Chapter Four

Clarissa stood in front of the long cheval looking glass, eyed her reflection critically and sighed. It was a lovely dress and fitted her perfectly. The dressmaker, Miss Chance, had done a wonderful job.

The problem wasn’t the dress.

“You look very nice, miss,” her maid Betty said, hovering at her elbow. “That soft peach color is perfect for you.”

“Thank you, Betty.” She tried to banish her father’s voice: Can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.

“And the dress is beautifully cut.”

She sighed. “I know.” It was her own shape that was less than beautiful. But try as she might, she could never slim down enough to look as dainty and sylphlike as Izzy. And though Betty had arranged her hair well, nothing could make her beautiful, and she so wished she were beautiful. Or at least pretty.

Might as well sigh for the moon.

“Then why are you frowning?” Zo? said from her perch on the window seat.

“I’m not,” Clarissa said. “I’m just a little bit…nervous.” It wasn’t why she’d been frowning at her reflection, but thinking about it, she was feeling quite nervous about tonight’s ball. In fact, for two pins she’d cancel.

Surely she’d conquered her nervousness about big social occasions? They’d been in London for weeks now.

“Just missing Miss Izz—Lady Salcott—I’ll be bound.” Betty laughed. “I’m never going to remember, am I? To think of our Miss Izzy, a countess!” She reached up and adjusted the sprig of tiny silk roses she’d fastened to the back of Clarissa’s hair. “But Mrs. Price-Jones will be with you, won’t she?”

“Yes, of course.” It was the first time in years that Clarissa had attended any social event without her sister—in fact, had she ever gone anywhere without Izzy? No wonder she was feeling a little unsettled. But that was foolish. Now that Izzy was married, Clarissa would have to become more independent. She forced a smile. “You’ve done a lovely job with my hair, Betty. Thank you.”

She turned again to look at her reflection and Betty turned with her. “You look just like your mam, miss. She’d be that proud of you, going out and about, hobnobbing with the highest in the land.”

Clarissa swallowed the lump in her throat. Betty was right. Poor Mama would have been thrilled that Clarissa was making a proper come-out in London society. Papa had never even allowed Mama to visit London, let alone attend any society event. Mama wasn’t up to Papa’s high standards, he used to say, and it would embarrass him to be seen with her, so plain and unsophisticated was she.

And Clarissa was the image of her mother. What was it Papa had said that time, his voice rich with scorn? You can dress her up all you like; if it wasn’t for that blasted fortune, no man would look twice at her. And variations on it numerous times since.

Her belief in her intrinsic unattractiveness had sunk into her long before she was even aware of it, long before she had found Izzy.

She eyed her image sternly. Plain and unsophisticated she might be, but she had every right to happiness. And like it had been for Mama, Grandfather Iverley’s fortune was in trust for her which, for many, made up for any flaws and inadequacies she might have.

Not that she wanted a man who wanted her only for her fortune. That had been Mama’s mistake.

The dress Miss Chance had made for her was lovely, and it suited her well, she knew. And what was it Miss Chance said so often? Every woman is beautiful in her own way…

Clarissa thought of Lady Scattergood, whose face was a mass of wrinkles, and yet intelligence and kindness shone from her eyes. And she wore her odd, unfashionable assortment of clothing with such an air, she looked striking anyway. There was definitely beauty in her.

And the key to bein’ beautiful,Miss Chance had added, is that first you gotta feel beautiful and then people will start to notice that you are beautiful. It’s all in your attitude.

Hearing the little dressmaker’s voice in her mind, Clarissa straightened. How to feel beautiful when you knew you weren’t?

You pretended.

She was good at pretending. For the first eight and a half years she had pretended she had an imaginary sister to share her secrets with and tell her dreams to. And then just before her ninth birthday she’d found Izzy hiding in the shrubbery, eavesdropping on Papa telling someone to dump Izzy in the nearest orphan asylum. A real, flesh-and-blood sister. And so Clarissa had kept her.

Clarissa glanced at her reflection again and lifted her chin. She would pretend then that she was beautiful and confident and all the other things that she was not. And hope that her secret dream would come true.

It was worth a try. Better than feeling plain and unattractive and unwanted except for Grandfather Iverley’s fortune.

“Are you ready, my love?” Mrs. Price-Jones said from the doorway. “Look at you! Such a picture you make.”

Clarissa smiled. “And you, Mrs. Price-Jones.”

Her chaperone chuckled. “We’ll dazzle them, will we not?”

“We certainly will.” Her chaperone had a penchant for bright colors, and tonight she was dressed in bright yellow silk, with dark red and green piping in rows around the neckline, hem and sleeves. Around her shoulders she’d draped an embroidered, multicolored shawl—one of Lady Scattergood’s, Clarissa thought—and on her head she wore a large emerald green turban—another of Lady Scattergood’s shawls—with three purple feathers. It shouldn’t have worked, but somehow it did. Altogether she looked like a cheerful, multicolored parrot.

Smiling, Clarissa linked her arm with Mrs. Price-Jones’s and they proceeded down the stairs to the waiting carriage. With such a blatantly exuberant companion, it was impossible to remain downcast.

Clarissa’s nerves were well under control by the time they’d arrived at their destination and had greeted their hosts at the top of the stairs. Pausing at the entrance to the ballroom, they surveyed the room.

“Excellent,” Mrs. Price-Jones declared. “Quite a crush, already. Plenty of handsome young men to dance with you, and maybe even a few left over for me.” She winked at Clarissa. “Now, I just need to pop into the ladies’ withdrawing room for a moment—no, no need to come with me. It’s just a quick adjustment I need.”

Clarissa looked around, hoping to see her friend and neighbor, Lady Tarrant, and then recalled that she’d temporarily withdrawn from society, awaiting the birth of her baby.

Another neighbor, Milly Harrington, and her mother were standing in an alcove by the window, chatting to an elderly gentleman, but the moment Milly spotted Clarissa she turned her back and pretended not to see her. Milly didn’t like competition, and though she had a more aristocratic background than Clarissa, being distantly related to a duke, and was prettier, she didn’t have a fortune like Clarissa did.

Mrs. Price-Jones nudged Clarissa. “That nice Lady Peplowe and her daughter Penny are over there, see? You go and sit with them and I’ll join you in a trice.”

She sailed off and Clarissa began to make her way through the crowd. A group of young men stood talking near a clump of potted palms. Clarissa paused. She often felt quite self-conscious walking past groups of young men, aware they were looking at her and possibly finding her wanting. And sometimes they made lewd comments that utterly discomposed her, even when she didn’t always know precisely what they meant.

Usually, unless Izzy or someone else was with her, she did her best to avoid such groups of men, but now she hesitated. She’d resolved to learn to stand on her own two feet. To be braver, and not depend on others.

Pretend you are beautiful and confident, she reminded herself.

Taking a deep breath and stiffening her spine she walked toward the group of young men. But her feet veered away at the last minute, taking her around behind the potted palms, keeping them between herself and the men.

Edging carefully past the palms, Clarissa heard one of them say, “So you’re going for it after all?”

Another responded, “Yes, of course. One doesn’t whistle a fortune down the wind. The beautiful Studley heiress might be off the market but the little fat plain one is still available. And should be suitably grateful.”

She faltered, freezing where she stood. Little fat plain one? Suitably grateful?

One of the others said something she didn’t quite catch and they all sniggered, then the first one said, “Worth it for the money, I suppose.”

And the second one replied, “All cats are the same in the dark.” And they sniggered again.

It was a slap in the face out of the blue. She felt sick.

“Take no notice, my love,” Mrs. Price-Jones murmured, coming up behind her. “Young men, especially in the company of other young men, are often foolish, mannerless cubs. I didn’t hear all that they said, but I heard their nasty laughter and it’s clearly upset you.”

Clarissa swallowed and forced a smile. “Not at all. I was just thinking about something else. Now, shall we join Lady Peplowe and Penny?”

Turning her head slightly, she glanced back and from the corner of her eye picked out the young man who’d spoken so dismissively about her. As she’d thought, it was Edgar Walmsley, who’d called on her several times at Lady Scattergood’s. She’d recognized his voice. At the time she’d thought him good-looking and rather pleasant.

Now she knew better: He was an insensitive beast. And a horrid fortune hunter.

They joined Lady Peplowe for a short while, and then Mrs. Price-Jones found some other friends. They were rather elderly and when their conversation turned to their latest symptoms and comparing ailments, Mrs. Price-Jones screwed up her nose and drew Clarissa away. “Old people,” she murmured, “making themselves older before their time. I have no patience with them. Come along, it’s time to dance.” And indeed, the orchestra had finished tuning up and people began taking their partners for the first dance of the evening.

Behind Clarissa, a man cleared his throat. “Miss Studley?”

She turned and her smile froze, half-formed. It was Edgar Walmsley, the pig who’d spoken so rudely about her to his friends. Her eyes ran over him. He was dressed in the first stare of fashion, and his high shirt points were so stiffly starched he could hardly turn his head. His shirt was frilled and his coat tightly molded to his shape. Elegant fobs and seals dangled from a thick gold chain.

He stood before her, smirking, supremely confident of his welcome. Little fat plain one, was she? Suitably grateful, was she? Resentment spiraled through her. He clearly expected her to be flattered by his attention.

Mr. Walmsley was not as attractive as he’d seemed the other day—certainly not as attractive as he clearly thought himself to be. His good looks were spoiled, she decided, by a weak chin and an affected world-weary expression. And the smugness that oozed from him. Even while he was talking to her, his eyes were roaming past her as if looking for something—or someone—better and more interesting. More worth his attention. Men often did that. Clarissa hated it.

Normally she would swallow her pride and her hurt feelings and pretend to be happy to dance with someone she didn’t like. It was the polite thing to do. Or Izzy would step in on her behalf.

She remembered again how he and his friends had sniggered about her.

No, she decided. I don’t like him and I don’t want to be polite and dance with him, knowing what he really thinks of me.

She didn’t respond, just let her gaze wander to a point over his shoulder, not looking at anyone in particular, but giving him a taste of his own medicine.

He glanced behind him, frowned and repeated himself. “Miss Studley?”

“Yes?” She gave him a vague look, as if she had no idea who he was.

“We’ve met at Lady Scattergood’s several times.”

She raised her brows. “Have we? We get so many visitors. I’m afraid I don’t…” She lifted her hands in a no idea sort of gesture.

He looked a little taken aback, but bowed. “Edgar Walmsley, at your service.” His expression was peevish, his voice tinged with reproach.

“Indeed?” she said vaguely, and began to turn back to her companions. She was shaking inside—a mix of nerves and excitement. She was never rude to people, but this man and his contemptuous comments—made in front of his friends, too—had inflamed her temper.

“The first dance, Miss Studley,” he said.

“What about it?”

He looked a little annoyed. “Would you do me the honor?” His tone indicated that she must be a little stupid.

A lifetime of training said she should curtsy, thank him prettily and accept his invitation. A lady never refused a gentleman’s invitation to dance. No matter who the gentleman was.

Did he expect her to be grateful? His was less an invitation to dance than an assumption. She pretended to consider it for a long moment and when he began to shift impatiently, she said pleasantly, “I don’t think so. I only dance with people I like. Goodbye, Mr. Walmsley.”

“Goodbye?” he spluttered. “You are refusing me? But, but—” He broke off, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

Clarissa wanted to laugh, but she’d shocked herself almost as much as she’d shocked him. She was never rude. But this felt wonderful.

Clarissa’s chaperone moved forward, looking concerned. “Is there a problem, my dear?”

“No, not at all,” Clarissa said. She’d done it. She’d never refused a dance in her life. She was shaking inside, but she felt victorious.

“You realize having refused Mr. Walmsley you will not be able to dance with anyone else tonight,” Mrs. Price-Jones murmured in her ear.

Clarissa nodded. She knew that. It was frustrating—she loved to dance—but an evening spent as a wallflower was worth it to have given this horrid Mr. Smug a set-down.

Little fat plain oneindeed. How dare he talk about her like that. Even if it was true. She was more than just her looks. Or her fortune. And she deserved respect, no matter what.

“Ah, Miss Studley, there you are.” Lord Randall appeared at her elbow. Clarissa blinked. What was he doing here? He never attended society balls.

Dressed in formal blacks, with a crisp white shirt—without frills—and a gray, watered silk waistcoat that exactly matched his eyes, he looked magnificent.

Her gaze dropped to the elegant silver buttons on his waistcoat: the bottom one was undone. She frowned. That was careless. Should she mention it?

But before she could decide, the orchestra played an opening chord and sets began to form on the dance floor. “Shall we?” Lord Randall held out his arm.

Clarissa hesitated. Another assumption to dance?

“She’s not dancing,” Smugman said nastily.

Lord Randall gave him a dismissive glance. “Not with you, she isn’t, Walmsley. But she promised me this dance earlier.”

“She didn’t tell me that,” Walmsley began, aggrieved. “If she’d explained—

Lord Randall cut him off. “Why should she? Now, Miss Studley, let us make haste lest we ruin the set.”

Bemused, a little shaken but enjoying Smugman’s confounded expression, Clarissa allowed Lord Randall to lead her onto the dance floor.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he murmured. “He’s a callow young fool and not worth your time.”

“He’s a fortune hunter,” Clarissa said, “and not a very nice one, either.”

Lord Randall gave her a sharp look. “So you knew that, did you? Good for you. You look ravishing in that dress, by the way.”

A little of Clarissa’s pleasure drained away. Why did men always think they needed to lavish false compliments on her? She was used to that sort of thing from fortune hunters—insincerity was their stock-in-trade, after all. She glanced at Lord Randall’s handsome profile. She supposed it was a rake’s stock-in-trade also.

But compliments of that sort made her only more aware of her shortcomings. The dress was lovely and she knew she looked quite nice in it, but she was hardly “ravishing.”

It was a little disappointing of Lord Randall to indulge in such commonplace and meaningless courtesies. Still, he had rescued her from the consequences of her incivility to Walmsley, which allowed her to dance for the rest of the night.

“I suppose this is more guardian duty on Leo’s behalf,” she said.

“Good lord no. Leo knows better than to expect me to attend society balls for his sake.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “But you came to this one.”

He smiled, a dazzling gleam of white under the glittering chandeliers. “I did, didn’t I?” Which enlightened her not at all.

The dance commenced and, it being a country dance, there was no more opportunity for conversation.

For the first part of the dance, Clarissa concentrated on her steps: she and Izzy had taken dancing lessons when they first came to London, but even though many of the country dances were made up of familiar movements, they weren’t always danced in the same order.

But as her confidence in the dance movements grew, her thoughts drifted back to the way she’d dismissed Mr. Walmsley. And the way she’d felt when she did.

How many times had she danced—or dined with or walked with—men she didn’t like, even some she actively disliked? Simply because it was the polite thing to do.

And while she preferred to be polite, there was no reason she had to be endlessly polite, no reason she had to endure the company of men she disliked. Especially men who had no real respect for her.

She thought of what she’d said to Maggie Frobisher. Ladies are not apples to be placed on a shelf, waiting to be picked up at some man’s whim! And if there is any picking to be done, I want to be the one doing it!

At the time she’d surprised herself with what amounted to an outburst, at least from her. It wasn’t like her to be so…so dramatic. But now, thinking about it, she decided they were words she wanted to live by.

She danced on, lost in thought. She was her own person. She could decide what she did and with whom. And what she said. She didn’t need to please everyone. She needed to please herself—oh, not being horridly selfish, but also, not being a doormat.

She had a bit of a tendency to be a doormat, she thought. Like Mama. Izzy never let her get away with it—Izzy was never a doormat. And neither was Clarissa when the issue was important.

Wasn’t her own future happiness important?

But tonight she’d stood up for herself. And it felt wonderful.

It wasn’t pretending that was important—it was taking action, even in a small way.

The dance finished. Lord Randall bowed, she curtsied and he led her off the dance floor. Still deep in thought about the way she wanted to be in the future—the new Clarissa—she hardly noticed what he was saying. Usually she was agonizingly aware of him.

He asked something and, assuming he was inquiring whether she was thirsty and would like something to drink, she murmured agreement.

“Good, and then of course we will take supper together afterward,” he said.

She turned her face to him sharply. “What?”

“Well, the second waltz is the supper dance, after all.”

“The second waltz?”

“Yes.” His eyes danced. “I did wonder whether you were listening. Your thoughts were miles away, weren’t they? Nevertheless I’m holding you to it—the second waltz and supper afterward. Consider it a lesson in not listening. Now, shall I fetch you a cool drink? You’re looking a little flushed—attractively so, of course.”

Without waiting for her response—indeed, she couldn’t think of what to say and feared she was imitating Mr. Walmsley’s fish—he signaled a waiter to bring her a cool drink, found her a seat and sat down beside her, crossing one long leg over the other, quite relaxed.

And amused. He knew he’d tricked her into agreeing to waltz with him, and felt no compunction whatsoever.

“You do waltz, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she managed. It had been part of their lessons and she’d even danced it at Almack’s a few weeks ago, with one of the patroness’s approval.

It was one thing to refuse a dance, it was quite another to retract one. She’d broken one rule tonight; she surely didn’t have it in her to break another.

But a waltz with Lord Randall. Followed by supper.

Grasping her fan in a tight grip, she took a deep breath and prepared to grasp the nettle. “Lord Randall—”

“How did your visit to the orphan asylum go?”

She started. “What do you mean?” He couldn’t possibly know about Zo?, could he?

“You were going to choose a maidservant. Did you find one?”

“Y—I mean, no. There…um. There was nobody suitable.”

He raised a darkly elegant brow. “Really?”

She felt her face heating. “Yes. We—that is Betty and I—are going to try another orphanage tomorrow.”

“I had no idea choosing a maidservant would be so difficult.”

She bit her lip, but the waiter arrived with a long cool drink of lemonade. Glad of the distraction, she seized it with relief and drank thirstily, very aware of those gray eyes watching her. With dancing, knowing devils in them.

“And here comes your chaperone, Mrs. um,” he said smoothly as she finished her glass.

“Price-Jones,” she said automatically.

“Exactly.” He rose. “Good evening, Mrs. Price-Jones, how refreshingly vivid you look this evening. Like a bright ray of sunshine on a gloomy day.”

Clarissa’s chaperone laughed delightedly. “Such a wicked flirt you are, Lord Randall.”

“Wicked? Oh, dear me, no. I assure you, dear lady, I am positively saintly”—he batted those preposterously long lashes—“in my flirting, at least.” His smile was pure essence of rogue. “It’s in other areas I’m reputed to be wicked.”

Mrs. Price-Jones rapped his arm playfully with her fan. “Such nonsense you talk. Go away with you.”

He bowed over her hand, bowed again to Clarissa and strolled away.

“Such a divine man!” Mrs. Price-Jones patted Clarissa on the arm, then said, “Oh, there’s Lady Bentinck. I want to have a word with her. You’ll be all right here on your own, won’t you, my dear?” Without waiting for Clarissa’s response, she hurried away.

A moment later an elegant lady drifted up to her. “Miss Studley?” The lady, who was approaching thirty, she guessed, was very attractive, slender and dark with vivid features. She was dressed in a dashing, low-cut claret silk gown. “May I sit down?”

“Yes, of course.” With a smile and wave of her hand Clarissa indicated the seat beside her, but her mind was racing. Who was this lady? Had they been introduced and Clarissa had forgotten? She couldn’t imagine it.

“I saw your face when you were dancing with Rake Randall,” the lady said.

Clarissa had no idea how to respond to that. “Oh?” she said.

The lady leaned closer. “Don’t get your hopes up, my dear. He’s elusive, unreliable and untrustworthy.”

Clarissa blinked.

“He’s notorious for raising hopes in virgin breasts,” the woman went on, “and then dashing them to pieces. So don’t be foolish. Keep your dreams for someone worthy.” She gave a brisk nod and sailed off, leaving Clarissa staring after her, quite bemused. And deeply embarrassed.

The lady had obviously noticed her secret tendre for Lord Randall, even though she knew he was not for her. And if that lady had, who else had noticed? It was a mortifying realization. She swallowed. The idea that people had been watching and pitying her was humiliating.

She glanced across to where Lord Randall was standing in a small semicircle of elegantly dressed ladies, all smiling and laughing up at him. He was the center of their attention.

The lady was right: Lord Randall was a born flirt. Compliments dripped from him like water from a broken pipe. Clarissa looked ravishing. Mrs. Price-Jones was a ray of sunshine. And who knew what he was saying now to make those sophisticated ladies giggle and blush. His words meant nothing.

Oh, she wish-wish-wished she hadn’t let herself be dazzled by him and agreed to dance the waltz with him. And go into supper with him. He was too tall, too handsome, too charming—and it was all false. And even though she knew his compliments were meaningless, they flustered her.

One lazy smile from those eyes and all her resolution just…dissolved.

And if that lady was to be believed, everyone would be watching.

What was he doing at a ball anyway? she thought aggrievedly. He was well-known to avoid ton events. Why had he chosen to attend this one?

A waltz. The most romantic dance of all. And with Lord Randall. Followed by supper.

It was too late to wriggle out of it now.

Although…She could claim to have a headache and go home early.

No, that would be cowardly, and she was determined not to give in to her fears. So she would dance the waltz with him.

Oh, Mama.

Though Mama, even if she weren’t long dead, would have been no help at all. Mama had fallen for a tall, handsome, apparently charming but utterly worthless rake who had turned out to be a perfectly dreadful husband. Unfaithful, callous and cruel.

Yet Mama doted on him regardless, making excuses for every vile and cruel thing he did or said…

And that, Clarissa told herself, was what she had to keep in the forefront of her mind. She was too much like her mother—in temperament as well as looks—which made it all the more important to avoid fortune hunters. And rakes.

Lord Randall wasn’t interested in her fortune. He was rich, everybody said so. And he might not be cruel, but you couldn’t really tell, could you, when you met men only on their best public behavior?

It wasn’t until after the wedding, when Papa realized most of Mama’s fortune was tied up in a trust, that he became so nasty.

But none of that mattered, because she was not going to let herself fall for him as Mama had fallen for Papa. It was just a matter of being firm with herself.

Besides, he was only being polite, she was sure of it. No matter what he claimed, she knew he was here to keep an eye on her for Leo. She’d heard his cousin saying so. And why else had he turned up at this ball, when everyone knew he hardly ever attended society events?

Flirting and charming ladies were second nature to him. She’d seen the way he strolled lazily across the dance floor, his progress followed by the eyes of half the women in the room. She glanced in his direction—yes, there he still was, head and shoulders visible, surrounded by that small cluster of women, all posturing and fluttering and vying for his attention.

Most of them were a good five or more years older than she was—some looked even older than Lord Randall—and all those she recognized were married. Not that it seemed to make any difference to him. He said something that set them all laughing again. He glanced across at her and she averted her gaze.

Don’t be foolish. Keep your dreams for someone worthy.

It was also foolish to feel nervous at the prospect of waltzing with him, she told herself. He wasn’t serious in the least—he never was, everybody said so. There was no danger from him—and as long as she controlled her ridiculous susceptibility there would be no danger for her.

She watched as one of the ladies placed a hand on Lord Randall’s arm and he bent his head to hear what she had to say. They looked quite intimate.

Clarissa made a decision. She would dance the waltz with him. And she would enjoy it. If other ladies could flirt and dance with Lord Randall and enjoy it without any consequence to their peace of mind, so could she.

Playing with fire, a small voice in her head whispered.

Nonsense, she told it. Forewarned was forearmed. She just had to remember: a rake was a rake was a rake.

Was. A. Rake.

And while she had his attention at supper, she would take the opportunity to confront him, to explain that while she appreciated his protection, she didn’t need it, and that any promises he’d made her guardian on her behalf were quite unnecessary.

It was a plan.

“Miss Studley, what a pleasure to see you here. And what a pretty color that dress is. It suits you wonderfully well.” Clarissa turned. It was one of her most devoted suitors, Cuthbert Clayborn.

She smiled. “Mr. Clayborn, I didn’t know you were planning to attend tonight.”

He looked very elegant. Over his tastefully frilled shirt, he wore a gold-embroidered blue waistcoat that emphasized his light blue eyes and the gilt of his hair. His curls, tousled and pomaded into appealing disorder, gleamed under the light of the chandeliers. His dark blue pantaloons were tight, and he wore high black boots, which was quite unconventional for a ball. He always wore boots, though, explaining that he needed them to support his bad leg.

“I came solely to see you, dear lady. You mentioned the other day that you would be attending, and my great-aunt and I had invitations, of course. I came especially to ask you for a dance. So, will you grant me the next dance?”

Clarissa hesitated. Surely, with his leg…

“You are thinking of my limp,” Mr. Clayborn said. “It is cheeky of me, I know, but although I was asking for the dance”—he gave her a droll look—“I was actually hoping to sit it out with you in comfort.” He grimaced modestly. “This wretched wound precludes my dancing, you see.”

“Of course. I’d be happy to sit out the dance with you, Mr. Clayborn.”

He beamed. “How very kind you are. I almost didn’t dare to ask, but I told myself, ‘Lovely Miss Studley is so popular that she will naturally be surrounded by gentlemen, but such a kind and gracious young lady might perhaps grant an old soldier—’?”

If Mr. Clayborn had one fault, it was perhaps his habit of giving her fulsome compliments. And perhaps also that his cologne water—or perhaps it was his pomade—was rather strong.

She cut him off. “Where would you like to sit? Here?” She indicated the seat beside her. Mrs. Price-Jones, no doubt seeing Mr. Clayborn approaching and anticipating his request, had vacated it a few minutes before. She was standing a couple of feet away, talking to a silver-haired gentleman, while keeping an eye on Clarissa.

Mr. Clayborn shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to sit outside, perhaps on the terrace. It’s so close in here, and the breeze outside is delightfully refreshing. I noticed earlier that several chairs have been placed there for our convenience.”

Clarissa glanced at Mrs. Price-Jones, who was standing close enough to hear his request. She nodded and Clarissa rose, arranging her shawl around her shoulders. “Outside would be very nice, thank you. Shall we?”

He stepped forward, winced and offered his arm.

“Are you sure…” she began.

“Oh, you mean this?” He indicated his bad leg. “Take no notice. It’s a dashed inconvenience, nothing else.” But as he escorted her across the room to the French doors leading out to the terrace, she noticed that he limped quite heavily, and winced frequently, though he tried to hide it.

But he’d made it clear that he disliked sympathy, so she could hardly show it. He was, she decided, very brave.

And since his great-aunt had told them on several occasions that her darling great-nephew was the apple of her eye and the sole heir to her fortune, he was that rarity among her suitors: not a fortune hunter.

They found a spot on the far edge of the terrace where a small wrought iron table and two matching chairs had been placed.

Mr. Clayborn seated Clarissa then said, “Before we get settled, would you like me to fetch you a drink? Some refreshments?” He seemed ready to go off to fetch them, but Clarissa was reluctant to cause him any further pain so she assured him that she needed nothing, thank you.

He sat beside her, so that they both were able to look out over the small, well-manicured garden. A short silence fell. Clarissa racked her mind for something to talk about. “You were right,” she said eventually. “The breeze is very pleasant.” Hardly an example of sparkling conversation, but her mind was stupidly blank.

He turned to her anxiously. “Are you cold?”

“No, not at all.”

There was another short silence, then he said, “It was Waterloo, you know. The injury.”

“Yes, I think I heard that.” He’d mentioned it several times before.

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“No, I understand.” She fiddled with her fan. “Have you been to the theat—”

“The worst thing is not the injury, or the constant pain, but the feeling that I let my men down. Leadership is very important in the army, you know, and my men looked up to me.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I worry that they might have been lost once I was taken off the battlefield. I would have refused to leave them, but I had no choice: I was wounded and insensible.”

“That must have been very difficult.”

“It was. It haunts me still, not knowing what became of them all.”

She frowned a little over that. Did he not make inquiries? But perhaps he was in no condition to ask until long afterward. The leg might be only one of his wounds.

He heaved a sigh. “Such is life, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

He turned to her with a smile. “Listen to me, going on about myself. I generally dislike talking about the war, but with you I feel so comfortable. Please forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“You are too generous. War is not a subject for ladies.”

“Have you been to the theater lately?” she tried again.

“No, not recently. I find it difficult, sitting for long periods without moving.” He stretched his bad leg and grimaced. “But there are many worse off than I. Are you fond of the theater, Miss Studley?”

“Yes, very. My sister and I never had the opportunity to see any plays when we were growing up, so it is always a great treat for us.”

“Your sister, yes. She married your guardian and is on her honeymoon, is she not?”

“Yes. It is a little strange being without her. We have never been separated for long.”

“I wouldn’t know. I have no siblings—no family at all, except my great-aunt. Who is quite elderly.” He heaved a sigh.

Clarissa had no family as well, only her sister Izzy. And now Zo?. Oh, she so hoped that they could prove their relationship to Zo?’s satisfaction. The girl was proving quite resistant to the idea, much to Betty’s frustration. Betty did love her long-lost-princess story.

Clarissa wasn’t so worried. She felt quite certain they would be able to prove it eventually and, in the meantime, she understood that Zo? probably didn’t want to get her hopes up. Hope could be painful, and Zo?’s experience of life hadn’t given her much trust in other people’s goodwill.

“Miss Studley?”

Clarissa jumped, recalled to the present. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Clayborn, I was woolgathering. What was it you asked me?” How embarrassing to have let her mind wander off like that. The trouble was, she felt quite comfortable with Mr. Clayborn.

He paid her close attention but it didn’t make her feel hot or flustered, like a certain other gentleman, only a little bored at times, which was most ungrateful of her. Men didn’t usually pay her such flattering attention, especially handsome wounded heroes. Not unless they were fortune hunters, which he wasn’t.

“I’m sorry, I’m boring you,” he said, clearly a little miffed. Which was understandable.

“No, no you’re not. I was just distracted by a thought. Please repeat your question.”

“Are you sure? If you don’t want to be seen abroad with a man with my disability, please say so. I won’t be offended.”

“Your disability?” she repeated, puzzled.

He tapped his leg. Clarissa was horrified. “Of course I wouldn’t think any such thing,” she said hotly. “I’m not so shallow. Besides, to have been injured in the service of king and country is nothing less than heroic. Now, please repeat your question.”

“It was nothing much, just an invitation to go for a drive in Hyde Park with me tomorrow afternoon.”

She had planned to go with Betty then, to find another orphan to employ, but after her rudeness in not paying attention, she could hardly refuse. “Of course, I’d be delighted.”

He rose stiffly, grimacing as he straightened his bad leg. “Thank you, Miss Studley. At three o’clock, then? Now, I hear the music drawing to a close. Our dance is over. I’d better return you to your chaperone so you can be ready for the next gentleman eager to dance with you. Thank you for so graciously consenting to sit out a dance with a cripple.”

Clarissa found that a little offensive—she would have sat out a dance with anyone who asked; his injury had nothing to do with it. Besides, he was hardly a cripple. But he was clearly very sensitive about his condition, poor man, so she wasn’t about to argue. She took the arm he offered and they returned to the ballroom.