Chapter 23

A s he made his way down to breakfast the following morning, Rupert wondered if things would be awkward with Claire in light of what they’d done in the dark of the night. He had a bit of experience where these things were concerned and knew that just because a woman was keen to have him in her bed didn’t mean she was interested in anything of the lasting kind. Normally, that wasn’t a problem.

But Clarissa Weatherby wasn’t your average kettle of fish. There was something about her that made his heart feel as bruisable as a ripe peach. Ever since he first heard about her, she’d sounded like exactly what he wanted, and nothing he’d seen since meeting her in the flesh had disabused him of that notion. He was heading in the exact direction he’d always suspected he was going to go, falling head over heels in love with Claire.

It probably hadn’t been wise, what they did last night, at least, beyond what was necessary to make whoever had come to the library door think it’d been nothing more than a midnight tryst. Which was a bit ironical, when you thought about it, that making it seem like they were doing something that could bring about Claire’s ruination was their best option.

The point was, he probably should have stopped kissing her the second the coast was clear, but he’d wanted to keep going, wanted to have that moment with Claire so badly , that longing had beaten out what little good sense he had.

He’d probably come to regret it when she went skipping off on her next assignment, and he was left heaving sighs into his cups. Or maybe he would cherish that memory with Claire and manage to see the bright side of things. After all, what did he know?

One thing he was sure about was that he shouldn’t form any expectations. Plenty of women wanted him to warm their beds. It was one of the few things he was good for.

This did not mean that Claire wanted him in the same way he wanted her, which was for keeps. When he saw her, he needed to be professional, not start acting like a peanut and mooning all over her.

Rupert sighed. Acting normal wasn’t exactly his specialty. But he was determined to give it a go, just this once.

As she made her way down to breakfast, Clarissa had to remind herself to walk rather than skip.

Yesterday had been her first… everything. First kiss, first romantic interlude with a man.

First time experiencing pleasure.

She was coming to accept that she had been completely wrong about Rupert. She should have known that Lady Milthorpe wouldn’t have tried to match her with someone awful. And while Rupert Dupree might not be a conventional husband, honestly, a conventional husband was the last thing Clarissa needed. She was outspoken to a fault, a quality ninety-nine percent of men would consider a disqualification to marriage. But not Rupert. He actually wanted a clever wife!

And physical relations between them had proven more than satisfactory. Clarissa felt her toes curl in her slippers, remembering the sensations Rupert had conjured up within her body last night. And to think, they hadn’t even done everything yet!

She couldn’t wait to see what else he could show her.

That part—throwing herself at him physically—was the easy bit. What was more difficult was confessing that her feelings had changed. Two years ago, after Rupert had overheard her railing against their proposed union, they had become disengaged.

Now, she needed to explain to him that she wanted to get… un-disengaged. Which was not a word. No word existed for this ridiculous situation because nobody had ever managed to make such a muddle of things before.

She tried to picture herself broaching the subject. Say, Rupert, how would you like to get married after all? The mere thought had her breaking out in hives. Wasn’t the man supposed to do the proposing? That was the problem all right—she wasn’t supposed to be the one doing the asking, but what choice did she have, considering she had already rejected him?

She was pondering this predicament when Phyllis Cuthbert stepped into her path. “Miss Weatherby,” she said, giving Clarissa a pinched, disapproving look. “Might I have a word?”

Clarissa would rather not, but she forced herself to smile. “Of course.”

Phyllis led her to the Wedgewood-blue parlor just down the hall from the breakfast room, shutting the door behind them. Seeking to cut the tension that was thick in the air, Clarissa gestured to the windows. “Do you think we’ll have more snow, or—”

“I saw you,” Phyllis said, cutting Clarissa off.

Clarissa froze. “Saw me?”

“Last night. With Rupert Dupree.” Phyllis crossed the room in three quick strides. “In the library.”

“Ah.” Well, at least she now knew the identity of the person who had interrupted them. Clarissa cleared her throat. “I hope I can rely upon your discretion in—”

“He won’t marry you, you know,” Phyllis said, her voice hot with anger.

Clarissa recoiled. “I—I’m sorry?”

Phyllis’s eyes were fierce. “He won’t marry you. Believe me, I know how men are. They talk a pretty game and convince you to surrender your favors. But there is only one thing they want, and after they’ve had that, they will move on and leave you alone to face the wreckage.”

It was on the tip of Clarissa’s tongue to tell Phyllis she was wrong. That Rupert wasn’t like that. To watch and see because he was going to be her future husband.

But it occurred to her that, even if her hopes came to fruition and it turned out to be true, this probably wasn’t her best strategy.

So, instead, Clarissa waved a hand. “Oh, I know all that. As one of England’s most notorious wallflowers, I’ve long accepted that I’ll never marry. The opportunity presented itself to exchange a few kisses with Mr. Dupree, and I will admit to being curious. I had never been kissed before, you see,” she confessed. “But I know that nothing will come of it.”

Phyllis shook her head so vigorously that her tightly drawn bun trembled. “You do not seem to appreciate what dangerous ground you are treading. How quickly a few kisses can lead to other things.”

It happened that Clarissa did understand this. Rupert had proved more than capable of sweeping her up in the moment.

Not that she was about to admit as much to Phyllis Cuthbert.

Clarissa took Phyllis’s hand and pressed it. “It is kind of you to look out for me. But truly, it was nothing more than a few kisses.”

Strictly speaking, it was true.

There was no need to mention precisely where she and Rupert had kissed each other.

Phyllis’s expression remained stony. “It takes far less than a few kisses to ruin a woman.”

Clarissa pressed her hand. “I know that, but I also know that, as my friend, you would never expose me to the world’s censure.”

Phyllis’s expression remained sulky, but she mumbled, “Of course, I wouldn’t.”

Eager to bring this conversation to an end, Clarissa looped her arm through Phyllis’s. “I appreciate your discretion and your advice. I will certainly keep it in mind. Now come,” she said, tugging Phyllis toward the door. “Let’s see what Lord and Lady Helmsley have laid out for breakfast.”

Inside the breakfast room, Phyllis clung to Clarissa’s side. But that was all right because Rupert had taken the seat next to their new primary suspect, Nicholas Higginbotham. He was attempting, not very successfully, by the look of things, to engage him in conversation. But if anyone could draw him out, it was Rupert. Clarissa caught his eye for a brief second and an understanding passed between them. Don’t worry , Rupert’s eyes said. I’ll handle it . Clarissa gave him a tiny nod.

Lord and Lady Helmsley were throwing the first ball of the house party that night, and the ladies were to spend the morning decorating the ballroom with festive greenery while the gentlemen went tromping around in the snow in search of the perfect Yule log. Clarissa, therefore, didn’t get to speak to Rupert until luncheon.

Sidling up to him at the buffet table, she murmured, “Did Mr. Higginbotham say anything of interest?”

“Nothing. Quite the taciturn fellow,” Rupert whispered.

“We’ll try again tonight,” Clarissa returned as Phyllis Cuthbert bore down on her, a disapproving scowl on her face as she saw Clarissa ignoring her advice and speaking to Rupert.

The ladies spent the afternoon drinking tea and embroidering, and then it was time to dress for the ball.

Having decided that red was Clarissa’s color, Lady Emily sent over a cherry-red ballgown for her to wear that evening. Clarissa wasn’t surprised at this point; she had quite given up on blending into the wallpaper.

But the strangest thing happened when she put the dress on. Until that point, she had recoiled slightly every time she looked in the mirror and saw herself clad in a cheerful shade of mint or apricot. But today, she recognized the woman in red staring back at her with a confident smile. Ten days of joining the party instead of skulking in the corner, of being treated as a respectable young lady instead of a despised wallflower, had transformed how she thought of herself.

She wondered if she would be able to go back to her brown gowns once the house party concluded. On the one hand, she needed them for her work for the Home Office, which she wanted to continue.

But she couldn’t help but feel that those dresses belonged to someone else, a version of herself that no longer existed.

She encountered Rupert on the landing as she headed downstairs. He bowed cordially and offered her his arm.

Leaning in, Clarissa whispered, “Were you able to speak with Mr. Higginbotham again?”

“I made a go of it but didn’t make any progress. I think you should give it a try to see if you have better luck.”

“I doubt that I would,” Clarissa murmured.

“I think you might. After all, what man can resist a beautiful woman?”

They had reached the ballroom’s entrance. Clarissa stopped short just shy of the double doors. She peered up at Rupert but couldn’t detect anything but sincerity in his expression.

“You really think I’m beautiful.” It was a statement, not a question. Clarissa could hear a trace of surprise in her voice as she said it.

“Of course I do.” Rupert’s voice was husky, and his eyes… Clarissa felt a sudden conviction that if she lived to be a thousand years old, she would never forget the way Rupert was looking at her in the shadowy entryway.

Inside the ballroom, the musicians began the opening bars of a waltz. There was something vulnerable in Rupert’s eyes as he asked, “Would you do me the very great honor of granting me this dance?”

“I would,” Clarissa whispered.

Rupert smiled, and he led her inside.

The cream-and-gold ballroom was bright with candlelight from a dozen chandeliers. The room smelled of the fresh-cut fir boughs that adorned each arched window. Clarissa saw it all in a haze because she could not seem to tear her eyes from Rupert’s face.

He swept her into the waltz. Clarissa had always been an indifferent dancer, preferring to spend her spare minutes with her nose in a book. Rupert, on the other hand, danced elegantly, with a firm, competent lead that made her ten times better than she would otherwise have been. This felt like an apt metaphor. Did this man not bring out all her better qualities? In Rupert’s company, it was so easy to be patient, kind, and quietly capable, rather than condescending. Probably because these were all things he believed her to be. With Rupert, she had nothing to prove, and the rough edges she had worn like armor these past two years melted away.

The dance passed so quickly that she felt like it had scarcely begun when the music stopped. Rupert held her a second too long before clearing his throat and taking a hasty step back. Clarissa keenly felt the absence of his warm hand on her waist.

As he led her to the refreshment table, he leaned down and murmured, “You should try to waltz with Higginbotham. That would give you the best chance to converse.”

She made a bleak sound. “I don’t know how I’ll get him to ask me. I’ve scarcely made his acquaintance.”

“I’ll help you,” Rupert whispered.

Richard Garroway claimed the next dance, and Clarissa never found herself wanting for a partner—a first for England’s most notorious wallflower.

Just before the supper break, the musicians began the opening bars of another waltz. Percival Ponsonby, one of the young men who had shown a marked interest in Clarissa after learning of the dowry the Duke of Norwood had settled upon her, came hurrying over, but Rupert scooped up her arm, quick as a leopard. Percival scowled, no doubt thinking it poor form for Rupert to claim both of the evening’s waltzes, but Rupert led her to the corner where Mr. Higginbotham had been standing alone for most of the ball.

Clarissa wondered what he was going to do. Mr. Higginbotham did not seem much inclined to dance, and of course, a lady could not do the asking.

“Good evening, Higginbotham,” Rupert said cheerfully. “Have you met Miss Clarissa Weatherby?”

“Good evening, Dupree. Yes, I have had the pleasure.” Mr. Higginbotham’s words were correct, but he didn’t manage to accompany them with a smile. Clarissa could not help but wonder if it was the presence of the man who had ousted him from his parliamentary seat and sent his career into disarray that had him in a less-than-festive mood.

“Do you enjoy waltzing?” Rupert asked.

Mr. Higginbotham sighed, by all appearances wishing they would go away. “I used to. But I am not much for dancing these days.”

His unenthusiastic response did not put a dent in Rupert’s cheerfulness. “I daresay you will recall why you used to like it so well if you could but dance with such a splendid partner as Miss Weatherby.”

Mr. Higginbotham’s melancholy expression did not waver, but he was not so rude as to ignore such a pointed suggestion. “Miss Weatherby, would you do me the honor?”

They found a space on the ballroom floor and began turning together. Clarissa cast about for an opening foray. “May I ask how you know Lord and Lady Helmsley?”

“Our families are friends. I was raised in Thirsk,” he said, naming a town about ten miles away.

“Thirsk, really?” Curiosity showed on Mr. Higginbotham’s face, so she added, “I am from Boroughbridge, you see.”

“Ah. I know just where that is, of course.”

Clarissa recalled that Rosalind Baxter had been raised in Thirsk. This was surely the best opening she was going to get. “I believe Lady Helmsley’s sister lives in Thirsk, does she not?”

“She does. That is how I came to meet the earl and countess.”

Clarissa sought to make her voice nonchalant as she said, “Then you must be well acquainted with Mrs. Rosalind Baxter.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know that I would say well acquainted. She is nine years younger than me, after all. By the time she was old enough to talk, I was away at school. I am good friends with her older brothers, Joseph and Gregory, though.”

Clarissa’s mind was scrambling, trying to figure out how to turn the conversation to Oliver Baxter without being too obvious. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Baxter’s brothers. Do you see much of them these days?”

“I do not,” Mr. Higginbotham replied, steering her around another couple. “They still reside in Thirsk, but I haven’t been there in years.”

“Is your business based in London, then?” Clarissa asked.

He shook his head. “York.”

It was only around twenty-five miles from York to Thirsk, not even a full day’s journey. It seemed significant that he would not have traversed such a short distance to visit his old friends.

She was careful to keep her voice light as she said, “Perhaps you will stop and visit after the house party. You’ll have to pass through Thirsk on your way back to York, after all.”

A shadow fell over his face. Over his shoulder, she saw Oliver Baxter, who had partnered with Phyllis Cuthbert, go spinning by.

His jaw worked, and he took a moment to select his words. “I will not be stopping in Thirsk,” he said in a clipped voice. “There is nothing there but bad memories.” The music slowed as the last few bars were played. Stepping back, Mr. Higginbotham bowed over her hand. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Weatherby.”