Chapter Eleven

“What, and then ’e grabbed you?” Zo? was sitting cross-legged on the end of Clarissa’s bed. They were drinking hot chocolate and eating fresh pastries. The morning sun was streaming through the window.

“Yes, and with his hand over my mouth, I couldn’t scream out and I couldn’t get away—he was too strong, much stronger than he looks.”

Zo? nodded shrewdly. “You prob’ly thought that because of his limp and his stick.”

“I suppose so.”

“Why didn’t you knee him in the nuts?”

Clarissa gave her a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“His balls then.”

Still mystified, Clarissa shook her head.

Zo? was incredulous. “Gawd, that’s what comes of bein’ raised a lady—they don’t teach you nothin’ useful.”

“Anything,” Clarissa corrected her. “And I still don’t understand.”

“Well, you said he opened the front of his britches, right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where he keeps his nuts. Or his balls, if you like.”

Clarissa wrinkled her nose, trying to understand. “Do you mean his…male parts.”

Zo? laughed. “Yeah, his ‘male parts,’?” she mimicked Clarissa’s accent. “Or his nuts, his balls or his family jewels, or a dozen other names. The point is, a bloke’s nuts are the tenderest part of him. If you give ’em a good hard kick, or jam your knee hard into a man’s nuts, he’s bound to let you go and double up groanin’. And you can get away.”

Clarissa frowned at Zo?’s matter-of-fact description. “Have you ever had to do that?”

She shrugged. “Once or twice.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right. Where I came from a girl needed to know how to look after herself. I’m just sorry nobody ever taught you that.”

“In society there’s no need,” Clarissa began, but trailed off in the face of Zo?’s skeptical expression. “You’re right. We’re raised to assume we’re safe, because in society gentlemen are supposed to be gentlemen, but—”

“Some of ’em ain’t.” Zo? slipped off the bed. “So now you know. Go for the nuts.”

Clarissa smiled. “Thank you for educating me, little sister.”

Zo? placed her empty cup on the tray sitting on a side table and, suddenly serious, said, “I hope this Lord Randall is good to you, Clarissa. And that you’ll be happy with him.”

“Oh, it’s not permanent,” Clarissa assured her. “This betrothal is just a temporary ruse to redirect the gossip.”

“Oh. I thought…” Zo? shook her head. “I thought you liked him.”

Clarissa fought a blush. “Oh, well, he’s quite a charming fellow, and of course he’s my guardian’s best friend, so of course I like him. But he’s a born flirt and could never be seriously interested in someone like me.”

“Why not?”

She said in what she hoped was an airy manner, “He’s always seen with the most beautiful women.”

“You’re beautiful,” Zo? said, and when Clarissa disclaimed, she insisted, “Yeah, you are. All the way through.”

Clarissa just shook her head. “Besides, he’s a rake, and I would never marry a man who is incapable of fidelity. I saw what my father’s infidelity did to my mother.”

“And mine,” Zo? said softly.

There was a short silence. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Clarissa said, “I’m so glad we found each other, Zo?. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to have another sister, and I know when she meets you, Izzy will be just as thrilled.”

Zo? said gruffly, “Yeah, well, I want to thank you for all you done for me. You’re a good person, Clarissa, and…I’ve been happy here.”

Clarissa frowned slightly. It was almost as if there was a but coming, but Zo? didn’t say anything else. She piled the used crockery onto the tray. “I’ll take this downstairs and tell Betty you’re ready for your hot water, shall I?”

“Yes please.” Clarissa glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece and flung the bedclothes back. Lord Randall would be here in one hour.

Betrothed. To Lord Randall.

After the events of the previous evening, Clarissa had arrived home utterly exhausted but despite that she’d hardly slept. Everything that had happened—Mr. Clayborn’s shocking attack, and then Lord Randall’s even more astounding proposal—had kept churning around and around in her brain.

She was betrothed to Lord Randall!

She swallowed. Within the hour, he’d be here to discuss that proposal with her.

And even though she’d spent the entire night trying to work out what she felt about it all, and even more important what she was going to do, she still couldn’t make up her mind.

Lord Randall’s proposal was merely a stratagem to distract the gossips; she knew that. You won’t have to go through with it, Mrs. Price-Jones had assured her.

That was a relief. The trouble was, Clarissa didn’t feel relieved.

He’d said he was doing it to be of service to her. Which sounded practical. And kind. But the look in those smoky gray eyes as he said it was neither practical nor kind. When he looked at her his eyes seemed to burn with sincerity and an unsettlingly intense expression she didn’t know what to make of.

Oh, she was fooling herself, letting her own impossible desires carry her away, imagining things that weren’t there. They were foolish—worse than foolish. He would break her heart if she let him. So it was up to her to protect herself.

She needed to control herself, stop wishing things could be different, and not let herself…dream.

Their betrothal was a pretense, a fiction created to distract the society gossips from the sordid incident with Mr. Clayborn. And it would distract them, she knew. As she dressed, she imagined the conversations: To think Rake Randall, connoisseur of female beauty and famous evader of marriage, has let himself be caught by a plain little dab of a girl with only her fortune to recommend her.

And he doesn’t even need a fortune…

It’s too smoky by half. There must be some other reason. Might she be expecting an interesting event?

Chivalry,someone would suggest. Didn’t you hear what happened between Clayborn and that girl? Randall stepped in to save her reputation after she’d shamelessly pursued poor Clayborn. Randall’s her guardian’s best friend, you know. The incident at the ball was bound to come up—too many people had witnessed it.

Rake Randall? Nonsense. He’s not exactly known for his chivalrous impulses, still less for those resulting in marriage.Clarissa could imagine the cynical laughter that would follow. Because of course the very idea of a chivalrous rake was ridiculous. Even though she knew he was.

I know. It’s a mystery.

The girl might yet pull out of it.

And whoever they were speaking to would scoff at the very idea. Would you? Turn down marriage to the delicious Rake Randall. Don’t be ridiculous.

She looked at her reflection in the looking glass and adjusted the drape of her shawl. The speculation would be vile. But she’d have to grin and bear it. Or try to appear magnificently indifferent to it.

And she would turn down the delicious Rake Randall. Eventually. She had to, primarily for her own sake, but also for his. Some repayment for his chivalrous act it would be, to entrap him into an unwanted marriage.

And since he was apparently able to maintain a cool and unemotional demeanor over the deception, she ought to be able to do the same. She looked at the plain, plump girl looking back at her from the looking glass and reminded herself: cool and unemotional.

“So it was all a lie,” Clarissa said indignantly. “Even his wound?”

They were in the summerhouse, and Lord Randall had just finished explaining to her how Mr. Clayborn had faked his injury, and even kept gravel in his boot to make him limp convincingly.

She was deeply shocked. All those little gasps of pain that had made her feel so sorry for him…Every one self-inflicted. In order to deceive.

She shook her head. “I don’t understand his purpose in creating such an elaborate—and quite painful—deception. What was the point?”

He shrugged. “To gain sympathy? Feel more important? Perhaps he thought it would make you more willing to marry him. Who knows?”

She didn’t understand it, either. Mr. Clayborn was handsome, pleasant company, and was heir to his great-aunt’s fortune. Why fake an injury? “And all those times when he was so becomingly modest about his Waterloo achievements—which everyone believed were prodigious—I suppose they were lies, too.”

“He wasn’t even present at Waterloo.” Lord Randall related the story Lord Thornton had told him.

It was horrid. To think she’d actually imagined—for a short time, anyway—that Mr. Clayborn might make a suitable husband. She shivered. She’d had a lucky escape.

She rose and strolled to the open door and stood in the doorway, gazing out over the garden, her mind teeming. The garden in the morning smelled fresh and lush, the kind of fragrance she’d love to be able to re-create one day, but knew it was impossible. A couple of birds chittered noisily in a nearby bush, squabbling, or perhaps mating. The sound jerked her out of her reverie.

“I don’t know Lord Thornton very well,” she said, turning, “but I’m well acquainted with his wife, Lucy. They’re visiting London and staying with his aunt, Lady Tarrant, who lives over there.” She gestured. “Lady Tarrant is a good friend of mine. In fact, you can probably hear her little girls playing in the garden now—her stepdaughters.”

He rose and joined her, and she instantly forgot about everything except the sensation of his tall, strong body standing so close they were almost touching. She could sense his warmth, smell the fragrance of his cologne. She took a deep, surreptitious breath, breathing him in, the scent of Lord Randall. Her betrothed? She couldn’t believe it. But it could never go any further than that. She leaned a little closer and breathed him in again; the scent of a man. The scent of a rake, she reminded herself.

“I don’t hear anything. Just birds,” he said.

She frowned. He was right. There was no sound of the usual childish laughter and shouts echoing through the garden, which was strange. She’d seen Nanny McCubbin ushering the three little girls outside into the garden earlier. They’d looked rather subdued, but she hadn’t stopped to investigate—she had a meeting of her own to go to.

Clarissa let the moment stretch as long as she could. She was dreading the next part of the conversation—the part their meeting was really about. Their false betrothal.

“You’re not going to duel him, are you?” she asked abruptly, and moved back inside.

He shook his head. “It would only make the talk worse, and in any case I wouldn’t kill him. Wring his neck, possibly, or beat him to a pulp”—he gave a rueful smile—“but he’s a pathetic, cowardly character. In any case, according to my sources he’s already left London. Fled in case I did decide to challenge him, I suppose.”

“I’m glad. I was worried you might, and though I know you’re too much of a gentleman to shoot to kill, he certainly isn’t and I don’t want you dead.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said dryly with a smile that did things to her insides.

Flustered, she plopped down without thinking on the nearest seat—the chaise longue. He sat down beside her, close, so that they were almost, but not quite, touching. She was achingly aware of him.

It was on this very chaise longue that Leo had seduced Izzy. Or was it the other way around? She’d never been quite sure.

She ought to change seats but that would look strange. Impolite. As if she didn’t want him sitting beside her—which was true. And at the same time a lie.

Lord Randall lounged back, leaning casually against the padded support, one long leg crossed over the other. He was dressed informally, in buckskin breeches and long riding boots. She could smell the leather.

She sat up straighter, folded her hands primly in her lap and tried not to notice how the soft buckskin clung to his hard horseman’s thighs.

“I suppose we ought to discuss this false betrothal,” she began.

He sat up and faced her. “It’s not a false betrothal.” His voice was hard.

“But I thought—”

“Our betrothal is genuine and binding—until you decide it’s not.”

She gave him a troubled look. “Until I decide? Why can’t you decide to cancel it?”

He relaxed back against the back of the chaise. “Because a gentleman cannot.”

“That doesn’t seem very fair. Why not?”

“A gentleman’s word is his bond. To break it, or to renege on a promise, would be quite dishonorable.”

She frowned. “But a lady can? Why is that not just as dishonorable?”

“Because it is the prerogative of any member the fairer sex that she is entitled to change her mind.”

“Why? Because women are frippery creatures, too silly and unreliable to understand the concept of honor?” she said crossly.

He shrugged. “I didn’t say that, and I don’t think that. I didn’t make the rules.”

“But you abide by them?”

He changed the subject. “It ought to be Leo, as your guardian, who makes the official betrothal announcement, and I ex pect he’ll be back from the honeymoon in the next week or two. In the meantime we should be seen together in public at every opportunity, and let the gossips do the work for us.”

“You mean people will be gossiping about you and me, as well as Mr. Clayborn and me?” She closed her eyes briefly. She hated being the focus of people’s attention.

“They already are. My cousin Maggie, who wasn’t at the ball last night, has already heard. She sent a congratulatory note around this morning.”

She opened her eyes. “You mean she believed in the betrothal? On the basis of a rumor?”

“She’s been predicting it since that first ride we took together.”

“That first ride?” Clarissa almost choked. How could Maggie possibly think…She couldn’t know. She had been perfectly circumspect about her feelings for Lord Randall, she was sure.

He gave her a lazy smile. “She’s delighted. Said to give you her warmest felicitations, and to tell you she said, ‘welcome to the family.’?”

Welcome to the family? Oh, this was dreadful. “Why didn’t you tell her it was a false betrothal, a pretense, a subterfuge?”

“Because it’s not. As I said, it’s genuine and binding until you decide you can’t marry me.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Why not?” His voice was deep and low and somehow…caressing.

Unable to find the words, she shook her head. “I just can’t.”

His voice deepened and he leaned a little closer. “That’s not an answer, Clarissa. Why do you feel you can’t marry me?”

Again, she shook her head and refused to meet his eyes.

“As far as I’m concerned there is only one reason you can’t marry me—because you don’t love me.” He paused. “Is that it, sweetheart? You don’t love me?”

Her face crumpled at the soft voice, the endearment, the gentle insistence. “Stop it! It’s not fair. You ask me how I feel, but I know you can’t possibly love me and—”

“Why can’t I?”

She stared at him, shocked at what he was implying. “You can’t,” she whispered.

“Why not?” He was so close she could feel his warm breath on her skin.

“Because…because…”

Cupping her chin in his hand, he raised her face and kissed her, gently at first, brushing his lips over hers. The caress was so soft it tantalized…and teased. And entranced. She knew she shouldn’t, knew she should resist, should push him away from her. Should flee.

But the taste of him was addictive. She wanted more.

She took a deep breath and pressed her mouth against him, opening it in mute invitation. Instantly he responded, and the kiss changed from soft and sweet to hot, spicy and demanding.

Conflagration. Heat, dark and dangerous and exhilarating. She was melting against him, clinging to him like a drowning woman, only she wasn’t drowning: she was floating. Gloriously.

Eventually something—some distant sound—pulled her out of the dreamlike state his kisses produced.

She tore her mouth away and rested her face against his shoulder with her eyes closed, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she fought for some semblance of composure. She wanted to burrow into his chest and stay there forever, and at the same time wanted to run from him as fast and far as she could.

He was going to break her heart. If she let him.

He smoothed back her hair, and with one finger lightly caressed the nape of her neck. Delicious shivers ran through her.

Oh, he was so good at this, so skilled, so…practiced. The word was like a dash of cold water.

She pulled away and sat back. “I don’t think we should do this again,” she said, her voice shaky and a little husky.

He tucked a curl behind her ear. “Why not, sweetheart? We are betrothed, after all.” His voice deepened. “And don’t try to tell me you don’t like it because I won’t believe you.”

She couldn’t bring herself to deny it, so she changed the subject. “The betrothal is both false and temporary—no, don’t argue—and—”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He picked up her hand, turned it over and traced a long finger slowly down a line in her palm. “Strong Heart line,” he murmured.

A faint shiver ran through her. Snatching her hand back, she fought for a more businesslike tone. Difficult when her insides had turned to warm, quivery jelly. But he didn’t need to know that. “We need to discuss where we go from here.”

“I thought we’d decided that. We’re going to be seen everywhere, together, right?”

She nodded and rose to her feet. Her legs were distressingly shaky: she hoped he couldn’t tell. “In that case I’ll see you tomorrow night at Almack’s.”

“Almack’s?” he echoed.

She frowned, puzzled by his tone. “Yes. What’s wrong with that?” Everyone went to Almack’s. If he wanted everyone to see them together and draw the right conclusion, Almack’s was the best of all possible places for it. All the ton would be there.

“Nothing.” He sighed. “Almack’s it is then.” He tucked her arm into his, apparently intent on escorting her to her door.

“I’d like to walk in the garden for a while,” she said, hoping he would leave so that she could gather her composure before she had to face Lady Scattergood and Mrs. Price-Jones and all their questions.

“Very well then.” He turned down one of the paths.

“I,” she began, and when he looked at her with a question in his eyes, she said, “Oh, nothing.”

They wandered through the lush, fragrant garden, arm in arm but not talking, for which Clarissa was thankful, making their way slowly toward the spreading plane tree that dominated the center of the garden. It was the little Tarrant girls’ favorite place to play, but she could hear no shouts and giggles. They’d probably gone inside.

But when they turned the corner, they saw the three little girls sitting in a tight semicircle on the grass, sobbing, with their nanny standing over them, wringing her hands and expostulating, though in a subdued manner.

Clarissa dropped Lord Randall’s arm and ran forward. “Whatever is the matter?” She dropped down on her knees in front of the little girls.

“It’s Mama,” Lina sobbed.

“She—she—she’s havin’ the baby,” Judy added, her face stiff with the effort not to cry. Judy was the eldest and was very aware she was supposed to set an example, but the effort was showing. A tear or two escaped but she dashed them away.

“An’ she’s gunna diiiie,” Debo wailed.

“What? Why would you think that?” Clarissa exclaimed, shocked.

“Sukey and Ethel said so. We heard them.”

Clarissa turned to the nanny. “Sukey and Ethel?”

“Two foolish kitchen maids who ought to know better,” the nanny said crossly.

Lina wailed. “It’s just like the p-poor p-p-princess.”

Clarissa sighed. The death of Princess Charlotte in childbirth last year had shocked the nation and many were still in mourning for the poor young princess. Clearly it had made a big impact on these children. She said in a heartening tone, “You can’t know that.” She looked a silent question at the nanny, who shook her head.

“I certainly never said anything about…” She gave a meaningful glance toward the bedroom window where Lady Tarrant was laboring to produce her child. “But they overheard the kitchen maids and worked themselves into a right state, miss. And nothing I say will make them think any different.”

Children often knew more than adults deigned to tell them. She and Izzy always knew what the servants were trying to hide. “So there’s no reason to think…?”

“No, miss. Nothing at all. But will these bairns listen to their old nanny?” She shook her head in frustration.

Judy threw a fierce glare at the old woman. “Our mother died when she”—she jerked her head at little Debo—“was born, so don’t tell us we’re worrying about nothing. And Papa’s up there with her and everyone knows men only go into a birthing room when…when…”

“Oh, my dear.” Clarissa tried to put her arms around Judy but the child shrugged her off, determined not to be comforted. Debo looked at her, with tear-drenched eyes, her long-suffering cat hugged to her chest, its fur spiky and damp with tears. Clarissa sat down between her and Judy, and put her arm around the little girl. Debo leaned into her.

“Dear me, that is a worry,” said a deep voice behind her. The children looked up at Lord Randall, startled. Clarissa had forgotten he was there. “But she’s not dead yet, is she?”

They stared up at him, shocked at his bluntness.

He continued, “Your papa might just want to be with your mama when the baby is born. I know when my wife has a baby, I intend to be with her for the birth.”

They all stared at him in amazement, Clarissa, too. He smiled. “I promise you it’s true.” He went on in a brisker tone, “Now, with your mama busy giving you a new brother or sister, and your papa up there with her, supporting her, how do you think they would feel if they knew you were sitting down here weeping, hm?”

Judy stared at him a moment, then straightened her spine, choked on a hiccup and swallowed.

He smiled down at Judy. “Well done. We haven’t met, have we, young lady? What’s your name?”

“J-Judy.”

“Short for Judith,” he said. “A fine name. It means ‘beautiful and daring’—did you know that? It’s a name for a queen—I can’t tell you offhand how many queens have been named Judith, but there are lots.” Judy blinked up at him. “Do you think you could be brave, Judith, for the sake of your sisters and your mama and papa?”

She swallowed and nodded gamely. Clarissa’s eyes misted with tears.

“Good girl,” he said softly. Next he squatted down in front of Lina, who was sitting on the end. “Now, sweetheart, we cannot know what the future will bring, but we can decide how we face it. And why worry about a future we cannot possibly know?”

“But I don’t want Mama to die.” Lina burst into renewed tears.

“No, of course you don’t,” he said gently. “Come here, little one.” He opened his arms. Lina crept forward, and he rose, lifting her up and cradling her against his chest. The little girl clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder, and he just rocked back and forth, rubbing her back and murmuring to her softly.

Clarissa sat with her arm around Debo and, through misty eyes, watched the tall man comforting the distraught child. She had no idea Lord Randall could be like this. So tender and understanding and patient. And he didn’t even know these children.

Lina’s sobs eventually slowed and Lord Randall produced a handkerchief and dried her face. “Now, what’s your name, young lady? We haven’t been introduced, you know. I’m Lord Randall, and you are?”

“Lina,” she said shyly. “It’s short for Selina.”

“Ah, from the Greek for ‘moon,’ I understand. What, you didn’t know that?” She shook her head, and he went on, “Selene was a goddess who drove her moon chariot across the heavens, bringing light to the darkness.” He gave her a searching look and nodded. “Yes, I think you’d be the very person who would bring light to a dark night.”

Lina buried her face in his shoulder again, but Clarissa saw a small, tremulous smile.

He was just as good with little girls as he was with grown women.

Still holding Lina, he looked down at Debo, now leaning quietly against Clarissa, exhausted by her tears. “That’s a handsome cat,” he said.

“Mittens,” she said gruffly.

“An excellent name for a cat. And who does Mittens own?”

She stared up at him a moment, then chuckled. “Me, silly. I’m Debo.”

“Short for Deborah?”

She scowled. “No, just Debo.”

He nodded. “Well, Deborah was wise woman and a force to be reckoned with, and I can see you are, too.” He glanced at the nanny. “Nanny, I don’t suppose it would be possible for us to have milk and cookies in the summerhouse, would it? And perhaps if you have it, bring a game of spillikins or something like that as well?”

Nanny beamed up at him. “Bless you, sir, of course it would. I’ll be back with them in a jiffy.” She hurried off. Lord Randall helped Clarissa to stand and then the two of them and the three little girls—and cat—went into the summerhouse.

Lord Randall began a game of I spy, pulling hideous and ridiculous faces as he gave outrageous hints to those who were too young to spell, and he soon had them all laughing.

“Can anyone join in?” a deep voice said from the doorway.

“Papa!” the little girls shouted. They surrounded him, wrapping him in desperate arms, then fell silent gazing up at him in sudden trepidation.

He smiled, picked up Debo, cat and all, and put an arm around the other two girls. “Girls, you have a healthy little brother.”

“And Mama?” Lina asked tremulously.

Lord Tarrant smiled and ruffled her hair. “Mama is fine, darling, just a little tired. She’ll be ready to see you in a while and introduce you to your new baby brother, but first you need to deal with these milk and cookies that Nanny has brought you.” He stood aside, with some difficulty as his children wouldn’t let go of him, and Nanny came through with a laden tray.

Over his children’s heads, Lord Tarrant looked at Clarissa and Lord Randall, and said quietly, “I can’t thank you enough for what you did for my girls. Nanny explained. I had no idea they were so worried. I’m very grateful, and my wife will be, too.”

“It was our absolute pleasure,” Lord Randall told him. “Congratulations on the new baby. If he grows up to be anything like his sisters, he’ll make you proud. Your daughters are magnificent.” He took Clarissa’s hand and added, “I only hope we have such wonderful children.”

Lord Tarrant gave them a surprised look, then grinned. “You’re betrothed? That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.” He smiled at Clarissa. “I’ll tell Alice—she’ll be thrilled.”

Clarissa opened her mouth to deny it, but Lord Randall squeezed her hand meaningfully, and she swallowed the words she’d been about to say. “Thank you,” she murmured, fighting a blush. The betrothal still felt like a lie, even if Lord Randall kept insisting it was real. “Give Lady Tarrant my love. And congratulations on the baby. I’ll visit her in a day or two when she’s ready for callers.”

They left Lord Tarrant with the little girls, and moved into the garden. “You were wonderful with the children,” Clarissa said after a moment. “How did you know what to do? Do you…do you have children?” She braced herself for the answer. Rakes were notorious for siring bastards. Her father had begotten two.

That they knew of.

“No, no children.”

“Then…”

He glanced down at her and winked. “Believe it or not I was a child once.”

They strolled toward Lady Scattergood’s house in silence. Clarissa felt no pressure to converse, which was a relief.

“Oh, Clarissa, Mama was wondering whether—oh!” Milly, having rounded a corner, came to an abrupt stop. “Lord Randall.” She eyed him warily and backed away several steps, as if, being a notorious rake, he would immediately jump on her and ravish her.

“Good morning, Milly,” Clarissa said. “What was it your mother wanted to know?”

“Have you learned yet who bought the house on the corner?”

“No.”

Milly pouted. “Mama is becoming quite frustrated. She is certain it is some ghastly, vulgar cit.”

Clarissa had no interest in Mrs. Harrington’s pretensions. “Whoever it turns out to be, I don’t think it’s any of our business. If that’s all, Milly, I’ll say goodbye.”

“You shouldn’t be alone with a man like that,” Milly muttered as they turned to leave.

Clarissa turned back. “What did you say?”

Milly shifted uncomfortably. “Well, Mama says he’s not to be trus—”

“Your mama talks a lot of nonsense!” Clarissa flashed angrily. “How dare you refer to Lord Randall in such a manner! To me, he is, and has always been a thorough gentleman. In any case, Milly, he and I are betrothed, so you may tell your mama that!”

Milly’s eyes widened. “Betrothed? You and that rake?”

“No, this gentleman and I!”

“Well!” Milly said. “Well! I don’t know what Mama will have to say to that!”

“Why don’t you run off and find out then?” Clarissa said. “Come, Lord Randall.” And thrusting her arm through his, she marched away, leaving Milly goggling behind them on the path.

“Well, well,” Lord Randall said after a few minutes. “Quite the little firebrand, aren’t you?”

Clarissa flushed. “Well, but she was so rude about you. And it was so unjust.”

He laughed softly. “I don’t care what silly girls like that, or their mothers, think of me.”

“Well, I do.”

He was silent a moment. “So I see.”

They arrived at Lady Scattergood’s back gate. “So,” Clarissa said, trying to appear calm and matter-of-fact, “will I see you at Almack’s tomorrow evening?”

He looked a little disconcerted. “Almack’s? Ah. Yes, Wednesday, is it not?” He took her hand and bowed, most romantically, over it. His eyes smiled into hers. “Until then, my little dragon defender.”

Clarissa slowly climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. She’d seen quite a different side to Lord Randall this morning. The way he’d treated the little girls, with sympathy and understanding—and so gentle. He’d make a wonderful father.

She’d never had a sympathetic or gentle word from Papa in her life.

And then, when Milly had spoken about him in such a rude and dismissive way, her rarely roused temper had flared. She hadn’t been able to stop herself.

His little dragon defender.

And yet, Milly’s impression of him was exactly what Clarissa herself, not to mention half the ton, had thought about him all this time.

But she didn’t feel like that any longer. She paused on the stairs as the realization hit her. She was falling deeper and deeper in love with Lord Randall.

And it scared her half to death.