Chapter Fourteen

“I talked to Leo last night about your problem,” Izzy said the following morning after breakfast. She’d arranged to meet Clarissa in the summerhouse.

Clarissa blinked. “You discussed me with Leo?” It was a shock to think that Izzy would speak of Clarissa’s private problems with her husband, but she supposed that was what happened when people got married: all their previous relationships had to adjust. She wasn’t happy about it, but she didn’t say anything.

“Oh, don’t look like that, Leo won’t say anything.”

“I know, it’s just…”

“Leo is your guardian and Race is his best friend. And in any case, it was mostly Race we discussed, not you, goose.”

“Oh.” Mostly?

“He actually initiated the conversation. He was worried you might be under pressure to carry the betrothal through, against your wishes.”

“Pressure from whom?”

“Oh, society in general and Mrs. Price-Jones in particular.”

Clarissa sighed. “No, they don’t worry me that much. I don’t care what society thinks, and though Mrs. Price-Jones is eager to get me married and off her hands, she—”

“Why is that? She’s well paid to be your chaperone, and she has no income of her own.”

Clarissa chuckled. “Mrs. Price-Jones now has two very rich and eligible silver-haired gentlemen vying for her hand. You missed it all while you were on your honeymoon.”

“No!”

“Yes, and she’s told them she can’t even think about marriage, let alone decide between them, until I’m off her hands.”

“The clever old thing. Good for her. I knew she was looking for a second husband—she needs one, having inherited nothing from her first. So who are these silver swains—No, sorry, I don’t want to talk about her. It’s you we’re talking about.”

Clarissa sighed. She’d much rather not discuss her problems at all. But Izzy was determined.

“I told Leo I was worried about Race’s rakish reputation, and you know what he said?”

Clarissa waited.

“He thinks that Race’s reputation is much exaggerated.”

Clarissa was skeptical. “Oh, really? In what way?”

Izzy pursed her lips. “That’s where Leo became annoying. Said he refused to discuss Race’s private affairs, and that if you were worried about his reputation, you should ask him about it.”

“Ask him about it?” Clarissa echoed incredulously. “What, just bowl up to him and say, ‘Oh, Lord Randall, are you the rake everyone says you are?’?” She snorted. “And of course he would say no, of course not and that he was the next best thing to a saint, and then what? I’m supposed to take his word for it?”

“I know, ’Riss, it’s not ideal, but what else can you do? You love him, don’t you?”

Clarissa pressed her lips together and looked away. She couldn’t admit it, not out loud, not even to her beloved sister.

Izzy said in a gentle voice, “So if you love him, you need to fight for him.”

“Fight for him? You mean I’m supposed to fight all these beautiful ton ladies who swarm around him whenever he steps into a room?” She formed her fingers into claws and put on a mock-fierce face.

Izzy laughed. “I don’t mean physically fight and anyway, I think they’d scratch you to bits—they’re much nastier and more ruthless than you could ever be.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I meant that you’ll have to confront your own fears and take a risk. If you did talk to him about his reputation, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“I’d be totally humiliated.” Even the idea of confronting him caused her insides to shrivel in embarrassment.

“Perhaps. But what if it cleared the air and you learned you could trust him more than you do now?”

Clarissa bit her lip. There was a long silence, then Izzy added, “Isn’t the possibility of your future happiness worth the risk of making a fool of yourself? In private. With only Lord Randall to witness it?”

Clarissa thought it over, then gave a long sigh. “I suppose so,” she admitted reluctantly. But she couldn’t imagine actually doing it.

“Well, there’s no hurry, just think it over. And now, shall we call on Lady Tarrant and her new baby?”

Clarissa rose quickly, relieved at the change of subject. “Yes, let’s. I’m taking her this bouquet of flowers and I also sewed a little baby gown with embroidery around the neck—so sweet and tiny. What are you bringing?”

“Nothing I’ve sewn, for which she must be grateful—you were always better with a needle than me. I bought her a music box, which plays—or rather tinkles—the sweetest little tune. And Alfonso baked some pizzicati—delicious little jam biscuits—for her and the children.” She picked up the small basket she’d brought with her. “Shall we go? What about Zo?? Will she want to come with us?”

Clarissa smiled. “I suspect she’s already there. Most days she calls on Lucy, Lady Tarrant’s goddaughter and niece-by-marriage, who speaks French to her and they talk painting.” She chuckled. “Ever since Lady Scattergood made Zo? her ‘artist-in-residence’ she’s been working like fury, and she obtained special permission from Lady Scattergood to paint a family portrait of Lord and Lady Tarrant and the baby with the little girls.” She picked up the vase containing the bouquet of flowers, and said, “Shall we?”

The visit to Lady Tarrant went off beautifully. She looked tired but was glowing with happiness, and the baby was so sweet. They gave her their gifts and each of them took turns holding little Ross until he started to fuss and Lady Tarrant announced it was feeding time.

“I’m feeding him myself,” she told them proudly. “I know it’s unfashionable and everyone says James should hire a wet nurse but I never imagined I would be blessed with a child of my own, and now I have been, I want to experience everything.”

Clarissa, Izzy and Zo? made their farewells and filed out.

As they walked down the stairs the sound of argument broke out. Judy and Lina were squabbling over something. “I said—”

“No, you said—I said—”

Clarissa and Izzy glanced at each other and chuckled. “Sisters.”

“Did you two fight when you were growing up?” Zo? asked.

“Not often, but when we did…” They both laughed, then Izzy broke off in midchuckle and went suddenly thoughtful.

“What is it, Iz?” Clarissa asked.

“I’ve just had a wonderful idea.”

“Tell us.”

“Not here. The summerhouse, now—yes, you, too, Zo?. Let us hope that wretched Milly isn’t around.”

“If she is, I’ll chase her off,” Zo? said confidently. “She’s forever hanging around but I just talk nonstop French at her and she goes away.”

Chuckling, they made their way back to the summerhouse. There was no sign of Milly.

“Now what’s this idea?” Clarissa said when they were settled on their favorite chairs.

Izzy explained.

“It’s brilliant,” Zo? exclaimed when she had finished. “We did something a bit like that at the orphanage when some of the girls was makin’ up nasty lies about another one.”

“Clarissa? What do you think?” Izzy asked.

Clarissa screwed up her nose. “I don’t like it,” she said eventually. “It’s like spying, and I don’t want to spy on him. And besides, it would be horridly embarrassing—can you imagine asking people something so…so…?” She shuddered.

“It’s not really spying,” Izzy insisted. “And this way you would find out without having to confront him at all.”

Clarissa shook her head. “No, I’ll just have to find the courage to talk to him about it.”

Izzy frowned. “But even if you do find the courage, what if he lies? You said that yourself, if you remember.”

“I know, but what else can I do?”

“Follow my plan,” Izzy said, exasperated. “It could even be fun.”

But Clarissa was adamant. “No, I don’t like it. Apart from stirring up who knows what kind of gossip, it’s not fair to be going behind his back like that.”

“But—”

“No,” she said. “I won’t do it. Now, I must go and change. I have morning calls to make this afternoon and Mrs. Price-Jones will be waiting.”

Izzy and Zo? watched her go.

“She’s lovely, Clarissa is,” Zo? said. “But she ain’t going to do nothing to help herself, is she? She’ll do anything to help someone else, but when it comes to sticking up for herself she’s like, I dunno, all honey and fluff inside, like a syllabub.”

Izzy nodded. “I know. Our father and her mother sucked all the confidence out of her.” She gave Zo? a mischievous look. “But if she won’t do it, I will. And now I come to think of it, it’s better this way. She’s unmarried and her reputation is too fragile for something like this—especially since that Clayborn scandal—but I’m a married woman now and can get away with a lot more.”

In bed that night, Clarissa thought over the talk she’d had with her sisters that morning. She’d thought and thought and thought, and had come to an uncomfortable conclusion: she had two choices—go on as she had been going, which meant being miserable and torn and uncertain and eventually breaking her betrothal to Lord Randall—or take her courage in her hands and ask Lord Randall about his rakishness. Which would lead to…she wasn’t sure what. But it would be something.

Oh, but the very thought of confronting him about such a delicate subject made her squirm.

But if she didn’t…

She thought about her visit to Lady Tarrant and her dear little baby. She’d held little Ross in her arms, and he was so tiny and so precious, with his earnest gaze and his tiny starfish hands with their minute, perfect fingernails…

She wanted a baby. She wanted to be married and to have a baby of her own. And, she finally admitted to herself, she wanted Lord Randall. She’d tried and tried not to fall in love with him, but it had proved impossible.

She slipped out of bed, turned up the gaslight and fetched the list she’d made so long ago.

1) A man as unlike Papa as possibleand 4) Kindness, especially to children. And animals.

She thought about the way he’d been with the little girls. He might be a rake, but he was nothing like Papa. Lord Randall would make a wonderful father. And even if he was unfaithful, he would be kind to her and any children they had, she was sure.

2) Handsome.Attractive. To me. And interesting.

That went without saying. She was wildly attracted to him, to the extent that every other man she met paled into insignificance.

6) No fortune hunters.

He was rich, so that wasn’t an issue.

5) Respects me.

She thought he did, at least he didn’t ride roughshod over her opinions like some men did. And he listened to her, truly listened.

She sighed. It all came back to numbers 3 and 7:

3) Fidelity. 7) No rakes.

Ah, that was the rub. He was a notorious rake. Could she trust him to be faithful? And if he wasn’t, could she bear it?

8) Love.Love.

The ultimate prize. It was a gamble, a risk, but worth it in the end. If she won.

She put the list aside, her mind made up. She had to talk to him, no matter how difficult or embarrassing it would be. There was no real choice. He might lie to her, but at least she would have tried.

The following night Clarissa and Mrs. Price-Jones attended a rout with Izzy and Leo. It was Izzy’s first public outing since her return from their honeymoon, and she was keyed up with excitement. She was wearing a new dress that was part of her trousseau, in vivid emerald silk that exactly matched her eyes. “So good to be out of those dreary whites and pastels,” she confided to Clarissa, who was wearing a dress in the palest biscuit color. “Won’t be long before you can wear lovely bright colors, too, like Mrs. P-J and me.” She cast a sideways glance at Mrs. Price-Jones’s outfit—red, green and purple—and winked.

“I don’t mind soft colors,” Clarissa said.

“Yes, but once you’re married to Lord Randall, you can wear whatever you like.”

“It’s not a real engagement,” Clarissa reminded her.

Izzy just laughed.

After greeting their hosts they began to circulate, meeting up with friends and making new acquaintances. After a while, Clarissa noticed Izzy in close conversation with Lady Snape. Lady Snake. She hoped that the woman wasn’t being nasty to her beautiful sister. Izzy had been on her honeymoon when Clarissa had first met that unpleasant lady. She’d seemed a very bitter, jealous type.

The next time she saw her sister she was talking with the lady who had warned Clarissa not to fall for Race. Clarissa still didn’t know her name.

A little later she noticed her talking to another dashing-looking sophisticated woman, and shortly after that, Izzy fell into conversation with the very elegant, rather daring Lady Windthrop.

All the women she’d been talking to this evening were attractive, very modish and with a…well, reputation was too harsh a description, but they were certainly not regarded as paragons of respectability. Oh well, her sister was a married woman now, and a countess, and Clarissa supposed it wasn’t surprising if Izzy decided she wanted to move in a faster set.

No doubt Izzy had found her pre-marriage society a little…tame and was relishing her new freedom. It was inevitable that some changes would occur after marriage. And there was no doubt that Izzy was very happy in her marriage, and that, Clarissa told herself, was all that mattered.

Mrs. Price-Jones was also circulating among a rather younger set than her usual companions, closely followed by her two silver-haired suitors. She smiled, watching each one subtly trying to outmaneuver the other. Then Lord Randall appeared at her elbow—she hadn’t even seen him arrive—and informed her that dancing was about to commence in the other room, and she forgot all about her sister and her chaperone.

They danced a country dance, and it was just as well it was one Clarissa knew well, as her mind was wholly occupied with just one thought: how to ask Lord Randall about his rakish reputation.

In the end, she achieved it without finesse, nerving herself to say bluntly at the end of the dance, “Lord Randall, we need to talk.”

He raised his brows. “I thought you seemed preoccupied this evening. Is it serious?”

She swallowed. “Very. I need to talk to you in private.”

He glanced around at the crowded rooms filled with chattering people. “No chance of privacy here, then. Can I call on you?”

“No, because Mrs. Price-Jones would be sure to sit with us. She did when Leo was courting my sister. Never left them alone together for a minute.” Izzy had met Leo in secret, in the summerhouse, late at night. Clarissa didn’t want to do that, not for the kind of talk she had in mind. The summerhouse was a place for romance.

Besides, she didn’t want Milly or anyone else crashing in on her private talk.

He thought for a minute. “Your chaperone doesn’t ride.”

“No, but Izzy does and she’d probably want to come with us.”

“The summerhouse in the garden?”

“No.” Both Izzy and Zo? used it.

“Very well, how about I call for you tomorrow morning to take you for a drive in my curricle. I recall the way your indomitable chaperone squeezed herself into Clayborn’s phaeton, but only two can fit in a curricle. And since we’re betrothed, a drive in the park in an open carriage is perfectly comme il faut.”

She nodded. “Very well then.” It wasn’t ideal, trying to talk while he drove, but she couldn’t think of any other way to be alone with him.

“At ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”

She nodded, feeling slightly sick. There. She’d done it. Set up the meeting. Now all she had to do was get through the rest of the night somehow until ten o’clock. And then…She shivered.

But it had to be done. Her future depended on it.

They drove in silence through the streets until they reached Hyde Park. There were already quite a few people around, but nowhere near the numbers that came at the fashionable hour. Lord Randall passed them at a spanking pace, taking them to an area that was quiet and relatively deserted.

Clarissa was glad he hadn’t tried to talk while they were moving. She’d been nervous enough at the prospect of the conversation and where it might lead, but when he’d come to collect her and she prepared herself for an undignified scramble to climb into the curricle, he’d simply put his hands around her waist and lifted her—just lifted her—apparently without effort, and she knew she was no lightweight.

It completely scrambled her brain.

The horses slowed to a walk, and when they came to a large tree overhanging the path, he pulled in under it. He secured the reins and turned to her. “Now, is this about our betrothal?”

Clarissa nodded.

“You want to call it off?” He seemed quite tense.

“I’m…I’m not sure,” she managed. She hadn’t slept a wink during the night, thrashing around and tangling the sheets, a turmoil of questions tumbling over and over in her mind, as she rehearsed what she was going to ask him and what she would say if he said this or that. So many possibilities. In the darkness of the night she’d felt quite eloquent: now she could barely think of a word to say.

“You know that I am fully committed to it?”

She scanned his face worriedly. “Really? Are you sure?”

“I am. But you still have doubts? Questions? About me?”

“Yes.” She didn’t know how to phrase the question, but to her relief he did it for her.

“Is it because of my reputation?”

“Yes.” He was making it easy for her, for which she was very grateful.

He nodded, as if in confirmation. “Very well, I promise I’ll be honest with you.” He fell silent for a moment, then said, “People talk. Gossip. And I’m afraid I’ve used that to my advantage.”

Clarissa looked at him in surprise. It wasn’t at all what she expected. “To your advantage? How can gossip be an advantage?”

He gave her a rueful smile. “It’s a long story, and not very interesting.”

“I’m interested,” she said softly. She folded her hands in her lap and waited.

He thought for a moment, then began. “It probably started with my father. After my mother died—I had just turned eleven—he…” He shook his head. “I thought they were deeply in love, and perhaps they were, but after she died, he became a byword for…womanizing. So much so that even before I’d left school he was known as Rake Randall.”

He glanced at her. “Yes, like me. It didn’t much affect me—I was at school, and then at university. But then he died…”

She laid a sympathetic hand on his arm, but said nothing.

“When he died, I inherited his title and his estates—everything. And when I came up to London, a naive young man, eager to get a taste of the high life, I was…hunted. Matchmaking mamas and their daughters. Not interested in me as much as the title and the fortune. But what young man—I was one and twenty—wants to marry and settle down before he’s even had a taste of life’s possibilities? Certainly not me. So I learned to flirt, but be evasive.”

Birds twittered in the tree overhead. Clarissa pretended to look for them while she considered what he’d told her. She could understand his desire not to be tied down at a young age, but how did flirting lead to his being labeled a rake? There was surely quite a difference. She asked him.

“Oh, that was only the start. I began an affair with an older woman—she was not much older than I, except in sophistication. She was an unhappy and very beautiful wife whose husband neglected her shamefully.” He grimaced. “At least that’s the tale she told me. I certainly fell for it.”

“He didn’t neglect her?”

He snorted. “Who knows whether he did or not? I realized later that she was trying to spark his jealousy. He caught us together—in retrospect I believe she’d tipped him off. He flew into a jealous rage, and there was a huge scandal and a duel, which we both managed to survive, though I was wounded in the shoulder. I, being the one at fault, deloped, but I think he would have happily killed me. Luckily for me, he was a poor shot.”

She gave him a troubled look. It all sounded quite sordid. But he was only twenty-one.

“And B—the woman concerned—wasn’t the least bit discreet. She loved all the drama and spread the gossip with great glee. Somehow, through her deliberate indiscretions—and no doubt to needle her husband—I gained a reputation as a superb lover. That, added to my tendency to flirt”—he shrugged—“and I became Rake Randall as well.”

Clarissa thought about what he’d told her, then shook her head. “No. There has to be more to it than that.”

“Oh, there was, though I never again dallied with a married woman. Nor have I ever seduced an innocent.”

Clarissa bit her lip. Could she believe that or not? She wanted to, but…

“I’m not claiming to be as pure as the driven snow—far from it—and though I should probably not speak of this to you, I did promise to lay all my cards on the table. I have had mistresses, several over the years, though not at the same time,” he added, seeming to read her mind. “Several were widows, not interested in marriage—which was part of their attraction, I confess. I have also maintained a ladybird or two from time to time, who understood exactly what the arrangement involved. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She nodded. “You forget, my father was a notorious rake.”

His expression was somber. “I didn’t forget. I suppose he is a good part of the reason we’re having this conversation.”

She nodded, surprised by his perception.

“Not all rakes are alike.”

“I know that,” she said quietly, thinking of the way he’d been with Lord Tarrant’s little girls. Sunlight drifted through the dappled shade of the leaves. “You said that you used the gossip about you to your advantage. I don’t understand.”

“Remember those matchmaking mamas? Once my reputation was tarnished, their enthusiasm for thrusting their innocent daughters at me lessened, and when I realized that, I encouraged everyone to think I was more like my father, that like him, I truly deserved the soubriquet of ‘Rake Randall.’ In fact I deliberately cultivated my rakish reputation. I flirted more, took care never to be seen with the same beautiful lady more than twice, and gave every appearance of being a devil-may-care, unreliable rake.”

“You succeeded.”

He gave a wry, bitter laugh. “Yes, and see where it’s landed me. Betrothed to the only woman I want, but who doesn’t believe a word I say.”

The only woman he wanted?Could that possibly be true? She wanted to believe it, but…“Several ladies of the ton have indicated to me that they are…shall we say, intimately acquainted with you. What do you say to that?”

He exhaled in a gust of ironic despair. “I have no answer to that. I have no idea why they would say such a thing—there is no truth in it, though I confess I have never contradicted any rumors that linked my name with some society lady. I don’t know who in particular you are talking about, but apart from two widows who shall remain nameless, neither of whom live in London now, I have not taken any society lady as my mistress, not even for one night. I can’t prove it, but I swear to you it’s true.”

He seemed utterly sincere. Clarissa couldn’t understand why any lady would deliberately tarnish her reputation, but she supposed if someone was trying to cultivate a reputation for being dashing…“Lady Snape?”

He snorted. “I’d as soon bed a viper.”

She recalled that he’d told her before that with Lady Snape it was a case of Hell hath no fury…She thought of several other ladies she could ask him about, but decided it would be demeaning going through a list of names.

She had to make a decision: to choose to believe him, or not.

She sighed and turned away. He was sitting too close for her to think clearly.

“Would you mind if we moved on?” he asked after a minute. “I don’t like to keep the horses standing around.”

“No, of course not.” It was easier when they were moving, with distractions to dissipate the intensity of their conversation.

They came across a cricket match in progress and the horses slowed to a walk. She glanced at him, and saw that the slowing was probably unwitting. His attention was wholly on the players. He tensed slightly as the bowler came running in to bowl. The ball flew, but with a loud thwack the batsman hit it high, right over the heads of the fielders. “Hit for a six. Well done!”

His boyish enthusiasm was endearing. “You’re fond of cricket. Do you play?”

Her question seemed to surprise him, and he looked a bit self-conscious. “I did when I was a boy. Lived for it.” He sounded almost bitter. He wrapped the reins around his long fingers. The horses came to a halt.

“You lost interest as you grew older?” He clearly hadn’t, but she was curious as to what had caused that look, and the odd tone in his voice.

“I don’t play anymore,” he said brusquely.

It wasn’t quite the answer to her question. There was some strong emotion there, tamped down hard beneath the simple statements. “When did you last play?”

There was a long silence. He stared out at the cricket field, unseeing, then he glanced at her and looked away again. Finally he said in a hard voice, “When did I last play? The day my mother died.”

She waited.

“Yes, selfish little swine that I was, I chose to play cricket while my mother was dying.” His bitterness and self-hatred were corrosive.

She laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. “Didn’t you realize? Did nobody come to fetch you?”

He made a disgusted sound. “Oh, I knew. I was away at school, and my father had sent a message to tell me to come home, that my mother was fading fast.” His face quivered with some fleeting emotion she couldn’t catch. “But the thing was, it wasn’t the first time I’d had that message—far from it—and each time I’d gone home, Mama had rallied, so I pretended I hadn’t received the message. We were due to play in the final, and I didn’t want to miss it.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” he muttered.

His bitterness, she decided, was all self-loathing, and not directed at her but at his eleven-year-old self. She let him brood in silence for a few minutes, then said, “Did you win?”

He wrenched himself around to face her and said incredulously, “What has that to do with anything? Yes, we won, but my mother—” His voice broke and he looked away again, his jaw clamped tight. A small nerve in his jaw twitched.

She put her hand on his arm and said quietly, “I think if I were dying, and the choice was having my young son at my deathbed—especially after it had happened several times—or of having him win an important cricket match, I would choose the cricket. Choosing joy for my son, knowing grief was to come.”

He shook his head, rejecting her sympathy. “You don’t understand.”

She didn’t contradict him. Nobody could understand another’s grief—it was unique to every person, no matter what the situation. All she could do was listen. And empathize.

“Was your mother’s a long illness?” she asked.

He stared out over the cricket field. “Years. I’d been called home half a dozen times in the past couple of years, but Mama had rallied each time. And I was sent back to school again.”

“But this time she didn’t.”

“No.”

“And you’ve blamed yourself ever since.”

He wrenched himself around to face her again. “It’s my greatest shame! Don’t you see? If I’d abandoned the cricket she might have…”

“Rallied? Yes, she might have, but then again she might not have. You can’t possibly know it. And there’s no point in torturing yourself about it.”

She waited a moment, then added softly, “Don’t you think she’d prefer to think of you happy and triumphant on the cricket ground instead of waiting silent and grieving in a sickroom? I know I would.”

He didn’t respond, but it seemed to her that some of the tension had been released from his body. In silence they watched the bowler deliver the next ball. The batsman clipped it and it flew behind him.

“I loved her,” he said heavily. “I thought my father did, too. I was sure of it. But…”

“You’re thinking of how he became a notorious rake after she died?”

He nodded.

“What if he couldn’t bear to lose her and threw himself into debauchery as a way of trying to forget?” she suggested.

He stared at her as if taken aback. “I suppose it’s possible,” he said slowly.

“What he did after your mother’s death does not necessarily reflect on the man he was while she was alive.”

“Maybe not.” He heaved a sigh. “How did you get to be so wise? Was that what happened with your parents?”

She gave a wry half smile. “No, Papa never cared for Mama at all—it was all about her fortune for him. And after they’d married and he learned it was still mostly tied up in a trust, he treated her abominably. It made no difference to Mama, though—she loved him until the day she died.”

“How old were you when that happened?”

“Eight.”

“And you were with her when she died?”

“I sat beside her bedside the entire time she was dying—it took days. She barely even seemed to notice me. All she wanted, all she spoke of in those last days, was my father. He never came, of course.”

He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.

She sighed. “Death so often leaves the living with unresolvable guilt.”

“Your father?”

“No, me. I worried for ages about what I should have done for my mother.”

“You were eight. And I presume there were physicians where you lived.”

“I don’t mean medically. She had the best of medical care. I mean to make her love me.” He frowned and she added, “She cared for me, of course, but I always knew I was a disappointment to her, and to my father.”

“Good God, why?”

She shrugged. “Papa wanted a boy, and Mama wanted Papa to love her and she knew she’d disappointed him by having a useless girl.” Especially one who wasn’t even pretty.

“They were blind to the treasure they had then,” he said softly, and squeezed her hand again. His hands were bare, and the warmth of his skin was comforting.

Touched by the gentle compliment—she’d let the conversation get so melancholy—she forced herself to say brightly, “Oh, you mustn’t feel sorry for me. I had a very happy childhood once Izzy came to live with me. And unconditional sisterly love is very precious and makes up for all kinds of slights and unkindnesses.” She ached for unconditional husbandly love, too, but she couldn’t tell him that. You couldn’t ask for love: it had to be given, freely.

There was a cheer from the cricket pitch. A batsman had been caught out, and it startled Clarissa and Race back to the here and now.

She smiled a little self-consciously. “Dear me, we have gone down a melancholy path, haven’t we? And it’s probably time I went home. But I think we’ve had some important conversations, don’t you?”

He flicked the reins and the curricle moved on. “We’ve come to a deeper understanding, that’s true,” he said, maneuvering the carriage around a stationary wagon. “So, have all these grim revelations caused you to want to break the betrothal or not?” He turned and gave her an intense, searching look. “Are you still unsure about marrying me, Clarissa?”