Chapter Fifteen

Clarissa took a deep breath. They’d talked of many things, but she hadn’t yet asked him the one thing that mattered most of all.

He gave her a swift sideways glance. “More questions? Should we return to the privacy of the park?”

“No, this shouldn’t take long.” She cleared her throat nervously. It was the main question. “You’ve explained that your reputation as a rake is…exaggerated. I accept that. I just need to know…” She cleared her throat again. “I need to know whether you think you could be faithful to only me. If we did marry, that is.”

He transferred his reins to his other hand and took her hand in his. “I don’t break my promises, and I would never break my marriage vows.” He glanced at her again, raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. “Don’t you understand yet that I truly care for you? Because I do, you know. You are the only woman I have ever wanted to marry, and if I were fortunate enough to have you for my wife, I would never jeopardize your trust.”

There was no teasing note in his voice, no lighthearted tone that indicated he was merely doing the polite thing. Or flirting.

Oh, how she wanted to believe him. The traffic thickened, and he was silent, concentrating on steering his carriage and pair through the chaos.

Clarissa made up her mind. She would probably always have doubts, but if she didn’t marry him she would always regret it. Even if she ended up regretting it. She gave a choked laugh at the ridiculous illogic of her thoughts.

If she married him, he would either be faithful, or he wouldn’t. Only time would tell, and she didn’t intend to live waiting for the axe to fall. Marriage was inevitably a risk, and if she was going to risk her heart on a tall, lanky, wildly attractive charmer, she had to banish any doubts and do it wholly and completely.

He was nothing like her father. He was gentle and kind and…

And she loved him. She would give herself to him completely.

She opened her mouth to tell him she would marry him, but before she could say a word, he said, “You don’t have to make up your mind now. I don’t mean to press you for an answer. Marriage is probably the most important decision you can make in your life, so take your time, and when you do decide, you need to be sure in your own mind that your decision’s the right one.”

If she’d needed any further encouragement to agree to marry him, that understanding and patience would be it. She opened her mouth to speak again, and he added, “In any case I’ll be out of town for the next week or so. Some matters on my estate needing attention. I’ll call on you when I return, see if you’ve made up your mind. Would that be acceptable?”

He glanced at her and she nodded. It wasn’t so much that she was relieved at the reprieve, but they were driving through an open market at the moment, and though she’d finally found the courage to tell him, she’d rather not speak the words she’d had locked in her heart for so long surrounded by cabbages and costermongers, beggars, buskers and squabbling stray dogs.

It was hardly the location for a romantic declaration of love and trust.

“Am I interrupting?” Zo? hovered in the doorway of Clarissa’s stillroom. It was just a spare scullery that Lady Scattergood had given over to Clarissa to use for the making of her creams and fragrant waters. Clarissa loved it: her own little kingdom.

Clarissa turned, wiping her hands on a towel. “No, not at all. I’ve just finished mixing this cream, and it needs to set. What is it you wanted?”

Zo? sniffed. “Smells gorgeous. Rose, is it? And something else?”

“Yes, my favorite. And that’s lavender water steeping with some herbs I’m experimenting with. Now what did you want?”

“Could I talk to you, please?”

“Yes, of course.” Clarissa lifted a small stack of papers off a bentwood chair and gestured for her sister to sit.

Zo? didn’t move. “No, in the summerhouse, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” It was something private, then. A slender thread of concern coiled in Clarissa’s belly. Her little sister looked very serious.

She followed Zo? outside to the summerhouse. To her surprise her sister Izzy was there, already seated and waiting, and also Lucy, Lady Thornton, the goddaughter and niece-in-law of Lady Tarrant. Clarissa glanced at Izzy, who raised her shoulders infinitesimally; she had no idea what this was about, either.

“What’s going on?”

“I want”—Zo? glanced at Lucy, who nodded encouragingly—“we want to tell you about a plan we’ve made.”

“Plan?” We? Did that mean Zo? had formed a plan with Lucy? And not her sisters?

Zo? nodded. “I know you want to introduce me to society, but you know as well as I do that the minute society people clap eyes on me they’ll connect me with Izzy and the whole thing about her bas—her illegitimacy and mine will come up again. And it won’t be good for any of us, especially you, Clarissa.”

“Don’t you worry about m—”

“You know it’s true—even that pest Milly could see it at a glance,” Zo? said bluntly. “But me and Lucy have a solution, I think. If it’s all right with you.”

Clarissa blinked, then waved her hand. “Go on then.”

Lucy stepped in. “You know my husband and I came to be with Alice for when she had the baby—well, it was why I came, but my husband also came because there’s been some talk about his transferring from the embassy in Vienna to the one in Paris.”

“How interesting,” said Clarissa politely, wondering what this had to do with anything.

“He heard yesterday that he’s been given the Paris job.”

“Congratulations.”

“And that’s where I come in,” Zo? said eagerly. “Lucy has invited me to go with them to Paris.”

“To Paris?” Clarissa exclaimed, dismayed. Izzy took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly.

“Yes,” Lucy said. “I understand something of Zo?’s position, actually—”

“And you think that taking her away from her family will help?” Clarissa burst out.

“I know it’s hard,” Lucy said gently. “But I think Zo? will do well, living with me—with us—in Paris. I’ve talked it over with my husband and he’s happy to welcome Zo? into our home, as my young companion. It will give her time to adjust to her new situation in life, and—”

“In a foreign country?”

“Zo? is half-French, ’Riss,” Izzy reminded her. Clarissa looked at her in reproach. Whose side was Izzy on?

Lucy continued, “It’s not just that. Zo? needs to improve her English reading and writing, and also we need to polish away that unfortunate accent of hers, and her society manners.”

“I can help her with all of that,” Clarissa said. She’d only just found Zo? and didn’t want to lose her.

There was a short silence. “I see that I need to explain to you just why I am the best person for the job,” Lucy said after a moment. “But I must ask that you promise to keep my story confidential.”

At Lucy’s somber tone, Clarissa and Izzy exchanged glances then nodded.

“When I was a girl,” Lucy began, “my father, who was—there is no other word for it—a scoundrel, placed me in a series of select boarding schools for the daughters of gentlemen. I say a series, because each time, after he failed to pay the second installment of the very expensive fees, I was expelled.” She smiled. “It was upsetting at the time, but it taught me several important things. I did receive an education, even if it was fragmented, and it taught me how to deal with new people—girls who were my social betters, and believe me, they were not kind. My accent at first was, let us say unfortunate, but by the time I had turned sixteen, I sounded like a lady.”

Clarissa opened her mouth to speak, but Lucy swept on.

“That was only the start. After school, he left me with a retired Austrian soprano, who taught me German and music and used me as a maidservant the rest of the time. She was very strict, but it paid off: in Vienna I received many compliments on my German, which is not only fluent, but aristocratic sounding.”

“Yes but—”

“After her, my father took me to live with a French comtesse, an emigrée who fled the Revolution. She also used me as a maidservant, but true to her agreement with my father, she polished my French grammar and pronunciation to the same degree”—she smiled at Zo?—“which enabled me to recognize Zo?’s French as that of the aristocracy. And that,” she finished, “is why I am in the best position to teach Zo? what she needs to know. Because I’ve done it myself.”

“I…see,” Clarissa said reluctantly.

“As well, in Paris she can begin to meet people with no fear that her accent will betray her, as she’ll be speaking only French in public—even to English people, until we have her English accent perfected. Which will improve her social poise and confidence.”

Zo? leaned forward eagerly. “And I’ve already told people—well, that Milly, anyway—that I’m your French cousin, so you see I can come back here when I’m older, and be your long-lost French cousin. Not your bastard sister. And everyone will exclaim about how me and Izzy look so much alike, but nobody will guess the real reason. Because I’ll be French.”

“It sounds like a very workable plan,” Izzy said, squeezing Clarissa’s hand again.

It did. Clarissa couldn’t deny it. She’d had no idea that Lucy was anything other than the perfect English lady with the perfect aristocratic background. What an unsettled and difficult upbringing she must have had. But oh, she would miss Zo?—she was only just starting to get to know her new little sister, and she liked her—loved her—so much.

Izzy squeezed her hand again and Clarissa knew what she had to do. “It sounds like an excellent plan,” she said, making herself smile warmly at Zo? and Lucy. She rose and gave Zo? a hug, and if it lasted a little too long, and was a little too tight, and if her eyes were wet, well, she couldn’t help that.

Zo? was her discovery—well, Betty’s—and if she loved her, she had to let her go so she could learn to fly, away from London’s prying eyes and gossiping tongues. But oh, it was going to be so difficult.

She made herself hug Lucy, too, and when she did, Lucy whispered in her ear, “I know it’s hard, but I promise I’ll take good care of her.”

Clarissa tried to think of something more positive to say. “And I suppose you’ll have plenty to talk about, with your painting.”

“Yes and that’s another thing,” Zo? said excitedly. “Lucy reckons we might be able to get some painting lessons from some of the best artists in Paris. We might even get to meet Madame Le Brun.”

“Who?” Clarissa said blankly.

“Madame élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun,” Lucy explained. “She’s a French portrait painter and very well-known. She painted many portraits of Marie Antoinette, and other famous people, but fled France because of the Revolution—”

“Just like my maman,” Zo? interjected.

“Yes,” Lucy continued, “and while in exile, she painted some of the highest in the land in Italy, Russia, Germany and Austria, where I was privileged to see some of her work. I would say she’s the French female version of Sir Thomas Lawrence—you’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”

Clarissa and Izzy both nodded. Sir Thomas was the most fashionable portraitist in England.

Zo? looked at Clarissa. “So you won’t mind me goin’ away with Lucy, will you, Clarissa?”

Clarissa minded it very much, but she could see that this was what Zo? wanted, and more than anything, she wanted her little sister to be happy. “I think it’s a wonderful idea, and you’re going to be very happy,” she said warmly. “But you must write to us often, to let us know how you are getting on.”

Zo? wrinkled her nose. “I s’pose it’ll be good practice for me grammar and spelling.” They all laughed.

“When will you leave?” Clarissa asked Lucy.

“We plan to leave just after baby Ross’s christening—I’m to be godmother,” Lucy said proudly.

Clarissa swallowed. The christening was to be next week. But all she said was, “In that case we’ll have to hurry to make sure that Zo? packs everything she needs. A few new clothes, too, I think. And of course, Zo? will have an allowance while she’s away.”

“Oh, there’s no need—” Lucy began.

“There is every need,” Clarissa said firmly. “Zo? is our sister.”

Izzy nodded in agreement.

Zo? jumped up and hugged her again. “Thank you, Clarissa. You bin so good to me, I dunno what to say.” She hugged Izzy, too, and then she and Lucy left.

Izzy turned to Clarissa and put an arm around her. “You did very well there, ’Riss. I know you don’t want to lose her, but it does seem like the perfect solution, especially with Lady Thornton’s experience.”

Clarissa sighed. “I know. It’s just…”

Izzy hugged her. “I know. We haven’t had her long but already she’s in our hearts, isn’t she?”

“Hah!” Lady Scattergood, in the middle of drinking tea while reading her morning post, snorted loudly. “That explains it!” she declared, wiping the tea from her nose.

“Explains what, Lady Scattergood?” Clarissa asked. Even though the old lady rarely left her home, she kept up a prolific correspondence with friends in various parts of the kingdom, and her morning posts often caused mild exclamations and vague mutters, generally because the letters were crossed and recrossed in tiny writing and she had to pore over them with her magnifying glass. And sometimes she had to ask Clarissa to work something out with her young eyes.

She waved a sheet of paper at Clarissa. “This is from my friend Mariah Pultney. She lives in some godforsaken part of the country—I forget where, but it’s not far from where Margery Doulton lives.”

Both Clarissa and Mrs. Price-Jones looked at her blankly. “Who?”

“Margery Doulton, as was—what’s her married name now? Oh yes, Margery Faircloth, young Clayborn’s great-aunt. You remember, the one who was leaving him her entire fortune.”

“Oh.” Clarissa busied herself with buttering a roll. She had no interest in Cuthbert Clayborn or his great-aunt or her great fortune.

Lady Scattergood cackled and waved her letter gleefully. “Mariah just told me exactly what that grand fortune consists of.”

Clarissa added strawberry jam and bit into her roll.

Mrs. Price-Jones glanced at Clarissa, then asked, “What does her fortune consist of, Olive?”

Lady Scattergood cackled again. “A cottage and a cow paddock! That’s it! The lot—her entire fortune. Apparently her husband ran through any money they had quite early on, and then he died. She had to sell their home to pay the debts he left and move into this cottage quite a few years ago, Mariah says. Not a large cottage, either, she tells me.”

She peered again at the letter. “She didn’t say how big the cow paddock was, but it can’t be very big, can it?” She set down the letter with a grin. “So, that’s the answer to that little conundrum—the wretch was an arrant fortune hunter, and his great-aunt was aiding and abetting him. I never did like her all that much when she was a gel, you know. Had a tendency to embroider the truth even then.”

Clarissa stared at her half-eaten roll. So, Clayborn’s determined and then desperate courtship was all about her inheritance.

She sipped her tea thoughtfully. She’d known he wasn’t right for her, even though she had no idea of his true situation. He was a liar through and through.

And she’d rejected him without knowing any of it. Despite his good looks, apparent wealth to come and tragic injury she hadn’t been seduced into accepting him. She’d trusted her instincts. The thought was quite cheering.

She bit into her roll. The jam was delicious.

Lady Scattergood cackled again. “A cottage and a cow paddock! You missed a fine prize there, Clarissa.”

Over the following week, Clarissa was drawn into a flurry of social engagements, mainly because Izzy, now returned to London as a newlywed countess, was being invited everywhere, and wanted to enjoy her new position in society. She accepted every invitation that Clarissa had also received and seemed to be making new friends at every event. Some of them were rather fast: daring young matrons, so different from the unmarried girls they were used to mixing with.

It was lovely seeing Izzy so confident and happy—even exuberant at times—but for Clarissa, every event felt strangely flat, and not just because she knew that she would soon be losing her new little sister.

She missed Lord Randall. Missed those gray eyes following her around the room, missed that sardonic eyebrow, silently casting doubt on a far-fetched tale or sharing an amusing moment. And his mobile mouth that conveyed so much with the slightest movement. And when he kissed her…Oh my.

She ached for his return.

She wished now she’d told him that she would marry him, despite the market chaos and squalor. Now that she’d finally conquered her fears she wanted it settled.

With days filled by social engagements, visits to Lady Tarrant and the baby, rides in the park, morning calls, shopping for Zo?, and evenings filled with balls, routs, card parties and visits to the theater, Clarissa barely had time to think.

But her nights, ah, her nights were filled with dreams, dreams of a tall, lean, charming, funny, kind man whose kisses were simply…magic.

Race returned to London on Wednesday evening as dusk was falling. He’d come back to London a day early and had hoped to arrive sooner, but an overturned wagon on the London road had held him up by several hours.

Clarissa would, no doubt, be off at some party or other, and even if he did wash, shave and change, he probably wouldn’t be able to get a private moment alone with her. Not the way he wished to. That day in the curricle, he was sure—almost—that she’d been about to tell him she was willing to make the betrothal real.

The whole time away he’d gone over their conversation in his mind, minute by minute and…he thought…maybe…There had been that moment when she’d opened her mouth as if to say something momentous…and then shut it.

But he still wasn’t sure.

Maybe she didn’t believe what he’d told her about his reputation. It was hard to believe, he admitted. He thought about the trouble he’d gone to over the years to embellish and embroider the rumors, insuring that his reputation was as rakish as it needed to be. And now it was what stood in the way of his happiness. What an irony.

He was tired and hungry, so he decided to drop into his club for dinner and a relaxing drink. After a hearty meal of steak and kidney pudding, he headed into the reading room. To his surprise he found Leo there.

“Not out escorting your wife to parties tonight?” he said, dropping into a comfortable leather armchair opposite Leo.

“Almack’s tonight,” Leo said laconically. Race at once understood why Leo had bowed out. Ladies might enjoy the ratafia and orgeat and such stuff that was served at Almack’s, but a gentleman needed something stronger to survive an evening in that hothouse environment.

Race ordered a brandy from a club employee.

“Clarissa’s chaperone and her two silver swains are escorting them,” Leo said once his glass had been filled as well.

“Silver swains?”

“My wife’s term.” Race smiled to himself at the pride and quiet enjoyment with which Leo said my wife. Leo continued, “Apparently Mrs. Price-Jones has two elderly silver-haired suitors vying for her hand. I’m told she will choose between them once Clarissa is married.” He raised a quizzical brow at Race.

“Indeed,” Race said enigmatically.

“No progress there yet?”

“I have hopes, but no, nothing definite.” He took a sip of the brandy and felt it burn pleasantly down his throat. Tomorrow when he spoke to Clarissa he should know more. In the meantime he was living on tenterhooks.

For the next few minutes they talked of this and that; Race discussed a couple of issues that had come up on his estate, Leo told him about a mutual friend who’d lost a pile at the tables and had been forced to sell his horses. But Leo kept shifting uncomfortably, darting glances at Race and then looking away, and Race could tell there was something on his mind.

He was about to tell his friend to spit it out, when Leo said gruffly, “Got a question for you, Randall.”

“Yes?”

“People have been talking—well, women mostly.”

“Go on,” Race said wearily. Women often talked about him. Mostly nonsense.

“Thing is, they’ve been asking me questions. Intimate and damned embarrassing questions.”

Race raised a brow. “Indeed? What have you been up to?”

“Not about me, you fool, about you.”

Race put his glass down. “Intimate questions about me? And they’re asking you?”

“I know! As I said, damned embarrassing. And inappropriate.”

“What sort of questions?”

“About…” He swallowed. “About the state of your arse.”

Race was incredulous. “My arse?”

“Exactly.”

“What about my arse?”

“Whether the heart-shaped mark on your left cheek is a birthmark or a tattoo.”

Race stared at him. “The devil, you say. I don’t understand. I don’t have any kind of mark on my arse, no birthmark and certainly no tattoo.”

Leo frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!” Race snapped. Why the hell would anyone be asking about a nonexistent mark on his arse? “What did you tell them?”

“To go to the devil, of course, and that I had no knowledge of—or interest in—the state of your backside! It was a damned cheek asking.” And then he added sheepishly, “No pun intended.”

“Yes, of course,” Race agreed hastily. After a minute he asked, “Who has been asking about this?”

“Women, actually. Some of your better-known flirts, as a matter of fact.” He started listing names.

After half a dozen names, Race cut him off. “All right, all right, I get the idea.” He shook his head, pondering the mystery. “Why on earth would they be wondering about such a bizarre thing? I don’t suppose anyone has asked you about your arse.”

“No, of course not,” Leo said indignantly.

“Well, don’t look at me like that—I didn’t start this nonsense. Nor do I like it.” A thought occurred to him. “But now you’ve raised the matter, it partially explains a conversation I had with la Windthrop last week, the night before I left town. We were chatting, and suddenly she leaned closer and in a low voice, right out of the blue, asked my opinion of tattoos—just asked me, straight out, what I thought about them. Which was nothing to do with whatever we’d been talking about.”

“What did you tell her?”

He shrugged. “That sailors and others of that ilk were welcome to them. And then she said, ‘So you’d never get one?’ and I said, ‘Of course not,’ and she exclaimed ‘Aha!’ in a Eureka! kind of way, and rushed off.”

Leo pondered that for a moment. “Odd.”

“Damned odd.” Worse than odd, it had the potential to be disastrous. He hoped Clarissa never got to hear of such indelicate and bizarre speculations about him. She’d be mortified.

A footman came in, refurbished the fire and refilled their glasses. When he’d gone, Race said, “This blasted speculation has got to stop.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Perhaps when the next person asks whether it’s a birthmark or a tattoo you could explain to them that I have neither.”

Leo gave him a sardonic look. “If you think that I have any intention of assuring anyone of the pristine state of your arse, Randall, you’ve got rats in your attic. Big ones.”

That same Wednesday evening, Clarissa was getting ready to go to Almack’s. Lord Randall had said he’d be back in London by tomorrow. Clarissa couldn’t wait.

Izzy appeared at Clarissa’s bedroom door. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, almost, but I thought we were meeting downstairs in”—she glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece—“twenty minutes.”

“We are but first I have something to tell you. Something I think you’ll want to hear.” She turned to Betty. “Thank you, Betty, I’ll help my sister with anything that needs to be done now.”

Betty ran a critical eye over Izzy and gave a brisk nod. “Did Joan do your hair?”

Izzy smiled and did a quick twirl around. “Yes, it’s very elegant, don’t you think? You’ve done a good job training her. I’m very pleased.” She gave Betty a quick kiss on the cheek. “Now do run along, dear Betty. I need to speak to my sister.”

“All in good time, milady.” First Betty picked out a shawl, draped it over Clarissa’s shoulders and tweaked it into place. Izzy was practically jumping up and down, but Betty, having grown up with both girls, ignored her as she made a minor adjustment to Clarissa’s hair. She was a perfectionist and wouldn’t allow Clarissa to go out looking anything less than her best. Finally she wished them both an enjoyable evening, winked at Clarissa and left.

“What is it that couldn’t wait, Izzy?” Clarissa was excited herself. She could think of only one thing that would have her sister bouncing in anticipation like this. Was she expecting a baby?

Izzy’s eyes sparkled. “Remember my plan to find out the truth about Lord Randall’s rakishness?”

A trickle of foreboding ran down Clarissa’s spine. “The one we decided not to follow?”

“You decided, I didn’t.”

“Izzy, you didn’t!”

Izzy laughed, clearly delighted with herself. “I did. Oh, don’t look at me like that—you need to know whether you can trust him or not. And it worked brilliantly! First I made a list of every society lady who was reputed to have had an affair with Lord Randall.”

Clarissa closed her eyes. “Oh, Izzy,” she groaned. “How could you?”

“Don’t fret, there were only about twelve or thirteen. Anyway I started on the night of the rout, last week. I asked every one of them the same question.”

Clarissa sat up, horrified. “You didn’t ask them straight out, did you?”

“Of course not. Where’s the cleverness in that? Anyway they’d only deny it, only with that knowing sort of look some of them do, you know, denying it in words but their expression telling quite another story, implying all sorts of things.”

“Go on.” She dreaded to hear what this cleverness was.

“We told them it was to settle a wager.”

“We? Who’s ‘we’?”

“I enlisted Mrs. Price-Jones’s help—and don’t worry, she’ll be discreet. And she thought it was great fun.” Ignoring Clarissa’s moan, she went on, “We asked every lady on the list whether the heart-shaped mark on the left cheek of Lord Randall’s bottom was a birthmark or a tattoo.”

Clarissa’s mouth dropped open. “Izzy, you didn’t! Asked them about his bottom? And how did you find out about the mark on it in the first place? Did Leo tell you?”

Izzy gave a peal of laughter. “No, of course not. He doesn’t know anything about it. He’d have a fit if he knew.”

Clarissa knew how he felt. “Tell me the rest then. How did you discover that Lord Randall has a heart-shaped mark on his bottom?”

Izzy’s green eyes danced. “That’s just it. He hasn’t—or at least I have no idea whether he has or not. I made it up.”

Clarissa shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t understand.”

“We asked each of the ladies on the list whether the mark on his bottom was a birthmark or a tattoo. Giving them a choice of only two, you see. And you know what? Not one of them said they didn’t know. Or that he had no mark on his bottom. Not one!”

Clarissa didn’t know what to say. It was all too outrageous.

Izzy continued, clearly delighted with her plot. “One of them tried to freeze me out, saying very coldly what a very vulgar wager it was, and didn’t I have better things to do with my time than to speculate about a gentleman’s birthmark, but see, she answered the question, albeit indirectly. And her color was heightened. All the others happily answered. Most said it was a birthmark but several said now they came to consider it might be a tattoo, after all. So you know what that proves, don’t you?”

Clarissa gave her a blank stare. The whole thing was quite mad. And completely, horribly scandalous—and unnecessary—now that she’d decided to trust Lord Randall anyway. Oh, what would he say when he found out? He’d be furious. And who could blame him?

“It proves,” Izzy said, “that none of those women have been Lord Randall’s mistress!”

Which is exactly what he’d already told Clarissa. “Oh, Izzy, I wish you hadn’t.”

“Why? I thought you’d be thrilled to know the truth at last.”

“I asked him about it last week, before he went away, and he explained how his reputation had come to be. I already knew that his reputation was grossly exaggerated, and that most of those society ladies lied by implication—though why I still cannot imagine.”

Izzy’s eyes widened. “You did? You asked him directly? Oh, Clarissa, how wonderful. I thought you’d never find the courage. So what are you going to do?”

Clarissa blushed. “I was planning to marry him.” Now she wasn’t so sure. He might not want to have anything to do with the woman who’d indirectly caused such dreadful gossip and speculation about an intimate part of his anatomy.

Izzy flew out of her seat and hugged Clarissa. “I’m so happy for you, ’Riss. When’s the wedding?”

Clarissa shook her head. “Nothing’s been decided yet.”

Izzy gave her a searching look. “Is there something the matter? You don’t seem as happy as I thought you would be.”

Clarissa forced a smile. Her sister had done what she thought was for the best. She should have been firmer with Izzy about investigating Lord Randall’s reputation. “Oh, you know, just so many things to do. I haven’t been sleeping well,” she prevaricated. “And I have a slight headache. I’m not really looking forward to a night at Almack’s.”

“Oh, you poor love, why didn’t you say so? Shall I fetch you a tisane?” Without waiting, Izzy rang the bell to order a tisane for Clarissa’s nonexistent headache.

Izzy was so delighted with her clever plan—and it was clever, she had to admit—but now Clarissa desperately wished she had told him the other day—despite the cabbages and beggars and old turnips—that she loved him and wanted to marry him.

Because now he’d think her decision was because she’d had her sister and chaperone spy on him. And in such an embarrassing way. No doubt half the ton was speculating about this nonexistent tattoo or birthmark.

She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. Why, oh why did they have to choose his bottom to focus on?

He was sure to be furious. Men took their dignity so seriously.

No doubt he’d want to call the wedding off. Which meant she would have to do the calling off, because he was much too honorable to do it.