Chapter Two

They rode two by two through the busy London streets; Lord Randall and his cousin, then Clarissa with Lord Frobisher. Addis, the groom Leo employed for her protection, followed behind.

Lady Frobisher and Lord Randall talked and laughed—she was such a confident, vivacious person, Clarissa was a little envious. She always found it hard to make small talk to people she didn’t know very well. As a result, she felt so dull, which of course, made it even harder to think of things to say.

She and her partner rode in silence. Luckily Lord Frobisher didn’t seem to mind. He was a very comfortable sort of person, Clarissa decided, and seemed happy enough to let his wife be the life of the party, while he looked on. On the surface they seemed an unlikely couple, but it was clear theirs was a love match, and that they were very happy together.

Would a man ever look at her the way Lord Frobisher looked at his wife?

She sighed. Probably not. Lady Frobisher was everything that Clarissa wasn’t—pretty, lively, confident, slender and stylish. If Clarissa hadn’t been due to inherit a fortune, very few gentlemen would be interested in her at all.

Oh, stop it!she told herself sternly. That was no way to think. She was who she was, and she would be loved for herself—or not at all.

The street traffic thinned out and they rode four abreast for a while, and when they next re-formed into pairs Lord Randall was her partner.

“I’m very glad you were able to join us,” he said.

“Yes. Thank you for arranging it.”

“Oh, Maggie was delighted to help out. She’s always up for a bit of mischief.”

“Mischief?”

“Didn’t she tell you she was ‘rescuing the maiden from the seraglio’?”

Clarissa managed a laugh, though the description was somewhat mortifying coming from him. “Yes, but it’s not like that at all.” It wasn’t quite true, but she didn’t want to criticize Lady Scattergood. The old lady meant well, and Clarissa was her guest.

He didn’t respond, and when she glanced at him, he raised a dark eyebrow.

“It’s not,” she repeated. “Lady Scattergood is merely doing what she thinks is best.”

“And why is it best that I am not to be admitted to the house? One would think, as Leo’s best man…”

She felt her cheeks warm. She couldn’t possibly tell him what Lady Scattergood had said about him. Let a fox into the chicken house? Over my dead body!

“Single gentlemen are admitted, as long as they’re accompanied by a female relative that Lady Scattergood knows. And approves of.”

“I see. So a respectable aunt or grandmother is the key, eh?”

To her relief, he didn’t pursue the matter. Because she was sure Lady Scattergood would forbid him entrance even if he were accompanied by a respectable female relative.

A few minutes later they once again walked four abreast, with Addis in the rear, and then resumed their two by two. Clarissa was relieved to be paired with Lord Frobisher again; she found talking to Lord Randall…difficult. Just a glance or a smile from him scattered her thoughts and she quite forgot what to say.

Race’s cousin Maggie gave him a sideways glance. “She’s a nice enough girl, but not exactly scintillating company, is she?”

Race didn’t respond.

“So tell me, cuz, are you finally planning to settle down? Get yourself an heir?”

“Plenty of time for that,” he said easily. “My father didn’t marry until he was forty, which means I’ve got a good ten years of freedom before I need to concern myself with securing the succession.”

“Then what’s your interest in Miss Studley? You don’t need her fortune, I know—unless you’ve lost yours on ‘change.’?”

“I’m doing a favor for my friend Leo, that’s all.”

“Keeping an eye on her while he’s on his honeymoon, eh? I see. So it’s duty rather than pleasure.”

He shrugged. “It’s always a pleasure to ride out on a fine day.”

“Well, you won’t get a ride out of her,” Maggie said, snickering naughtily.

Race snorted. “You have a wicked mind. Miss Studley is completely respectable—as she should be,” he added with a mock quelling look at his mischievous cousin. Maggie had become more outrageous since her marriage, relishing the freedom a married woman had, compared with the restrictions an unmarried young lady was subject to.

Maggie laughed, entirely unquelled. “Well, I didn’t think a plain, plump, dull little innocent would be your style at all.”

“She’s not pl—Look out!” he exclaimed as a ragged urchin darted into the road in front of them, almost under the horses’ hooves. Maggie’s horse reared and plunged. Race grabbed the bridle and dragged its head down, holding it until it was calm again. The child, apparently unaffected by his close call, disappeared down a side alley.

“Wretched brat nearly got himself killed,” Maggie said, her distress masking itself in anger. “What’s a child of that age doing running about the streets alone and unsupervised? Where are his parents? It’s a disgrace!”

Race shook his head. His cousin knew as well as he did that the streets were full of orphaned, abandoned and unsupervised children. But in recent months she had become very sensitive to the fate of children.

Her husband came up behind them. “Are you all right, my love?” He reached out and took her hand.

“Of course.” She smiled at him, all sign of nerves gone. “It was a close call, but the child wasn’t hurt. Besides, a little excitement never hurt anyone. Shall we continue?”

They rode on. “What were you saying again?” Maggie asked Race.

“I forget.”

“You said Miss Studley is not—what?” When he didn’t reply, she repeated, “What is she not?”

Race shrugged and shook his head. “No idea. Excuse me a moment, I might buy some of those.” He headed over to a man selling apples and bought a bag.

He had no intention of discussing either his thoughts about Miss Studley, or any future plans he might have. He was very fond of Maggie—she was his favorite relative—but discreet she was not. Besides, he didn’t have any future plans, not really. Just…possibilities.

He didn’t find Miss Studley in the least plain, not with that silken complexion, those expressive, wide-set hazel eyes—eyes a man could drown in—and that smile, the sweetest he’d ever seen. As for her being plump, voluptuous was the word he would have used: he itched to get his hands on her.

Anyone who thought her plain was just…blind.

When he returned with the apples it was to find his cousin riding with her husband, and Miss Studley following behind. He joined her.

“Lord Frobisher was concerned about the fright Lady Frobisher had with that little street urchin,” she explained.

Race nodded. He doubted Maggie had had much of a fright—nerves of iron, his cousin. “I think she was more worried about that child.”

He thought he knew the source of his cousin’s increased concern for the fate of street children. Maggie’s failure to conceive, after eighteen months of marriage, was eating at her. Oh, she put a brave face on it, but society’s view was that the wife of a titled gentleman had but one duty to perform—provide her husband with an heir.

Race himself had been witness to a number of well-meaning female relatives making delicate—and less-than-delicate—inquiries and offering various suggestions for enhancing her fertility. Eat this, drink that. Have you tried…?

Not that Maggie’s husband, Oliver, seemed to mind. He’d pointed out on several occasions that he had younger brothers and was in no hurry for an heir. But despite her frivolous appearance, Race knew Maggie took her failure to conceive hard.

He glanced at Miss Studley and caught her gazing with a wistful expression at his cousin and her husband. “A penny for them,” he said softly.

She started slightly. “Oh, nothing of any significance.” A faint blush colored her cheeks. “I was thinking about the girl we’re going to get to be my sister’s maid.”

She was a very poor liar. It was another of the things Race liked about her. She hadn’t been thinking about a maid at all. One didn’t get wistful thinking about hiring a maid. But he let her explain how she and her maid were planning to visit an orphanage to find a girl to train up as a lady’s maid for her sister Izzy.

“Very commendable,” he said when she was finished. “But why not simply get an already-trained lady’s maid from an employment agency?”

She hesitated. “My maid, Betty, came from an orphanage, and we thought we’d like to give another orphan a chance. And Izzy liked the idea.”

There was more to it than she was saying—there were mysteries in the Studley sisters’ background—but though Race was intrigued, he knew better than to push her to explain. In some ways Clarissa Studley was like the sea anemones he’d found in rock pools as a boy; get too near and she closed right up.

Which was why he was taking things slowly.

“My maid and I are going this afternoon to select a girl.”

Race nodded. “Not your chaperone, Mrs. um…?”

“Mrs. Price-Jones? No, she has an appointment with our dressmaker. And since Betty will take the main responsibility for training the girl, I want her to help me choose the right sort of girl.”

She added defensively, as if he’d said something critical, “My sister and I have known Betty since we were all young girls together. She came with us from our home in the country. I trust her judgment implicitly.”

“Sounds like an excellent plan,” he said mildly.

They rode on in silence for a while, concentrating on avoiding porters and barrow boys, street sweepers, hawkers, urchins, dogs and more—the usual chaotic London street scene.

Up ahead his cousin Maggie was chatting vivaciously. She said something and Oliver threw back his head and laughed.

“I’m sorry I’m such poor company,” Clarissa said abruptly.

He glanced at her. “You’re not. I’m perfectly content with the company I have.”

She gave him a skeptical glance. “I know my conversational skills are lacking.”

“Not everyone can be a chatterbox like my cousin, and I thank goodness for it. Otherwise the rest of us would never get a word in.”

Unconvinced, she gave a perfunctory smile. “It’s only since we came to London that we’ve had any experience in social intercourse.”

“Really? Why was that?”

She hesitated, then said, “My sister Izzy and I were not permitted to mingle with people in the local area.”

He frowned. “Why ever not?”

She shrugged carelessly. “Our father would not permit it. He never did explain why.”

She knew why, Race thought, watching her face. She might not find actual conversation easy but her face was very expressive, particularly her eyes. They were her best feature, he thought, wide and clear, and their color seemed to change, which fascinated him. Sometimes they seemed to be a soft greenish hazel, at others they were a honey gold color, like her hair when the sun hit it.

“Conversation is a skill like any other,” he said easily. “The more you practice the better you get.”

She shook her head. “My sister Izzy enjoys meeting new people and converses easily with strangers, but I find it…difficult.”

“Oh, but you don’t consider me a stranger, do you?” he said in a low, teasing voice. “You can tell me anything. I won’t mind.”

She blushed, but lifted her chin and gave him a direct look. “I don’t flirt, either.”

She was warning him off, and he found it delightful. “That’s another skill that develops with practice.”

“I’m sure it does,” she said primly. He was sure she meant it to have a crushing effect on him. It didn’t. He enjoyed a challenge.

“You could practice on me,” he suggested.

“No thank you.”

“You can trust me, you know.”

“I’m sure I can. After all, my guardian asked you to keep an eye on me, did he not?” There was a tightness to the way she said it. And it was no coincidence that she used the exact same phrasing that Maggie had used a few moments before.

“Ah, so you heard that, did you?” What else had she heard? He’d been trying to deflect his cousin’s curiosity, but maybe Miss Clarissa had taken it the wrong way.

She shrugged as if indifferent, but it only confirmed his thoughts.

“Leo did ask me to take you riding,” he said, “but don’t be thinking I consider it a duty, because I don’t. It’s my pleasure to accompany you—anywhere you like, in fact—but riding especially, since you’re such an excellent horsewoman.”

She obviously didn’t believe a word of it. “Then thank you for arranging this excursion,” she said, polite as a schoolgirl.

They rode on in silence. The countryside opened up before them, buildings dropped behind them; there were fields on either side of them now, here and there a small plot of cabbages or some other crop, but mostly fields of green dotted with sheep and cattle. And new houses being built.

Race glanced sideways at Clarissa, thinking to tease her a little more, and frowned, all desire to tease wiped away. Following her gaze, he watched as Oliver raised Maggie’s hand to his lips and kissed it.

Unaware of his observation, Miss Studley bit her lip, her expression a little dreamy, a little wistful, and somehow…melancholy.

“Sixpence for them,” he said softly.

“Sixpence?” Her head jerked up and she gave him a startled look, as if recalling where they were. She gave a halfhearted, not-very-convincing laugh. “Heavens, they’re not worth the penny you first offered me, let alone sixpence. Anyway, I was still thinking about the maid we’re going to hire this afternoon.”

No maid caused her to look like that. He glanced ahead at his cousin and her husband, riding very close together, hand in hand. “A romantic couple, are they not?”

She nodded.

“To an outsider they might appear to be quicksilver and clay. Certainly nobody predicted they’d make a match of it. Many predicted Maggie would soon get bored with Oliver—he’s a very steady chap—and others were sure that he would get impatient with her flightiness.” He shook his head. “It hasn’t happened yet and I don’t believe it ever will.”

She tilted her head and eyed him thoughtfully. “Never? You think so?”

“I know so. My cousin is something of a flibbertigibbet, and Ollie is her rock.”

She frowned. “You mean he keeps her under control?”

He laughed. “I’d like to see any man try. No. It’s hard to explain, but since their marriage, Oliver has been more relaxed, happier. He used to be rather—I don’t know—dour. A bit stiff. And she was always a flighty piece, but those who knew her best could see there was always an underlying brittleness. But that brittleness has gone now and she’s just…happy. Secure. As is he. Together, they balance each other. Ah, we’re almost there,” he added, as Hampstead town came into view. “In a few minutes you’ll be able to have a good gallop. I know you enjoy that.”

“Yes, my sister and I always used to race each other.”

“Come on then, let’s see if we can beat this staid old married couple,” he said loudly as he passed his cousin and her husband, and with shouts and laughter the race was on.

After the initial lighthearted race, they slowed, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. They dismounted by one of the ponds to eat the apples he’d bought. Race peeled and sliced one for Miss Studley, which she ate absently and thanked him civilly.

Afterward they fed the cores and peels to the horses. Then, before Race realized it, his cousin and her husband had disappeared into the woods, leaving Race and Miss Studley alone, except for Addis, who lounged on the grass a short distance away, minding the horses.

Cursing his cousin under his breath for her blatant matchmaking, he said to Miss Studley, “My cousin is a minx. Would you care for a stroll around the pond?” It was a smallish pond, and they would be under the eye of her groom the whole time.

She hesitated, then said politely, “Thank you, that would be pleasant.” But her eyes told a different story. If only he knew what it was.

He itched to strip that veneer of politeness from her, to reveal the woman beneath, with feelings and thoughts and dreams. He knew he could feel them seething under that smooth, calm facade. But how?

Again he was reminded of the sea anemones of his childhood; if he pushed, she would withdraw even more.

Ducks dotted the pond, ducks of several sorts. Race came to a sudden stop. “Good lord, there’s an acquaintance of mine,” he exclaimed.

She stopped and looked around. “Where?”

“There.” He pointed at a large drake waddling through the grass toward the edge of the pond.

“I can’t see anyone.”

“That pompous-looking fellow over there. Approaching the pond as if he owns it.”

“You mean the duck?” she said incredulously.

“Yes,” he said completely seriously. “He’s an MP. House of Lords.”

She gave him a governessy look. “A duck. In the House of Lords.”

“Yes, that’s him all right, with the ginger hair and the pink waistcoat—Lord Wigeon.”

She snorted.

“Large as life and frightfully pompous,” he continued. “Look at the way he walks, as if he owns the world. And you should hear his speeches—long, pretentious, repetitive and as boring as—No, on second thoughts, what was I thinking of? You wouldn’t want to hear them. Not unless you’re in dire need of a nap, and even then I’d avoid them. Nightmares, you know.”

“That’s very silly,” she said. Her smile was trying to escape.

“Oh lord, and there’s another one.” He pointed at a large drake with a knobbly red beak. “Sir Humphrey Shelduck. He’s a member of my club, and believe me, he’s another fellow to be avoided. Not that you’re likely to visit my club—no ladies allowed, you know, which makes for dreadfully dull company, I can tell you. Do you see him?”

She giggled. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“No, I’m quite serious,” he said earnestly. “You see that large red knobby nose of his? It’s because he knocks over at least two or three bottles of port or madeira a night. Ghastly fellow. Talks of nothing but wine and the meals he’s eaten. Now I come to think of it, it’s a good thing they don’t let ladies into the club. A protective measure. Saves you from frightful bores like him.”

“I suppose he’d taste quite good then,” she said thoughtfully.

He turned, startled. “What?”

“Well, he’s obviously well stuffed and thoroughly marinated.”

He laughed aloud.

A female duck launched herself onto the water as they approached. She was followed by a small flotilla of slightly scruffy half-grown ducklings. “Ah now, that will be the wife, poor downtrodden thing,” he said.

“How do you know she’s poor and downtrodden?” Clarissa said indignantly. “She has all those beautiful babies.”

“Yes, but how long is it since she had a new dress, eh?”

Clarissa looked at the mottled brown of the duck’s feathers. “Perhaps she just likes subtle colors.”

“No, he neglects her.”

“Why did she choose him, then?” There was an undertone of seriousness beneath the nonsense and Race belatedly recalled that Leo had told him her parents had had such a marriage. He could have kicked himself.

“Oh, no doubt he was quite a handsome fellow in his younger days, and he would have wooed her with impressive gifts.”

She tilted her head and looked up at him. “What sort of gifts?”

“Slugs,” he said immediately. “Big fat juicy ones.”

She laughed. “I don’t care, I refuse to believe she’s poor and downtrodden. In any case, you don’t need fancy clothes when you’re caring for so many babies. And they’re darling—look at them.”

He watched as the little balls of fluff paddled vigorously after their mother. One fell behind and started cheeping urgently. “That will be the baby,” he said, “needy and noisy. And that one.” He pointed to a little chap ignoring his mother’s loud quacks while he investigated something in the reeds. “That little fellow is the adventurous one. He’ll give his mother no end of trouble…and probably end up breaking her heart.”

There was a short pause and Race felt her searching gaze on his face. He pretended not to notice, hoping she wouldn’t ask. Eventually she said lightly, “How do you know it’s a boy? Girls can be adventurous, too.”

“I suppose so. I just think he’s a boy.” The duckling cheeped loudly and Race glanced at his companion. “And now I suppose you expect me to wade in, rescue the little devil—ruining my boots in the process—and determine his sex.”

“Of course I don’t. But could you—determine his or her sex, I mean?”

“I can’t but I expect a poultryman could.”

The duckling broke free of whatever had detained him and scooted across the water to join his siblings, flapping tiny wings. The duck family sailed off in a small flotilla.

“There, your boots are safe,” she said.

“My valet will be relieved. He’s very protective of my boots.”

They walked on. “Do you have many siblings?” she asked him after a moment.

“No, none.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just thought, from the way you talked…You seemed to know a lot about children.”

He shrugged. “Ten years at boarding school.”

“Oh.” After a moment she asked, “And your parents?”

“Both dead. My mother died when I was eleven and my father a decade or so later.” He glanced at her. “And your mother?” He knew when her father had died.

“Died when I was eight.” They strolled on and silence fell between them. Race cursed himself for asking about her mother. She’d really started relaxing with him, and now…

“You look a little blue-deviled.”

She started and gave him a guilty look. “Oh, sorry.”

He didn’t want to ask about her mother so he changed the subject slightly. “Missing your sister?”

“Yes—well, no,” she responded, a little flustered. “She’s only been gone a few days.”

“Have you two ever been separated?”

She looked at him in surprise. “No, not since we first met.”

He raised a quizzical brow. “Met?”

She bit her lip. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.” She gave him a cautious glance. “But you know about my sister, don’t you?”

“I do. And I won’t tell a soul.” He was one of the few people in London who knew for a fact that Izzy was really her half sister, her father’s natural daughter and not the full, legitimate sister they claimed her to be.

She regarded him steadily for a long moment, then nodded. “Very well then. We were almost nine. Her maternal uncle brought her to Studley Park Manor—that was my home then—immediately after her mother’s funeral. He didn’t want anything to do with her, thought she was Papa’s responsibility. Papa didn’t so much as look at her, didn’t even meet her that time. He gave instructions that she be dumped in the nearest orphan asylum.” Her voice shook as she said, “Those were his very words: ‘Dump the brat.’?”

She paused, remembering, he supposed.

“He changed his mind?” Race prompted after a minute.

Her eyes lightened, and she dimpled enchantingly. “Not exactly.”

He leaned closer. “Oh, now I’m intrigued.”

“We hid her until Papa went back to London.”

“Hid her?” He gave her a shrewd look. “We hid her, or you hid her?”

She gave a half-embarrassed little shrug. “Well, I knew the best places to hide.”

“And when you stopped hiding, nobody objected?”

“Oh, they did. But I insisted on keeping her.”

She was clearly uncomfortable explaining, but it was clear to Race that she had played the pivotal role in the adoption of her half sister.

“And when your father returned, he allowed her to stay?”

“Oh no. We had to hide Izzy every time he came home. Luckily he didn’t come home very often, so it wasn’t difficult. And eventually he gave up.”

There was a whole other story there, Race could see. From all accounts Sir Bartleby Studley had been a nasty customer, a braggart and a bully—except when he was turning on the charm to seduce some young innocent. And yet this quiet, unobtrusive young woman had not only stood up to him, but had somehow won the right to keep her illegitimate half sister with her—at what?—the age of nine?

Maggie was so wrong to write her off as dull; she was…fascinating. Quiet, yes, but with a delightful sense of humor and, he was learning, many more hidden facets to her. Another young lady might have boasted of getting the best of her father, but Miss Clarissa had to be coaxed even to admit her part in it. Which she minimized.

It must have taken a deal of courage to defy him like that, but she didn’t even seem to realize it.

He thought back to that night at the Arden ball, where that drunken crony of her late father’s—Lord Pomphret—had loudly and publicly accused her sister Isobel of being Bart Studley’s bastard…

If he lived to be a hundred, Race would never forget the way shy, supposedly dull Miss Clarissa Studley, far from shrinking from an ugly and embarrassing public scene, had marched across the deserted dance floor—in full view of a crowd frozen with shock and avid for scandal—and publicly claimed her sister. And refused to leave her side for the rest of the night.

As a demonstration of loyalty, it had rocked Race to the core.

Incredibly, they’d managed to quash the scandal—though exactly how, he still wasn’t clear—it hadn’t hurt that Pomphret had clearly been drunk at the time, and it helped that he shot himself not long afterward—but there was no doubt in Race’s mind that Clarissa’s championing of her sister had played a major part.

Had she hesitated, had she shown any doubt or fear or guilt—the accusation was true, after all—the ton would have pounced. And ripped both girls’ reputations to shreds. Society was excellent at ferreting out morsels of gossip and blowing them up into a major scandal.

But Clarissa hadn’t hesitated for a second. And the moment had been won.

“Hallooooo there, Race, hurry along, will you?” his cousin called from the other side of the pond. “We need to be heading back. I have an engagement this afternoon.”

“Oh, and so do I,” Miss Clarissa said. Race glanced at her, and she added, “I’m interviewing for a new maid, remember?”

On the way home, the traffic caused them to separate into pairs again, and this time Clarissa found herself paired with Maggie Frobisher. She felt a little self-conscious, now that Maggie knew about Lord Randall’s promise to Leo.

Clarissa had initially been thrilled that Lord Randall had gone to the trouble of arranging his cousin and her husband to collect Clarissa, circumventing Lady Scattergood’s decrees. She loved riding, and was so happy that Lord Randall had remembered it and organized an outing just for her. It had made her feel so special.

But he was just keeping a promise to Leo. The realization had taken some of the pleasure out of the outing.

Even when he’d peeled that apple for her, handing her each slice—reminding her of the romantic way Leo had done it for Izzy on a picnic one time—it didn’t feel romantic. No doubt it was just part of his “duty.” Besides, Lord Frobisher had done the same for his wife, so it was probably the conventional thing to do with apples: Lord Randall was just being polite.

She felt unaccountably low. And rather cross. Keeping an eye on her? It wasn’t as if she were some irresponsible child, needing to be watched. And she could peel her own apples—if she had a knife, that is. She made a mental note to acquire a suitable knife.

Though where to keep it? Men’s clothing had numerous pockets. Ladies might have a tiny pocket for a small handkerchief, but otherwise they were supposed to carry their necessities in a dainty little reticule. It was so unfair.

“So, back to the seraglio?” Maggie said, breaking into Clarissa’s thoughts.

“It’s not in the least like a seraglio,” she said tartly, then apologetically softened her tone. “I can go anywhere I want with my chaperone. And as I said, Lady Scattergood is just doing what she thinks is right.”

“The restrictions don’t annoy you? They would drive me to distraction.”

Clarissa shook her head. “It’s only for a month, while my guardian is on his honeymoon.”

“And in the meantime you’re obliged to receive gentlemen callers in the company of their female relatives.” Maggie pulled a face. “I don’t think much of men who come courting with Mama or Auntie.”

Clarissa shrugged. “It’s a stratagem, that’s all. Like Lord Randall asking you to invite me to go riding.”

“I am hardly anyone’s aunt!” Maggie exclaimed in faux indignation. After a moment she added more seriously, “Just don’t let yourself accept some ‘suitable’ offer in order to escape, will you?”

“I won’t.” Clarissa gave her a thoughtful glance. “Is that what you did?”

“Heavens no. Quite the opposite—I refused so many eligible offers that Mama was getting quite desperate and making dire predictions that I’d end up on the shelf.” She laughed. “But it was worth the wait, because eventually I found my dear Oliver. Poor Mama almost fell on his neck with gratitude.”

They rode on for a few minutes, then Clarissa said, “You know, I really dislike that expression—‘on the shelf.’ They never talk about men being left on the shelf, do they?” It came out slightly vehement.

Maggie tilted her head and looked at her. “You’re not worried about being left on the shelf, are you?”

“No,” Clarissa said glumly. “My inheritance makes that unlikely. There are too many men in need of a fortune.” And that annoyed her, too.

“Yes, of course.”

“But even if I had no fortune and never married,” Clarissa continued, “I’d still refuse to think of myself as being ‘on the shelf.’ Ladies are not…not apples to be placed on a shelf, waiting to be picked up at some man’s whim! Growing wrinkly while we wait.” She paused to let a costermonger cross in front of them, then added, “And if there is any picking to be done, I want to be the one doing it!”

Maggie laughed. “Brava, Clarissa! Yes indeed. We ladies are not apples! We will choose for ourselves.”

Clarissa blushed. It wasn’t like her to be so adamant and opinionated, especially with people she didn’t know well, but Maggie Frobisher was very easy to talk to. She might even become a friend. For most of her life, Izzy had been Clarissa’s only friend: now there were several women she felt she could call friends. It was a heartwarming thought.

Women didn’t care if she had a fortune or not. They didn’t care if she was plump or plain or even shy. Why couldn’t men be like that?

A short time later, they changed riding formats again, and Oliver, at his wife’s beckoning, pushed forward to accompany Miss Studley, while Maggie dropped back to ride with Race.

“I’ve decided I like her,” Maggie told Race. “I thought she was dull, but she’s not, is she? Quiet and a little shy, but quite spirited underneath it all. And a splendid equestrienne.” She cocked her head and regarded Race speculatively. “A case of ‘still waters run deep,’ don’t you think?”

Race arched a brow. “Fishing again, Maggie?”

She laughed. “How do you know I wasn’t taking about my darling Ollie? His still waters run very deep. And can be wonderfully exhilarating.”

“I know you, minx. And consider this; when the world was speculating about you and your darling Ollie and deciding it was an impossible match, did I join in?”

She sighed. “You did not.”

“Well then.”

She pouted. “Oh, very well, but you are horridly provoking. I’ve never seen you paying attention to any innocents, let alone one who has no claim to beauty or any particular charm—and don’t look at me like that, I said I liked her. It’s just that she’s not your usual type.”

“I told you, Leo asked me to take her riding.”

His cousin sniffed. “And I’m supposed to believe that’s all it is, am I? Well, all I will say is that I know you, cousin, and I’m intrigued.”

He shrugged. “Your intriguement is not my concern.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “?‘Intriguement’—is that even a word? You’re just trying to put me off.”

“Is it working?”

She laughed again. “You are determined to be disagreeable, aren’t you? Very well, I’ll try to be good. I suppose I’m to invite Miss Studley to go riding again soon, am I?”

Race inclined his head. “If you would be so good.”

The rode on a few minutes, then Maggie said, “By the way, I asked her why Lady Scattergood refused you entrance.”

Race raise a brow. “And?”

“She thinks you’re a dangerous rake—the old lady, that is, not Miss Studley.”

Race shrugged. “She probably thinks that about every unmarried man. And most married ones. She doesn’t exactly have a good opinion of the male sex.”

“But plenty of unmarried gentlemen are admitted.”

Race turned his head sharply. “What? Plenty, you say? Who?”

Maggie shrugged. “I didn’t ask for names, but what I did learn is that those who are admitted are invariably accompanied by some respectable female relative; a mother, grandmother or aunt, usually.”

Race pondered that for a minute. That butler’s refusal to admit him to the Scattergood house had really irritated him. “I don’t suppose Aunt Berenice would consider…”

Maggie laughed. “Pry Mama away from her beloved garden at this time of year? To come to London? Not a chance. You know she dislikes the city at the best of times.”

Race nodded. It was a vain hope at best. Not to mention somewhat humiliating to have to ask. Dammit, he’d never been refused entrance to any house in the kingdom.

“However, I might be persuaded to accompany you on a morning call.”

He blinked. “You? I thought you disliked morning calls. What was it you said about them the other day? ‘All inane chitchat and lukewarm tea.’?”

“I know. But I’m curious. I admit I’m curious to see all these gentlemen who call with their aunts and grandmothers, but mostly I want to meet Lady Scattergood. I always thought she was a recluse, but Miss Studley said she actually enjoys company; she just never leaves the house. So I’m intrigued. She sounds quite eccentric.”

“She is.”

“Good. I shall take notes.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “I’m almost afraid to ask why.”

She chuckled. “I plan to become an eccentric when I’m an old lady. I gather her receiving days are Monday, Wednesday and Friday. So you may collect me on Wednesday at two o’clock. Now here we are in Mayfair, so you may take yourself off, cousin mine, before our little plot is discovered.”

Race took himself off, muttering under his breath. How on earth had he allowed his cousin to insinuate herself into his affairs? Fond as he was of her, he’d always kept his personal concerns to himself, taking nobody into his confidence. Not that he’d told Maggie anything; she just assumed her way into his life. Curses.

But what other choice did he have?

If Miss Studley was being pursued by flocks of unknown gentlemen in the supposed security of Lady Scattergood’s home, it was Race’s duty—was it not?—as her absent guardian’s best friend, to protect her.