Chapter Five

Race stalked around the perimeter of the ballroom, greeting this person and that, but not lingering for long. He was well aware of the speculation his appearance at the ball had provoked. This—this was the reason he so rarely attended fashionable society events.

Now it wasn’t just bored married ladies seeking him out in the hope of dalliance; he was starting to draw the attention of the matchmaking mamas. His cousin wasn’t the only one who’d jumped to the conclusion that he’d finally decided to take a bride.

Curse it. He would leave the instant supper was over and he’d had his talk with Miss Studley.

In the meantime he had to watch the fashionable young drones buzzing around her. In retrospect, he should have sat out that country dance with her, like she had with that yellow-haired coxcomb, Clayborn. War hero be damned; he’d disliked the fellow on sight. A favored and regular visitor to Lady Scattergood’s, was he? Pah!

At least Race had secured the waltz with her, and her company at supper afterward. Not only was he looking forward to holding her in his arms—well, at least as much as propriety allowed—over supper he’d be able to assure her that the attention he was paying her had nothing to do with any promise he’d made to Leo.

Again he wondered how much she’d overheard of the conversation between himself and Maggie.

He hadn’t yet decided whether he was going to tell her he was courting her; he had a feeling that announcing it might be too blunt. It might make his shy little flower withdraw, as she had already once or twice.

No, better just to seek out her company at every opportunity and let her draw her own conclusions. Just as long as he made it clear to her that Leo had nothing to do with it.

He glanced across the dance floor and gritted his teeth. He also needed to warn her about those wretched fortune hunters that Lady Scattergood had been allowing to call. And about that villain, Vibart. She was dancing with him now—and what the devil had he said to make her laugh so? And make her blush, the swine.

But if he did try to warn her about Vibart and the others, might it strengthen the impression that he was acting the guardian in Leo’s place? That would make her withdraw from him even further.

Blast it, he’d never been so indecisive in his life!

Once he held her in his arms and had her twirling about the ballroom, he’d know what to do, he was sure. Follow his instincts.

He glanced at the dance floor and gritted his teeth. His instincts currently urged him to strangle Vibart.

Fed up with the sight of Miss Studley dancing and being charmed by coxcombs, rakes and wastrels—and what the hell was her chaperone doing to allow it?—he took himself off for a brisk walk around the courtyard.

After a time he heard the country dance drawing to a close. The next dance was the waltz she’d promised him. He reentered the ballroom and glanced around. Ah, there she was—again with that scoundrel Vibart, who was standing far too close to her. And she was blushing again, blast the man.

As he approached, Vibart glanced up and smiled, a sly, knowing smile. “Randall, I understand you have the honor of dancing the next waltz with this delightful young lady.”

“Yes, the supper dance,” Race said.

“I’m desolate to be so deprived of her charming company,” Vibart said. “Truly, I doubt you appreciate the honor she’s done you. A dozen men here tonight—myself included—would happily duel you for the chance to sup with the lovely lady,” he added with an intimate smile at Miss Studley. Who blushed. Again.

“I do appreciate it,” Race said, annoyed. “And she made her own choice.”

“And I’m right here,” Miss Studley said quietly, “and perfectly able to speak for myself. Lord Randall, shall we?”

“Indeed.” Race presented his arm and led her onto the dance floor just as the opening chords of the dance sounded. Her lips were pursed tight. She seemed annoyed. Was it because of Vibart’s fulsome compliments? Or had she fallen for them? Vibart was held to be very charming. Race couldn’t see it himself.

“You know he’s a notorious rake, don’t you?”

She shot a sideways glance at him. “He’s not the only one.”

Race blinked. What other rakes had been pursuing her? What the devil did that chaperone think she was doing, letting Clarissa be hounded by rakes?

“Please, I don’t wish to discuss it,” she added before he could say anything. “Let us just enjoy the dance.” Facing him, she placed one hand on his shoulder and presented her other hand. He took it and placed his hand lightly on her waist, waited several beats, then twirled her out among the swirling crowd.

She was a little stiff at first, but her body soon softened, responding easily to his leadership. Her responsiveness delighted him; no doubt she would be equally responsive in other areas. He ached to draw her closer, but knew he must restrain himself. She was so sweetly shy.

But whether it was the effect of the music or his carefully respectful embrace—though he hoped it was his proximity—she almost floated in his arms.

But she neither talked nor looked directly at him; in fact after a few passing glances she seemed to close her eyes. Bashfulness, Race decided. The waltz was a very intimate dance, after all. They danced on, and he felt her relaxing in his embrace. She was his to command—in the dance, at least. Her expression was…dreamy. She was light as a feather, soft as a cloud.

He silently cursed the others in the ballroom; he ached to hold her properly in his arms.

He decided to draw her out a little.

“You’re very light on your feet,” he said.

She blinked, as if startled, and gave him a shy little smile.

He tried again. “A natural dancer, in fact.”

“I do enjoy dancing.” Her gaze roamed past his shoulder, presumably observing their fellow dancers and, when it returned to him, dropped immediately to his waistcoat.

“You’re admiring my waistcoat?” he murmured.

“It’s just that the bottom button is undone. It’s distracting.”

“How shocking. My valet will be mortified.” After a moment he added, “Perhaps you could button it for me.”

She gave him a prim look. “Indeed I could not.”

He lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t mind. You’re welcome to do whatever you like with my buttons.”

She stiffened in his arms and, despite the adorable blush that rose to suffuse her perfect complexion, said with a quiet dignity that impressed him, “Please don’t try to flirt with me, Lord Randall.”

“Try to? I’m not succeeding?” he said playfully.

“No. You’re not.”

Race frowned. It was one thing to realize his banter could cause her to close up like a sea anemone, but this serious instruction not to flirt was…disconcerting. He always flirted with women.

“Flirting isn’t meant to be serious, you know. It’s just a bit of fun,” he said. “It’s like battledore and shuttlecock.”

She looked puzzled.

“Flirting is a game,” he explained. “Men and women toss the comments back and forth like a shuttlecock in a fun exchange. It’s not very serious.”

“I’ve never played battledore and shuttlecock, and I am unskilled at flirting, but I understand what you mean. You have not the reputation of being serious at all, Lord Randall.”

Race blinked. “That’s not what I meant. I am serious about important things.”

She gave him a swift glance. “Really?”

“Yes, I—”

“Like keeping a promise to a friend?”

“Yes.” He rarely made promises, and was always very careful about what he promised. He’d never broken a promise in his life.

“Well, you need not keep your promise to Leo—to ‘keep an eye on’ me, was it not?”

“No, I—”

“I heard you talking with your cousin, but I neither need nor wish to have you, or anyone, ‘keep an eye on’ me.”

Not knowing what to say to that, Race twirled her around and then reversed. When she caught her breath, she continued, “So please desist from this well-meant watchdoggery. I will inform Leo of my request when he and my sister return from their honeymoon.”

Race had no intention of discussing this matter here and now. He needed to think. “Why are you talking to my button?”

“Your button?” She looked up at him in surprise.

“The undone one. Still itching to do it up?”

A delicate, delicious flush rose to color her cheeks. “I have no interest in your…button.” She bit her lip and glanced away.

She was not as indifferent to him as she was pretending. Race wanted to purr.

“I’m flirting.” He twirled her around a few more times, then said, “But I will try to be more serious with you.”

She looked up at him. “Try?”

“Well, you can’t expect a man to be serious all the time—how dull would that be?—so you must allow me an occasional little flirt.”

She shrugged. “Who you flirt with is nothing to do with me.”

“It’s everything to do with you.”

She gave him a startled look, then said, “I suppose you’re funning me again.”

“I promised you I’d be more serious with you, did I not?”

“Yes, but…I don’t know whether to believe you.”

“Why not?”

She pressed her lips together, and after a few more twirls, said, “It’s your eyes.”

“My eyes? What about them?”

“They’re always laughing.”

“Not laughing, dancing,” he corrected her.

She said nothing, but her expression was skeptical.

“Talking to you makes my eyes want to dance,” he explained.

“You are being ridiculous.”

“No, I’m entirely serious.”

She blinked, her blush intensified and she looked away. “Please don’t tease me,” she said in a low voice, and he realized she was heading into anemone territory.

He changed the subject. “Have you heard from your sister yet?”

She relaxed slightly. “No, but it’s early days yet. She has better things to do than write.” She became aware of what she’d said, and the blush returned. It was adorable. He changed the subject again.

“So, will you be going maid-hunting tomorrow?”

“No, I’ve had to put it off. Mr. Clayborn is taking me for a drive tomorrow afternoon.”

“Clayborn? That—” He broke off.

“He’s a very fine gentleman,” she said with a faint note of reproof. “And a war hero.”

Race wanted to curse. You couldn’t argue with wounded war heroes, no matter how annoying they were.

He spent the rest of the waltz trying to regain his lost ground. There was no flirting, nothing the slightest bit suggestive; he kept his conversation light, entertaining—he hoped—and innocuous.

But to no avail. She didn’t soften toward him again. She wasn’t rude, or even cold, but for all the warmth she showed him, she might have been dancing with an octogenarian. Or a perfect stranger. In fact, he decided, she would probably be warmer toward an octogenarian. She was kind like that.

Still, over supper they could talk properly and he could straighten out whatever this little misunderstanding was.

Waltzing in Lord Randall’s arms was…exhilarating. And exhausting—and not in the physical sense.

He swept her around the floor, holding her with the lightest touch, not the slightest bit too close, or the least bit improper. Even so she could feel the heat of his tall, lean body, his power implicit in the way he led her through the dance.

They both wore gloves, but all that light barrier did was make her wonder what it would be like to have his bare hand on her, skin to skin.

She liked dancing, and she and her sister had practiced the waltz assiduously in preparation for that longed-for first time at Almack’s, and since then she’d danced it several times with various partners. But none of those partners had made her feel as light, as graceful, almost fairylike as she felt with Lord Randall.

In the first few minutes she’d asked herself whether she’d made a mistake, accepting his invitation to dance.

Because the waltz, in his arms, was pure seduction.

But she’d crushed her doubts and reminded herself that she was here to enjoy herself, that she was in no danger of losing her heart—her head was stronger than her heart—and that he was a rake for a reason—he made women feel good. More than good.

And it was true: she felt wonderful. And she was determined to let herself relax and enjoy it.

She’d relaxed in his arms, giving herself over to the music and the man. She leaned closer to him and let herself be transported to who knew where.

The others in the ballroom seemed to blur; she was aware of only him. His light touch didn’t disguise the leashed strength of him as he whirled her around the room. It was so easy to just let herself be swept away, to trust herself to him entirely, twirling like a leaf in a whirlpool.

After a few moments she closed her eyes, because Lord Randall’s compelling gray gaze never shifted from her face. It was warm, like a touch. Far from his eyes wandering about the room to see what others might be doing, he barely seemed to notice anyone else in the room, except that he never bumped into anyone, never made a misstep.

His intense regard was flattering, but also a little overwhelming.

But closing her eyes might have been a mistake, because she became more aware of him than ever.

The warmth of his hands through the fabric of her gloves and the light pressure of his hand at her waist. The subtle scent of him teased her nostrils; the faint masculine tang of his shaving soap, spicy cologne and—she breathed in deeply trying to identify that other elusive scent. She was always fascinated by smells and eventually she realized that the faint, enticing extra layer of fragrance she could smell was masculinity. Specifically Lord Randall’s.

Dancing the waltz with him was pure seduction…until he’d started to make conversation. It broke the spell. She was hopeless at flirting. His ability to fluster her was as bad as ever. But this time she felt she’d held her own. More or less. She was quite proud of that.

Not that it made much difference. Every move the man made, every word he uttered, every glance he gave was seductive.

It was nothing like her dance with Lord Vibart. He was another notorious rake, darkly handsome and very attractive, but he didn’t stir her senses in the least. And his blatant flirting and suggestive remarks only made her laugh or blush. She wasn’t at all attracted to him, and so the dance had been easy, lighthearted.

Dancing with Lord Randall had been…blissful. Despite his effect on her, she didn’t regret it for a minute. She understood, more than ever, why those other ladies pursued him so blatantly.

But despite the magic—or maybe because of it—she knew it would be fatal to succumb. And so she wouldn’t.

As he led her off the dance floor and headed toward the supper room, she saw Mrs. Price-Jones on the other side of the room, watching.

Mrs. Price-Jones raised a brow and glanced at Lord Randall, as if asking whether he was taking her in to supper. Clarissa nodded and her chaperone began to bustle her way through the throng entering the supper room.

“Ah, that one will do nicely.” Lord Randall led Clarissa to a small table near the window. There were just two chairs. The small table had obviously been brought in from some other part of the house, just for this occasion, but it was too intimate. She’d already told him what she wanted: that she didn’t need his protection, especially on Leo’s behalf.

She glanced around, hoping to find seats near someone she knew, but there were none.

He seated her, and pulled out his own chair.

“Thank heavens!” Mrs. Price-Jones declared as she pushed past him and sank into it. “I am exhausted. I fear I’ve danced my feet to stumps.” She beamed up at Lord Randall. “Thank you soooo much for procuring me a chair, Lord Randall. My partner seems to have deserted me.” She glanced at Clarissa. “Thank goodness for true gentlemen, don’t you agree, Clarissa?” She winked.

Clarissa, who was trying not to laugh at her chaperone’s barefaced piracy of Lord Randall’s seat, managed to make a muffled, agreeing sort of sound.

Lord Randall gave Mrs. Price-Jones a gimlet look that indicated he was quite aware of her tactics, but that being a gentleman, he had no option but to accept them. “Very well, I will find another chair.”

“Thank you, dear boy. And perhaps you can make it two chairs—I see my partner approaching. He didn’t desert me after all. Nice to know my allure hasn’t left me.”

Lord Randall, with a long-suffering look, went off to find a couple of chairs.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Mrs. Price-Jones murmured to Clarissa.

“Not at all.” It was an understatement. What she felt was pure relief.

A few minutes later, when Race returned with a footman carrying two chairs, it was to find the chaperone’s partner, an elegant silver-haired gentleman, already seated on the other side of Miss Studley.

“Put it down here,” Mrs. Price-Jones instructed. “And we won’t need that other one. Dear Sir Henry found his own chair. So clever of him.” She beamed. The footman placed one of the chairs beside the chaperone and went off with the other.

Race glanced at the table arrangement. The cunning old duck, with her bright, clashing clothing and seemingly artless ways, had effortlessly outmaneuvered him. Miss Studley, seated with Sir Henry on one side and her chaperone on the other, was now quite inaccessible to him. There would be no private conversation tonight.

Mrs. Price-Jones smiled guilelessly up at Race and patted the vacant chair. “Sit down, my boy, no need to be shy.”

Race looked down at Mrs. Price-Jones for a moment and then laughed. “Piqued, repiqued and capotted,” he said, shaking his head as he seated himself beside her. The woman was impossible, but he couldn’t help but like her.

Mrs. Price-Jones fluttered her eyelashes. “You are too kind, sir. I but carry out dear Lord Salcott’s instructions.”

“Naturally,” he agreed sardonically. She had given dear Lord Salcott just such a hard time whenever he’d tried to talk to Izzy alone. She might seem frivolous and scatty, but underneath she was as canny as a general. And unashamedly outrageous.

Wide-eyed, Clarissa leaned forward, peered around her chaperone, who was rather a large woman, met his eye and repeated, “Piqued, repiqued and garroted?”

Mrs. Price-Jones chuckled. “Not garroted, dear—capotted,” she said. “The terms refer to a defeat in the game of piquet—it’s a rather old-fashioned card game—though what on earth dear Lord Randall means by it is more than I can guess. You haven’t heard of it? Sir Henry is an expert, aren’t you, Sir Henry?” She added with a glint of mischief, “Perhaps you would explain the game to Miss Studley.”

“Delighted,” the old chap said, and began an enthusiastic description of the game of piquet.

Race went to fetch supper for himself and the ladies. Arriving back with a footman bearing a tray with three glasses of champagne and three filled plates—he was damned if he’d fetch food and drink for Sir Henry—Race almost laughed aloud at the glazed, blandly polite expression on Miss Studley’s sweet face. Sir Henry was still waxing enthusiastic about a card game she clearly had no interest in.

She leaned forward and gave Race a narrow-eyed look, as if he were to blame.

He spread his hands in a gesture of complete innocence, but he was laughing all the same. The situation was frustrating, but he couldn’t help also finding it amusing.

He passed around the champagne glasses and set down the plates, one for each of the ladies and one for himself. Mrs. Price-Jones immediately passed Race’s plate to Sir Henry, who eyed it greedily and said, “Oh, I say, crab cakes. My favorite.” Forgetting about the delights of piquet, he gobbled down three crab cakes—Race’s crab cakes—in half a minute. Race eyed him balefully. Crab cakes were his favorite, too.

“Not hungry, yourself, dear boy?” the chaperone asked with faux innocence, glancing down at Race’s empty place setting.

“No.” There was no point going back to fill another plate now. The crab cakes were always the first to go.

Race stepped out into the cool of the night and breathed in deeply. It was a relief to leave. London’s air was hardly clean and fresh but the atmosphere at the ball had been stifling with all those expectations and plans. Society events. He rolled his eyes. And the gossip…

It was only midnight, still quite early. He could drop in on one of his clubs, play a few hands. Or take a brandy or two with a congenial acquaintance. But he wasn’t in a sociable mood. The ball had cured him of that for the moment.

Besides, there were those damned betting books in the clubs. Irritably he kicked at a stray pebble. Didn’t people have anything better to do?

Better to take himself and his bad mood home.

He walked back toward his lodgings, deep in thought, oblivious of his surroundings. She had the wrong idea about him, he decided. That one harmless little remark about his buttons and she’d closed up tight like a sea anemone.

Please don’t try to flirt with me, Lord Randall.

And kept him at arm’s length for the rest of the evening.

Yet she was attracted to him, he was sure. He knew women, and all the signs were there. Though in her innocence, she might not understand…

Did she think he was merely flirting? Or worse, trying to seduce her? Didn’t she know he never dallied with innocents?

Of course she didn’t. Who would tell her that? On the contrary, she’d probably been warned off him by some blasted busybody. Dozens of them, if he were any judge.

He had to talk to her, let her know his intentions were strictly honorable. And were nothing to do with his friendship with Leo.

He needed somewhere in private, without that wretched chaperone sticking her nose in. He’d planned to tell her at supper, but the chaperone had ruined that little plan. And showed every sign of foiling any future plans he might have.

He strolled on, passing Berkeley Square, which lay in darkness. The mild evening breeze picked up, sending the leaves of the trees whispering and carrying a waft of sweetly scented air: the grass had recently been cut.

He stopped and stared into the verdant shadows. What a fool he’d been. Of course.

His dark mood evaporated.

“He’s interested, you know.”

Clarissa started. She and Mrs. Price-Jones were in the carriage on the way home from the ball. It was dark, and she was sleepy. “Who is?”

“Lord Randall.”

“Oh, him. I haven’t given a thought to him since supper,” Clarissa said carelessly. It was a lie. “Why are we talking about him?”

“Because he’s interested in you—seriously.”

Clarissa’s heart fluttered, but she squashed it and managed to say coolly, “Nonsense. Everybody knows Lord Randall takes very little seriously.”

“Nevertheless, everybody is talking about his appearance at the ball. It’s not his first, either—you will recall he also attended the Arden ball last month, and several since then. Balls which you also have attended.”

“Why would that be of interest to anyone?”

“It’s not like him, that’s why. There’s speculation that he’s finally decided to take a wife. I believe that wagers have even been made in those horrid betting books in the clubs that gentlemen frequent.” Her voice deepened with significance. “Wagers that link your name with his—oh, don’t worry, they don’t specifically name you—nothing so scandalous. But I’m told they refer to him and a Miss C. S. And you must admit he’s been paying you an unusual degree of attention lately.”

“Nonsense. He’s just being polite while Leo’s away. It’s a favor, that’s all.”

“Perhaps.”

Clarissa shook her head. “I don’t believe the wagers can possibly refer to me and Lord Randall. And even if they did, why would anyone care?”

“To be frank, my dear, there is some degree of surprise that you’re the choice he seems to have settled on. It’s quite a coup for you.”

“Why? Because he’s only ever seen with ravishing beauties?” She expected Mrs. Price-Jones to deny it and utter some nonsense about beauty being in the eye of the beholder. Clarissa was fed up with false compliments. She’d been practically drowned in them tonight at the ball.

But Mrs. Price-Jones surprised her. “Yes, that’s true, and he’s very rich, so it can’t be your fortune that’s attracting him. But men are peculiar: they might select their, let us call them ‘flirts’—”

“You mean mistresses.” Papa had made no secret of his various mistresses. Had rubbed Mama’s nose in them.

“Very well, mistresses, if we’re going to be blunt. They might choose them for their beauty, but when it comes to choosing wives other factors come into play.”

“I know. They prefer them rich and beautiful, but when they can’t have that, they want them obedient, modest, chaste, dutiful and to be able to provide heirs and run a house,” Clarissa said. The depressingly dull virtues. Her mother had drummed them into her. Much good they’d done poor Mama.

“Not necessarily,” her chaperone said. “My own dear Price-Jones chose me before many a beauty who’d been setting their caps at him—bless his heart—and you’d have to agree I’m not and never have been a beauty. Nor am I quiet or obedient or even fashionable.”

Clarissa nodded. She had to agree.

Mrs. Price-Jones continued, “And I had no fortune—not that he needed one, being full of juice himself, the dear man.”

The carriage rattled over the cobblestones. In the distance some revelers in the street shouted and laughed. In the gloom, Clarissa couldn’t see her chaperone’s face: she seemed to be lost in memories, but after a minute her voice brightened. “He wasn’t even the sort of man I thought I wanted, either, being the quiet, thoughtful type, a widower and a complete homebody—he loved his books, you see—and you know how I love a party.

“But we fell in love, and despite our differences we were very happy together. My only regret was that I never had babies, and though he had children by his first wife, they were of an age where they resented anyone taking their mother’s place.” She heaved a sigh. “But there, that’s enough about me—it’s Lord Randall we were talking about.”

“Must we?”

“Of course we must. He’s by far the best of your suitors, and in any case it’s clear to me you’re far from indifferent to him. You’re not, are you?”

Clarissa felt a blush rising and was thankful for the darkness inside the carriage. “It doesn’t matter whether I’m indifferent to him or not—he’s a rake and I will never marry a man like that. Besides, everyone knows he takes nothing seriously. If there are wagers being made, he’s no doubt aware of it and is delighting in fooling everyone. That’s the sort of man he is.”

They passed a market where even at this time, people worked busily setting up their stalls by the light of lanterns. As they left the busy scene and the carriage interior fell once more into darkness, Mrs. Price-Jones said, “I’m not so sure. Granted, he affects a careless manner most of the time, but I’ve seen the way he watches you when he thinks no one is looking. He looks like a man bent on courting to me.”

Clarissa shook her head, wishing Mrs. Price-Jones would drop the subject. Her chaperone’s coy speculation was somehow…painful. Clarissa knew perfectly well that everyone, all those gossiping, speculating people who were imagining things about her and Lord Randall, were wrong.

“You’re mistaken. He’s not courting me at all. He made a promise to Leo to keep an eye on me while Leo and Izzy were away, so if he’s doing anything, it’s protecting me from fortune hunters and other undesirables. I heard him—Lord Randall, I mean—explaining it to his cousin Lady Frobisher when we went riding the other day.”

“Oh.” There was a long silence and then Mrs. Price-Jones said, “I’m still not convinced. I think he’s serious and you should encourage him.”

“Then if you think he’s such a catch and I should encourage him,” Clarissa said, exasperated, “why did you prevent him sitting next to me at supper?” She knew he’d planned some kind of intimate conversation, which is why she’d been nervous about it. But her chaperone couldn’t have known that.

Mrs. Price-Jones laughed. “Oh, my dear, haven’t you learned yet? The harder a man has to work at something, the more you deny him, the more determined he becomes.” She laughed again. “Besides, wasn’t it fun?”