mouth, proper-to-a-fault kiss that one exchanged beneath the mistletoe, knowing that a half-dozen gossipy matrons were watching the whole while. And still, Clarissa was shaking like a leaf by the time Rupert lifted his soft, warm lips from hers.

He didn’t seem to be in much better shape, for his breath hitched again. They stood frozen for a moment, inches apart. His lips brushed her forehead, reverently. Almost involuntarily. She felt his breath, shaky against her temple. Then he stepped back, taking her hands.

Clarissa clung to his hands because the room was reeling.

He bowed a little unsteadily. “Miss Weatherby,” he murmured, then released her, heading up the stairs toward his room.

It was fortunate that Lady Emily scurried over and seized her arm, because Clarissa was not entirely certain she could stand on her own. “Oh, my gracious !” Lady Emily hissed. “When he kissed your forehead, I almost swooned. I think Rupert must like you! Do you like him, too?”

“I… I…” Clarissa swallowed. “I need to lie down.”

“I’ll take that as a yes .” Lady Emily hooked her arm through Clarissa’s and led her up the stairs.

Lady Emily somehow guided a shaky-legged Clarissa to her bedchamber. She encouraged Clarissa to kick off her slippers and helped her climb onto the bed.

Sitting on the mattress beside her, Lady Emily smiled. “Don’t you worry. I’m going to take care of everything .”

“Take care of… wait.” Clarissa struggled to push herself up. “What are you going to do?”

Lady Emily was already halfway out the door. “Leave everything to me!”

Clarissa groaned as she flopped back down on the pillow. If she left Lady Emily to her own devices, she would find herself betrothed to Rupert by sunset.

Strangely, the prospect didn’t feel all that alarming.

She lay on her back, staring at the bed’s yellow canopy. Her thoughts were still a swirling mess. This did not bode well, considering she had an M.P. to protect and a would-be murderer to identify.

For some reason, the words rattling around inside her head were her own, the ones Rupert had quoted back at her in the orangery. He’s supposed to be a blithering idiot, from everything I hear. What could Lady Milthorpe have been thinking? I would never consider such a man for my husband, not if he were the last man on earth.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something about those words, something she felt sure she was missing…

She sat up upon the bed as it came to her. The reason those words seemed strange was because they were not a general summary of what she had said about Rupert Dupree two years ago.

Those were the exact words she had said to Becky. She was almost certain of it.

She rubbed her temple. How had Rupert Dupree, the man everyone dismissed as an idiot, who had just admitted to her that he could barely read, parroted back to her a precise quote two years after the fact?

There was more to that man than met the eye, and they would have a long list of things to discuss at midnight in the library.