Chapter Ten

It had to be done, Race decided. Little as he wanted to attend, this was the only way to be sure of talking to Clarissa. She’d been avoiding him at every opportunity, and he needed to make something clear. She’d be hard put to avoid him this time. He straightened his neckcloth and stepped forward to ring the doorbell.

“Young Randall again?” a cheery elderly voice behind him said.

Race turned. “Sir Oswald.” Of course, it was mainly the elderly who attended Lady Davenham’s literary salons. And young ladies and their mothers.

“Didn’t know you were a student of literature,” the old gentleman said.

“I’m not.”

The old fellow chuckled. “Cherchez la femme, eh? Good show. Anyone I know? Plenty of pretty young fillies in attendance at these things. Bea—Lady Davenham, that is—loves havin’ young people around her. Keeps her young, she says, and who am I to contradict her?”

The door opened and the butler admitted them. Race and Sir Oswald walked upstairs and entered the large drawing room in which rows of chairs had been set out in semicircles, facing a shallow platform. He spied Clarissa seated on the far side of the room, with her back turned, talking to someone behind her. Her chaperone, as usual wearing an eye-watering colorful ensemble, was, thankfully, at the other end of the room, deep in conversation with another old biddy.

Their hostess, Lady Davenham, sat at the front, resplendent in a large turban, from which sprang several bright red curls. Race swiftly bowed over her hand, and left her chatting with Sir Oswald while he approached Clarissa. As luck would have it, there was a spare seat beside her. He plonked himself on it.

She turned. “Lord Randall,” she said, unable to hide her surprise. “I didn’t realize you were a reader.”

“Oh, I’m full of surprises. Besides, I wanted to speak to you.”

A faint furrow appeared between her brows. “What about?” she asked cautiously.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Have I?” she said, but her blush betrayed her.

“You know you have. What’s more,” he added, recalling a grievance, “you’ve been going around telling people I’m like an uncle to you. A benevolent uncle, I think were the words.”

She laughed. “Was it Lady Snake who told you that?”

“Lady Snape. Yes it was.”

She laughed again. “I prefer my pronunciation. Anyway I only told her that to annoy her. She was being horrid, and I wanted her to think her nasty comments were water off a duck’s back. Apparently she believed me. Good.”

He stiffened. “What did she say to you?”

Clarissa shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. She’s a nasty piece of work and I won’t have her sinking her talons into you.”

Clarissa raised her brows at that. “You are not responsible for me, or what other people say to me.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes you did.”

“All right, I did. But—”

“Thank you. When my sister left on her honeymoon, I realized that I had to learn to stand on my own two feet—we’d always been a pair until then, and I’m afraid I let Izzy take the lead in most things. But that can’t continue, and so I’ve been trying to be more…more assertive. And dealing with the likes of Lady Snake is part of that.”

He frowned, considering her words. “I see,” he said at last. “And you’re right. I was just angry at the thought that she’d peck at you to get back at me.”

“Get back at you?”

He grimaced. “Sour grapes. She doesn’t take kindly to rejection.”

“Rejection? By you?”

“Several times. But enough about her. I have a question for you: Why are you avoiding me? Have I done something to offend you?”

She gave him a thoughtful look, then shook her head. “No, you haven’t offended me. It’s nothing like that.”

“But you are avoiding me.”

She bit her lip. “I suppose I have been.”

“Was it the kiss?”

Her cheeks bloomed with color and she glanced around to be sure nobody was listening. “No, it wasn’t that. That was…very nice.”

“Nice?” Race stared at her. Cakes were nice. Kittens were nice. His kisses had never been called nice in his life, not even when he was a callow inexperienced youth.

She nodded. “Yes, very nice. But it cannot go any further than that.”

He frowned. “What would you say if I told you that my intentions are honorable?”

Her expression turned skeptical. “Even if they were, there would be no point.”

“Why not?”

She hesitated, swallowed and then said crisply, “I require fidelity in a husband.”

He frowned. “So do I in a wife.” Her expression was so skeptical he added, “And you can be assured that once I marry, I will never stray.”

She shook her head. “A leopard cannot change his spots.”

“I’m no spotty leopard,” he said indignantly. “A lion, perhaps, but—”

“Male lions preside over a pride of lionesses—in other words, they have a harem. That’s not for me.”

He laughed ruefully. “I can see it will do me no good to bandy words with you. So, what shall we bandy? I know, how about kisses?” His eyes danced with roguish invitation.

“Hush! This conversation is ridiculous.”

“This conversation is necessary. What would you say if I told you I—”

At that point Lady Davenham tinkled a little bell, and people hurried to take their seats. Suddenly he and Clarissa were hemmed in on all sides, and their few moments of privacy were at an end. Curse it. But there would be an interval, surely, for tea and cakes or whatever.

A young woman sitting on a small platform at the front of the room opened a book and announced in a clear voice, “An Angel’s Form and a Devil’s Heart, by Selina Davenport. The beginning of volume two.”

“That’s one of Lady Davenham’s nieces,” Clarissa whispered.

Race leaned across to Clarissa and whispered back, “You don’t really think of me as an uncle, do you?”

She blushed rosily and shook her head.

The young woman began to read.

Race folded his arms and settled down to wait.

Dammit, he’d been about to declare himself in front of a gaggle of nosy old ladies. What the devil was the matter with him? He was famed for his sangfroid. He’d always known what to say and when to say it—and to whom. But somehow, when it came to Clarissa Studley, he became a green youth prone to blurting out things, secret things, private things. And in the most inappropriate of settings.

But at least she didn’t think of him as an uncle.

He sat through the reading—it was more entertaining than he’d expected—but when an interval was declared and tea and cakes served, he was quite unable to get a private moment with Miss Studley at all—everyone wanted to talk.

The second half of the program was much the same, only with a different niece reading. But when the event drew to a close, and people were leaving, he thought he might have a few moments of private conversation, except her dratted chaperone decided to stick to her like glue.

Race knew when he was beaten.

Yet another ball. Clarissa stood with Mrs. Price-Jones in the receiving line, waiting for Lord and Lady Frampton, their host and hostess, to welcome them. Really, she was getting quite tired of this endless round of parties and receptions and balls. Other people seemed to love this life: not Clarissa.

For once she’d like to spend a week just doing whatever she felt like; reading, getting to know Zo?, playing with Lady Tarrant’s little girls, or the dogs, pottering around the garden or working in what Lady Scattergood had taken to calling “Clarissa’s stillroom,” where she produced her creams and lotions.

She loved making them up, trying out different combinations of herbs and flowers, and in London it was so much easier to obtain the more specialized ingredients she required, as well as some of the rarer ones.

But the season was more than half over, and Mrs. Price-Jones had stressed that it did a girl no good to be left on the shelf by the summer. Not that Clarissa gave the snap of her fingers for that—she wasn’t going to get betrothed just for the sake of it.

But Mrs. Price-Jones was employed to chaperone her and help her to find a husband, so here they were again, entering yet another ballroom and wondering who would ask her to dance this time.

The real question in her mind, she acknowledged to herself, was whether Lord Randall would be in attendance tonight. Which was foolish. She’d done her best to discourage him, but the hope that he’d come regardless refused to die.

Her contradictory thoughts about him were driving her mad.

They greeted their host and hostess and entered the ballroom, which at this early stage of the evening smelled of the fresh flowers and swags of greenery with which it had been lavishly decorated. Usually Mrs. Price-Jones preferred to arrive at this kind of event what she called “stylishly late” but for some reason they’d arrived right at the start. The dancing had not yet begun and the decorative chalk pattern on the floor was still crisp and elegant.

“There’s Lucy, Lady Thornton and her husband,” Mrs. Price-Jones said. “Shall we join them?”

Lord Randall arrived half an hour later, looking splendid in his dark evening clothes, and she tensed, but he’d obviously taken her words to heart and made no attempt to approach her. He simply bowed slightly and inclined his head to her and then strolled off to join a group of other men.

Men—for a change—not ladies.

Clarissa sighed. She told herself it was a sigh of relief that he wasn’t going to bother her, but what she ought to feel and what she actually felt were two very different things.

Three more dances to go before supper. Clarissa was feeling tired. It was exhausting, making conversation with relative strangers and trying to appear vivacious and interesting. For two pins she’d tell her chaperone she had a headache and wanted to leave early, but she’d done that too many times recently. Besides, she didn’t like telling lies.

“Miss Studley?”

Recognizing the voice, she whirled around. “Mr. Clayborn. I…I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” She’d hoped never to see him again, but she supposed that was unrealistic.

“I had to see you. I need to—”

“Please, I have made my feelings clear on several occasions now, and I have nothing further to say to you.” She turned away.

“I only wish to apologize.”

She half turned to look at him. “You did already.”

“But we parted on such bad terms. I behaved disgracefully toward you and I haven’t been able to sleep for fretting about it.”

He did look a little pale and drawn.

He regarded her with puppy-dog entreaty. “Please grant me just a few moments of your time—just to say my piece and clear my conscience, and after that I’ll never bother you again.”

She hesitated.

“I promise.”

She sighed again. “Very well, say it.” And get it over with.

“Not here. There are too many eyes on us as it is. And ears.” He gestured. “What about over there, in that little anteroom? I could deliver my apology there in privacy and we’d be done in a matter of moments.”

There were a few people looking at them, she had to concede. And though she didn’t want to spend a single minute in Mr. Clayborn’s company, she could see he was determined on it and wouldn’t give up until she agreed. Best to get it over with once and for all. “Very well.”

He gave her a grateful smile. “Thank you. I’ll go first, make sure the coast is clear, and you follow in a moment. That way we won’t cause talk.”

She nodded. It was all ridiculously cloak-and-dagger, but she just wanted it to be over. And the sooner the better.

He limped away and shortly afterward she saw him enter the anteroom. A few minutes later she followed.

“Thank you for coming.” He closed the door behind her and she heard a click. She turned to find him removing his coat.

She gasped. “What are you doing? Stop that at once!”

He tossed his coat aside. “This won’t take long.” Underneath, his shirt was ripped, one sleeve almost hanging off. He yanked off his neckcloth.

“I’m leaving.” She pushed past him and tried the door. It was locked.

“Open this door at—” She broke off. He was unbuttoning the fall of his breeches. The look in his eyes was grim and frightening. “Mr. Clayborn!”

There was a roomful of people on the other side of the door. She opened her mouth to scream for help, but before she could make a sound, he flung himself against her, clamped one hand over her mouth and pressed her against the wall so she couldn’t move. She clawed at him with her hands, but he twisted his cravat around them and jammed them behind her against the wall. She struggled, but to no avail. He was too strong for her.

Keeping one hand over her mouth, he used the other to yank at the neckline of her dress. It was well sewn and didn’t come away. He swore, and pulled harder at it, once, twice, and finally it ripped, exposing her shoulder and breast.

His gaze fell on her breast and the hold on her mouth loosened fractionally. Wrenching her head away she screamed as loudly as she could. “Help! Help!”

Almost immediately there was a crash and the door burst open. Lord Randall. Thank God!

He grabbed Mr. Clayborn by the scruff of his neck, pulling him off Clarissa, and almost in the same movement, he swung him around and felled him with an almighty punch. Clayborn collapsed on the floor, moaning.

The doorway was filled with spectators avidly observing the scene and audibly speculating as to what was going on. Mrs. Price-Jones pushed through, and Race shut the door after her, telling the eavesdroppers, “An unfortunate accident. Nothing to worry about.”

Returning to Clarissa, he gently cupped her cheek in his hand, tilting her head to look at him. “Are you all right, my dear? Did the swine hurt you?”

“No. I’m all right.” She was trying to drag the remnants of her dress up, to cover herself.

“Brave girl,” he said softly.

She bit her lip, aware that any more sympathy from him would probably cause her to burst into tears. “He tricked me.” Mrs. Price-Jones wrapped a shawl around her. Clarissa glanced past her and saw Clayborn getting to his feet. Lord Randall followed her gaze.

“This is all an unfortunate misunderstanding,” Clayborn said in a loud voice, hurriedly buttoning his breeches. “Randall overstepped disgracefully. Miss Studley and I have had an understanding for some time.” He wiped a trickle of blood away with his cravat and continued, “And tonight we became betrothed, and in the heat of the moment, our passions overtook us.”

Clarissa gasped. “That’s a lie. We never had an understanding! We are not betrothed. He tricked me into entering this room, and then he attacked me!”

Lord Randall turned with a low growling noise. “Attack a trusting young lady, would you, you cowardly, conniving, sniveling little worm? Try to entrap her into marriage, eh? I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.” He prowled toward Clayborn, fists clenched.

With a squeak of fear, Clayborn wrenched open the door and wriggled through the press of bodies like a desperate eel. People must have heard, for one woman called out, “Shame!” and another, “Disgraceful.” A man said, “A thrashing is too good for him.”

Lord Randall gave Clarissa a searing glance. “Are you sure you’re all right, Clarissa?”

She nodded, shaky but determined.

“I have her safe,” Mrs. Price-Jones assured him, and Lord Randall left in pursuit of Clayborn.

Someone called out after him, “Pistols at dawn, Randall? Need a second?”

Clarissa gave a gasp of fear. A duel? No no no! She didn’t want that. Lord Randall could get hurt. Oh, it was all her fault. If only she hadn’t been so stupid, letting herself get caught by Clayborn’s nasty little plot…

Clayborn broke free of the press of bodies clustered around the doorway of the anteroom, and broke into a lopsided run. As he did someone stuck a foot out and he tripped and went sprawling in the middle of the dance floor.

In three paces, Race was standing over him. “Get up, you coward.” He didn’t care if Clayborn was wounded in the service of his country; the man was going to get the thrashing he deserved. Race would never forget the sight of Clarissa’s pale face, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of control, when anyone could see she just wanted to burst into tears—and why shouldn’t she, dammit? She’d just been attacked.

He was in a cold rage. He’d seen the torn clothing, the scratches and red marks on her chest and the dark splotches around her mouth. They’d be bruises in a short while. Clayborn was going to pay for every mark on her. And more.

Clayborn gave him a fearful glance and began to roll around the floor, clutching his bad leg and moaning. “Don’t touch me, I’m injured.”

“I’ll injure you, all right,” Race growled. “Get up.”

“I can’t.” Clayborn groaned. “It’s my leg, I’ve broken something. Ow, ow, ow! The pain, the pain!”

“Allow me.” A neatly dressed gray-haired man came forward. “I’m a physician. I’ll examine your leg.”

“No! No, you can’t!” Clayborn shrieked. “Don’t touch me, it’s—it’s too painful!”

The doctor knelt down beside Clayborn. “Now, sir, there’s no need to be frightened. I’ll just remove this boot and then we’ll see what the damage is.”

“No, no, I’m fine now. Don’t touch it.” Frantic with fear, Clayborn flailed his injured leg around, trying to avoid the doctor’s grasp.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Disgusted, Race stepped forward and placed a foot on Clayborn’s upper thigh, pinning it, and him, to the floor, while leaving the wounded part of his leg untouched. Clayborn swore mightily, and tried with all his might to push Race’s foot off, but he couldn’t budge it.

“Go ahead, doctor,” Race said.

Clayborn shook his head desperately. “No no, don’t touch it, I forbid you.”

“It’s best we get the boot off quickly, sir,” the doctor said in a soothing voice. “If your leg swells up, we’ll have to cut the boot off, which would be a terrible waste, wouldn’t it, sir, such fine boots they are.” As he spoke he began to ease the boot gently off.

“No, leave it, I order you!” With his other leg, Clayborn tried to kick the doctor away.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Race snapped.

A tall young man then stepped forward and coolly placed his foot on Clayborn’s other leg, pinning it to the floor. Clayborn lay there like a beached starfish, swearing and batting fruitlessly at their feet with his hands.

“Now, now, Custard,” the young man said pleasantly. “Let the nice doctor take your boot off.”

Custard?Despite his fury, Race was amused. The tall young man was, as far as he knew, a complete stranger. As he watched, his friend Grantley sauntered forward and joined them. Grantley and the young man exchanged greetings. They were obviously old acquaintances.

“How do you do, I’m Thornton.” The young man addressed Race politely, for all the world as if he didn’t have a man squirming and moaning and swearing beneath his foot. “Don’t think we’ve been introduced, Randall, but my aunt, Lady Tarrant, and my wife, Lucy, are good friends of Miss Studley’s.”

“Delighted to meet you,” Race responded with a smile. “Appreciate your help.”

“Happy to lend a hand. Or a foot, as it were.” He glanced down. “Now don’t fuss, Custard, you’re in excellent hands. Feet.” He winked at Race.

“How’s it going down there, doctor?” Race asked.

“There.” The doctor eased the boot off and set it aside. It fell over and a few little stones rolled out of it onto the floor with a light pattering sound.

“What’s this?” the doctor exclaimed. He shook the boot. It rattled. He upended it and half a dozen small sharp stones fell out and scattered on the ballroom floor. “It’s gravel,” the doctor exclaimed in surprise. “Why on earth would anyone have gravel in their boot?”

Beside him, Grantley swore softly.

Race saw it at once. “All the better to fake a limp with,” he said in a hard voice. “Step on some sharp little stones and you won’t have to remember to limp. And you’ll wince every time they stick into you.”

“But that’s—that’s outrageous,” the doctor said.

“It certainly is,” Grantley said grimly.

“Take off his stocking,” Race said. “Let’s have a look at this famed wound of his.”

Ignoring Clayborn’s resistance, the doctor peeled off his stocking and pushed up the leg of his breeches. Shocked murmurs ran through those who’d gathered in a tight circle, the better to observe the little drama as they pressed forward for a better look.

“So much for his shattered knee. Not a scratch on him.” Race glanced at Thornton. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Thornton nodded. “Served with him in the army—for a very short time. He joined up after all the fighting was over—at least we thought it was over at the time. He didn’t expect Waterloo—well, none of us did. I’d sold out by then, along with a lot of my friends, but when Boney escaped from Elba, we all joined up again. But Custard here was horrified at the prospect of actual fighting. Did everything he could to wriggle out of it.”

He snorted. “The day before Waterloo, he ‘fell’ on a broken wineglass and cut his right hand—his fighting hand, he told everyone. Nobody actually saw the alleged injury, mind, but the bandage was huge and he made a great to-do about how devastated he was not to be able to fight. And he didn’t. Left Brussels before the fighting even started.”

“And yet he’s been claiming to have fought at Waterloo, where he received a dreadful injury,” Race said.

The crowd murmured and seethed. People didn’t like being made fools of.

Thornton made a disgusted face. “Yes, so I’ve heard. Pretending to be a wounded war hero—trading on the credit and sympathy that other men—far better men—earned. It’s utterly despicable!”

“It certainly is. But why ‘Custard’?”

Thornton snorted. “That’s what the troops named him—Custard Clayfoot.”

They stepped away and the crowd slowly dissipated, talking and exclaiming over the exciting events. “Hey, Randall, he’s getting away,” someone called.

Race turned and saw Clayborn with a hunted expression, scuttling toward the exit, clutching his boot and stocking and limping—genuinely this time.

“I thought you were going to thrash him,” a man said in a disappointed voice.

Race said curtly, “I have more important things to do.” He desperately needed to see Clarissa.

Grantley said, “I don’t.” He marched grimly after Clayborn, who, seeing him coming, gave a frightened squeak and fled.

“Custard’s been publicly disgraced,” Thornton assured Race quietly. “He won’t be able to show his face in society again for a good long while—if ever.”

“I know. Thanks for your support,” Race said. “But now, I have more urgent matters to see to.” He shook Thornton’s hand, then the doctor’s and headed back toward the anteroom.

As Race threaded his way through the crowd, snippets of conversation reached his ears. “Did you see? His breeches were quite unbuttoned…”

“She followed him in—I saw her.”

“How far do you think they got before…?”

“…always thought she was too good to be true.”

“…said they had an understanding…”

“…an heiress, you know…”

Race wanted to stop and confront the gossips, but he gritted his teeth and kept walking. Confronting them would just feed the harmful talk about Clarissa.

A small clot of people still lingered around the doorway to the anteroom, several people with their ears pressed to the door.

“Excuse me,” he said in freezing accents. “Don’t you have better things to do, better places to be?” He raked them with a contemptuous stare until most of them fell back and began to wander off.

He entered, closing the door firmly behind him and paused. He seemed to have walked in on an argument.

“I won’t! I don’t care if people talk. I don’t care what they say,” Clarissa was saying in a low, vehement voice.

Her chaperone responded, “You must. And I’m sure he will do it. That man has a soft spot for you. He’s very protective.”

“I won’t ask it of—” Clarissa broke off, seeing him. “You’re not going to duel him, are you, Lord Randall? Please tell me you won’t.”

“There will be no duel,” Race said curtly. So, after all that had happened, she still worried about the villain? Surely not? “At least, not with me,” he added. Grantley was another matter.

“Oh, I’m glad.” Her whole body seemed to relax.

“You did deal with him as he deserved, I hope?” The chaperone smoothed the shawl around Clarissa’s shoulders.

“I did. He’s gone. You won’t see him again.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off Clarissa. “Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Studley?”

She nodded, her smile a little wobbly but heartbreakingly brave. “A bit shaken up, but you arrived just in time. Thank you.”

“But her reputation is ruined,” Mrs. Price-Jones declared.

“I told you, I don’t care about that,” Clarissa said quickly. “It doesn’t matter in the least.”

But it mattered to Race. He’d heard the speculation—curious and malicious—that had arisen in just the last few minutes. It was only going to get worse, as versions of the event were passed around, growing in outrageousness as they went. She didn’t deserve to be gossiped about like that. “Was there an understanding between you and Clayborn?” He had to know.

“No!” she said indignantly. “There was never anything like that between us. He did ask me to marry him, I admit, but I refused him. More than once.”

Which meant the swine had asked her more than once.

“She needs to be betrothed,” Mrs. Price-Jones said with a meaning look at Race. “There will still be a scandal, but a betrothal would make everything better.”

“I won’t—” Clarissa began.

He stared at the chaperone in outrage. “You mean you would condone her betrothal to that swine?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Not to him of course! Someone else. Someone respectable.” She eyed him meaningfully.

Race frowned. Did she mean him? He was hardly respectable, at least as society saw things.

Mrs. Price-Jones continued. “A betrothal would protect Clarissa from the worst of the scandal. It would direct talk away from the unsavory events that took place in this room, and focus it on the betrothal.” She looked at him. “So, Lord Randall…?”

Clarissa shook her head frantically. “No, no, you cannot ask it of him.”

“It’s the best solution,” her chaperone insisted. She gestured. “Out there gossip is already humming like a swarm of wasps, and you—and your reputation, or what’s left of it—are at the center of it. We need to replace that gossip with something different, something better.” She looked at Race again. “Something that will surprise them all. Don’t you agree, Lord Randall?”

Clarissa followed the chaperone’s gaze to Race. “I cannot ask it of you. It’s not fair. I won’t agree. I won’t.”

“I will do anything in my power to protect you, Miss Studley. It was my fault the swine tricked you into this position. Allow me to make amends.”

“How can you say that? You rescued me.”

“I should never have let him entice you in here in the first place.” He’d seen her follow Clayborn, and his unease at the situation had caused him to loiter outside the anteroom. And when he’d heard her scream…He would never forget it.

She shook her head. “No. It was all my fault. I should have been more careful. In any case, I am not your responsibility.”

Race took a deep breath. It was not how he wanted this to play out, but when the moment presented itself…He took her hand. “Miss Studley, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Her face crumpled and she snatched her hand back, shaking her head distressfully. “No, I can’t,” she choked out. “It’s not fair that you…that you—”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Price-Jones said briskly. “The man’s right. It will solve everything. The minute it gets out that Rake Randall has finally succumbed, everyone will be talking about that.” She patted Race on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, your lordship, I will deal with Clarissa’s fears. You may consider yourself betrothed.”

“But I—” Clarissa began, her eyes shimmering with tears.

“Foolish child, you won’t have to go through with it. After a few weeks, when the talk has died down and some other scandal has taken the ton’s imagination, you can quietly cry off if you want, and no harm done. Isn’t that right, Lord Randall?”

“It is,” he said curtly. Ladies could call a betrothal off. A gentleman could not.

Clarissa bit her lip and turned a look of entreaty on Race. “Lord Randall, you can’t possibly want to do this.”

“I do, very much,” he assured her.

“Because of the damage to my reputation?”

“And to be of service to you.” Which wasn’t at all what he wanted to say to her, but he could see she was on a knife’s edge of losing her control, and he wasn’t going to add any more pressure. She’d endured enough as it was, and was doing an impressive job of holding herself together. So far.

“See?” Mrs. Price-Jones said. “Now, dry your eyes, thank Lord Randall for his very kind offer, hold your head up high as you walk through that crowd, and let Lord Randall take you home, safe and sound.”

He frowned. Let him take her home? Alone? The chaperone gave him a meaningful look. “I’ll meet you at the front door, after I’ve spread the good news.” Redirected the gossip, she meant.

Clarissa looked up at Race, her beautiful eyes swimming with tears. “Are you sure about this, Lord Randall?”

“Very, very sure. And deeply honored.” Race wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her until all doubts faded from her mind. But he couldn’t. Not here, not now, especially with that chaperone watching his every move with her beady bright eyes, not to mention the crowd of vultures on the other side of the door.

He handed Clarissa his handkerchief, and she blotted the tears from her face. “I will call on you tomorrow to make arrangements.”

She looked up, startled. “What arrangements?”

“Just the official announcement, that sort of thing. Nothing to worry about,” he said soothingly. “I trust that butler of Lady Scattergood’s will allow me entry to the house this time.”

“He’d better.” She gave a halfhearted choke of laughter and blew her nose on his handkerchief. “But if he doesn’t, go around to the garden—yes, that’ll be better. I’ll meet you in the garden, in the summerhouse at nine.” She glanced at her chaperone. “Where we can be quite private.”

“Agreed.” He presented his arm. “Shall we?”

Attempting to plaster a wobbly smile over her tearstained face, she pulled the shawl tight about her and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at him and nodded. Mrs. Price-Jones opened the door, and the small cluster of people still loitering outside fell back as the newly betrothed couple emerged.

Lord Thornton and his wife were among them. The wife moved forward as if to comfort Clarissa, but if he was any judge, Clarissa was still teetering on the verge of tears, and sympathy was the most likely thing to set them off, so Race didn’t slow, just nodded at Thornton and as they passed, said, “Wish us happy, Thornton, Lady Thornton.” A buzz of conversation followed them out.

Behind him he heard Mrs. Price-Jones saying, “Yes, it’s quite true. They’re betrothed and have been for some time—of course that’s what caused Clayborn to panic and try to force the issue. We’d been keeping it secret until Lord Salcott—Miss Studley’s guardian—returned to make the announcement officially, but it’s out now, so there’s little point in keeping it secret any longer.”