Chapter Eight

He bent and kissed her, softly at first, just a bare brush of his lips across hers. Yet it somehow seemed to rob her of breath.

Was that it? It was nice, but—

He kissed her again, more deliberately now, his lips soft but his mouth firm, wonderfully firm and masculine. And at the same time soft.

After a moment he pulled back a little. She swallowed. So that was a kiss. It was lovely, but what should she do now? Thank him? She opened her mouth to thank him and oh—he was in her mouth and it was…

She couldn’t think straight. His taste, his heat. Sensations, strange and entrancing, swirled and rippled through her. She clung to him, pressing herself against him, too dazed to do anything except to let him do whatever he wanted. And respond…

At some stage he released her mouth and leaned back, his arms still firm and strong around her. A good thing, too: she could barely stand. Slowly, dizzily, her awareness trickled back. So that was a kiss. Oh my…

She was breathing heavily. So was he. Her hands were pressed against his chest. Was that his heart, beating under her palms?

She gazed up at him. He stared down at her, his eyes dark and unreadable in the shadows.

“Again,” she breathed.

He gave a kind of moan and then his mouth was devouring her, possessing her, and she could only cling to him and try to ride the storm, the glorious storm.

“So! This is what you were up to, you villain!”

They eased apart. Lord Randall still held her, one arm around her waist, supporting her.

Mr. Clayborn continued, “I should call you out for besmirching an innocent girl. For sport—that’s all she is to you, isn’t she, Randall? Filthy rake that you are!”

Clarissa couldn’t speak, she was still dazed by the glory of the kiss. She was distantly aware of Mr. Clayborn waiting for Lord Randall’s response, but he was silent, still breathing heavily. As was she.

With a disgusted sound, Mr. Clayborn grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

She felt suddenly cold.

Lord Randall made no attempt to stop him. He was staring at her with the strangest expression on his face.

Mr. Clayborn started tugging her back toward the ballroom, saying, “Come along, Miss Studley, you’re safe from this villain now. I have you.”

Race sank numbly down onto the nearby bench. Well, he thought. Well…

She’d certainly taken him by surprise.

He had long admired her, had known he was attracted to her, and had been looking forward to kissing her—especially seeing as it was her first kiss. He’d expected to enjoy it.

He hadn’t expected that it would knock him endways.

He’d kissed dozens of women—possibly even a hundred. But nothing—nothing!—had prepared him for kissing Clarissa. That combination of innocence and passion, sweetness and heat…He’d had no idea.

The feel of her in his arms: It was all he could do to keep himself under some kind of control. His body had ached to claim her.

But though she’d been gloriously responsive, she wasn’t yet ready for him. There was arousal, but also confusion—possibly doubt—in those beautiful clear eyes of hers. He had to win her trust before he could even dream of winning her heart.

But lord! That kiss had shaken him to his very bones.

He probably shouldn’t have let her go off with Clayborn, but he was damned if he’d let her be squabbled over, like a bone between two dogs. And though it was clear that Clayborn was itching for a fight—and while Race would love to punch the man—him and his we have an understanding—one simply didn’t knock down a former soldier wounded in service to his country.

Besides, it would distress Miss Studley.

Not that he believed for one minute that she had any kind of an understanding with Clayborn. No. She was a loyal little creature—loyal to the backbone—and had there been any hint of an understanding, he was sure she would have refused to go anywhere with him. And she certainly wouldn’t have let him kiss her, let alone returned it with such entrancing enthusiasm.

But she hadn’t refused, and she’d kissed him with such warmth, such eagerness, such unconscious sensuality—and oh, his heart rejoiced.

Rejoiced.

Race leaned back and took a deep breath of the cool evening air. He wasn’t used to all this…emotion. His life had been calm, relatively predictable, and so much easier, until that evening when Miss Studley had walked bravely across a ballroom in clear public support of her illegitimate sister—and the shackles had fallen from his eyes. And his heart.

He sat, staring unseeing at the fresh and lovely garden around him, aware of only one thing: his world had shifted.

As Mr. Clayborn pulled her along the shadowy paths of the garden, heading back toward the ballroom, Clarissa glanced back at Lord Randall. He was seated on the bench, still with that same strange expression on his face.

Didn’t he care that Mr. Clayborn had insulted him?

Had he really kissed her just for sport? Probably, she thought with a sinking heart.

Did she care? She did, rather—but she knew she shouldn’t. She’d always known he was a rake. Disappointment wrestled with exhilaration.

At least now she knew what it was like to be kissed, really kissed. Her mouth—her whole body—still tingled deliciously. The taste of him, the exciting dark masculine taste of him was seared into her very being. She would never forget it.

She’d finally been kissed, and oh, what a kiss. Kisses. She could never go back to the girl she’d been just an hour before. She felt like a caterpillar who, for a brief moment, had felt like a butterfly—beautiful and glamorous.

Still a little dazed, her entire awareness bound up in Lord Randall’s kisses, she let herself be towed along by Mr. Clayborn.

Until she became aware of what he was saying.

“—as foolish as to go anywhere with that man. Letting yourself be enticed into a dark corner and used like a whore!”

It was cold water dashed in her face. “A whore?” She yanked herself free of the hand that was gripping her arm.

“I don’t think that, of course,” he said hastily. “But it’s what people will say. Other people. Ignorant people. Gossips and troublemakers.”

She eyed him levelly.

He continued, “You are too innocent to realize it, but Lord Randall is a notorious womanizer with no morals and no scruples. He’s an immoral degenerate, not to be trusted with a decent, innocent g—”

She cut him off. “Lord Randall is my guardian’s good friend.” And she’d seen no sign of degeneracy in him. He’d been considerate and respectful of her. Of course, he probably shouldn’t have kissed her but that was not entirely his fault. She’d cooperated. Fully. Invited it, almost.

He snorted. “Some friend, to lure his friend’s innocent ward into the shadows and seduce—”

“There was no seduction.”

“No, because I rescued you.” He tried to recapture her hand.

She evaded it. “You didn’t rescue me—”

“I did,” he insisted. “What do you think would have happened if people had seen you letting him maul you like that?”

“He didn’t mau—”

“You would have been ruined! Or worse, compromised and forced to marry him to save your reputation. No doubt that’s what he was counting on, the villain.”

She stepped back. “Don’t be ridiculous. There was no attempt at seduction, no mauling and though it was perhaps not quite proper, we were very discreet. The place was secluded and quite private. As for his attempting to compromise me…” She shook her head. “It was just a kiss. And,” she added defiantly, “I was quite willing.”

He stared at her in outrage. “Willing? You were willing? Willing to let that reprobate…?”

Clarissa inclined her head.

He stared at her for a long moment.

“Then in that case—” He grabbed her and mashed his mouth over hers. His fingers dug into her upper arms and her lips were ground unpleasantly against her teeth.

After a moment, he broke off, panting.

“I did not—” she began, but he pounced again, this time thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth.

Clarissa wondered briefly whether she should at least try to give him the benefit of the doubt. But it was unendurable. She tried to end it, tried to withdraw, but his grip on her tightened, his mouth and tongue kept mashing on her, and in the end she was forced to shove him away, hard.

He staggered back, wincing as he landed on his bad leg. He stared at her with an expression she was sure was furious, and wiped his mouth. A frisson of anxiety ran down her spine and she braced herself for some unpleasantness—or worse—but then his expression changed.

“Oh, forgive me, forgive me, my dear Miss Studley. I got carried away. My feelings for you simply overwhelmed me. I was outraged by the way that villain took advantage of your innocence, sullying your purity—and now, I have done the same. Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive a man driven to madness by your—”

She cut him off. “It’s getting chilly. I wish to return to the ball.” And she wanted a drink to wipe the taste of him from her mouth. She turned and marched toward the lights of the ballroom.

He hurried after her, babbling apologies and excuses, interrupted by small gasps each time he stepped on his bad leg.

Clarissa did not respond. She thought about the advice Mrs. Price-Jones had given her and Izzy when they first entered society: You need to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince.

It had shocked her at the time—chaperones were not supposed to say such things—but now she knew: Lord Randall’s kisses were…magical, but with his way of life, he could never be her prince.

And Mr. Clayborn, suitable though he was in so many ways…He was definitely a frog.

Anxious to leave Mr. Clayborn and his irritating, useless apologies behind she picked up her pace but then, the sound of his agonized efforts to keep up with her pricked at her conscience. She relented guiltily and slowed her pace.

She was angry with him for disappointing her, she realized. She’d been hoping his kiss would confirm that he was the man for her, and instead it had confirmed the very opposite. And his breathless torrent of apologies was just making her crosser—all that nonsense about her purity and innocence!

The moment they entered the ballroom, and he made it clear that he wished to continue the conversation, she cut him off, saying, “I’m terribly thirsty, Mr. Clayborn, could you fetch me a drink, please? Lemonade for preference.”

He hesitated, then inclined his head in agreement. He was not the sort of man who footmen and waiters noticed, so after a frustrating few minutes trying to get their attention, he stumped off to fetch the drink himself.

Clarissa heaved a sigh of relief. She needed a few minutes alone to clarify the swirling chaos of her very mixed feelings. So much for experiencing her first kiss. In the last half hour she’d kissed two men—two!—and with very different results. It was terribly confusing.

Why, oh why couldn’t Lord Randall have been the frog?

“Your little plot failed, didn’t it?” a sardonic voice behind her said.

Clarissa turned in surprise and found a sharp-featured, fashionably dressed lady standing rather close. “Were you talking to me?” she said. The lady’s face was familiar but she couldn’t recall her name.

The lady didn’t respond for a minute. Her gaze raked Clarissa slowly up and down, then she snorted contemptuously. “You haven’t a hope, little miss butter-won’t-melt. Race Randall isn’t the sort who’d let himself be trapped by a dreary little dab like you. He has much better taste than that.”

“I beg your pardon,” Clarissa began. Lady Snape, that’s who she was. Clarissa didn’t like the woman’s attitude or her tone, and the suggestion that she’d tried to entrap Lord Randall was positively insulting.

Lady Snape continued as if Clarissa hadn’t spoken. “Going out into the night with one man and returning with another? Quite the little schemer, aren’t you? You must be positively desperate.”

“How da—”

The woman swept on. “You’d be better off hanging on to that angelic-looking cripple. You might get him to the altar if you try hard enough. Forget about Race Randall. He isn’t the slightest bit serious—he couldn’t be. He’s the sort of man who’s attracted only to the most beautiful women.” She preened herself in a suggestive manner. “And I should know. We are intimate friends. In-tim-ate.”

Clarissa had no idea what to say.

“A plain little dumpling like you?” Lady Snape’s gaze raked her and she snorted again. “You realize you’re making a complete fool of yourself, chasing after him as you are.”

Clarissa had not been chasing after Lord Randall—quite the opposite. Izzy would have snapped back at this nasty creature with something clever and cutting, but Clarissa could never think quickly enough. And when she was angry and tried to be cutting, she invariably messed it up. But she had her own way of handling malicious creatures like this one.

“It’s terribly sweet of you to worry about me,” she said warmly, “but there’s really no need at all.”

Lady Snape started at her in blank surprise. “Sweet?” she repeated incredulously.

“Yes, indeed, very sweet and most kind of you,” Clarissa cooed. “But fear not, I have no designs on Lord Randall, nor he on me. He is only taking care of me while my guardian is on his honeymoon. He’s been rather like…an uncle to me.”

The woman’s mouth dropped open. “An uncle?”

“Yes. A kind and helpful uncle. Quite stuffy, really, but terribly well-meaning. There’s nothing personal in it at all, so you see, you needn’t worry that I’m stealing his attention away from you. Or even those beautiful ladies you mentioned that he prefers.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed.

“But thank you for your very kind concern, Lady Snake,” Clarissa finished, “even though it was quite unnecessary.”

There was a moment’s silence, then, “Stupid, too. And the name is Snape, not Snake,” the woman muttered, and swept away.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Clarissa murmured as she watched her leave. She mightn’t be quick with a sharp retort, like Izzy, but responding unexpectedly, meeting nastiness with apparently oblivious warmth disconcerted some people just as effectively.

The woman’s darts couldn’t hurt her—oh, they had, a little, but as long as the harpy didn’t realize it, Clarissa felt she had come out of the encounter the victor.

Now, if only this evening could end. She went in search of Mrs. Price-Jones, planning to claim a headache and ask to leave early. It wasn’t quite a lie. She was exhausted.

Race remained on the garden seat, sitting in the dark, his thoughts in a whirl. And the cause? Miss Clarissa Studley.

He hadn’t really noticed her when he’d initially met her: she was just Leo’s ward, a pleasant, somewhat shy young lady.

Her riding skills had impressed him first. Quiet, unassuming young ladies were generally, in Race’s experience, cautious, often barely competent riders, hardly able to do much more than trot tolerably well in the park. But on horseback, Miss Clarissa was not merely capable, but quite dashing. The contrast between her modest and demure social demeanor and her prowess on horseback intrigued him.

Then, witnessing the incident at the Arden ball, where she had publicly stepped forward to defend her half sister—and hang the consequences!—he realized that she was courageous, and amazingly loyal to those she loved.

There was the public Miss Studley—quiet, shy, unassuming—and then there was the private Clarissa, still apparently quiet and shy—but don’t ever mistake that for weakness, as some people did. She was full of surprises.

In the last few weeks, in Leo’s absence, Race had been thrown more into her company than usual, and as he got to know her, the realization had grown on him that she was beautiful. Oh, it wasn’t the obvious arrangement of features that passed for beauty in society—he was well used to society beauties demanding his attention.

Clarissa’s was a more subtle beauty, something to do with the softness and purity of her skin, the clarity of those wide hazel eyes and the many expressions and thoughts reflected so candidly in them. There was a sweetness in her that was rare and precious—and he wasn’t simply talking about her smile, or that luscious mouth—or that kiss! He shook his head in frustration.

No, no list of features could sum up Clarissa: she was more, so much more than the sum of her parts. He’d been too blind at first to realize it, but now that he truly saw her, he couldn’t unsee it. She was beautiful. And warm and loving. And utterly desirable.

He wanted her, he was clear about that. But that one glorious kiss aside, she was proving damnably resistant to his charms.

“Don’t suppose you’ve made any morning calls on Lady Scattergood recently, have you?” Race asked his cousin in what he hoped was a casual manner. He’d dropped in on the off chance of catching up with his favorite relative. At least that’s what he told himself. They were taking tea together.

Maggie laughed. “Why? Have you developed a tendre for the old lady? I do find her most entertaining.”

Race arched a sardonic eyebrow.

Maggie laughed again and gave him a knowing look. “I have, as a matter of fact. And in very interesting news, Miss Studley’s chaperone let slip to me that the angelic-looking Mr. Clayborn is becoming most particular in his attentions. Most particular. She seemed quite thrilled.”

Race set his jaw. Clayborn? Surely she couldn’t…She wouldn’t…

“She gave me to understand that she wouldn’t be surprised if there was an Interesting Announcement in the not-too-distant future,” Maggie continued. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

Race said nothing. He hadn’t believed in that “understanding” that Clayborn had claimed that time but what if it hadn’t been braggadocio? What if there was some kind of an understanding and they were only waiting for Leo to return from his honeymoon to announce it?

It was not to be thought of. But he wasn’t going to sit around and wait for it to happen. He had to act, quickly.

Several society events were being held this evening; a card party, a soirée musicale and a small but very select dinner at one of the foreign embassies—the Austrian one, he thought. For some reason Race had received invitations to all three. He had no doubt his cousin had as well.

“Do you and Oliver have any plans for this evening?” he said nonchalantly, effecting a change of subject.

“Oh yes, definitely,” Maggie said. “You know I like to keep busy.”

“I don’t suppose you know…” He trailed off. His cousin’s expression was that of a magpie spying a glittering treasure. “Oh, it doesn’t matter.”

“Oliver and I have dinner invitations from the Austrian embassy. You know how Oliver enjoys these political discussions, but if it’s too dreary I’ve told him I’m leaving the moment the dinner is over and will go on to something else more interesting.”

“Understandable.” His cousin hadn’t the faintest interest in politics.

Maggie cocked her head curiously. “Didn’t you receive an invitation to it?”

“I did, yes. As well as several others.” Lately, since the rumor had spread that he was now in the market for a bride, he’d been inundated with invitations. Curse it.

“And what are your plans?” Maggie asked. “Will you join us at the embassy?”

“No. My plans are undecided at the moment. I don’t suppose you know anyone else who might be going?” He couldn’t imagine Miss Studley would be invited, but it would narrow down the choices.

“Oh yes, several of Oliver’s stodgy friends will be there.” Maggie sipped her tea, nibbled on a piece of shortbread and after a few moments said airily, “Miss Studley told me she was planning to attend Lady Gastonbury’s soirée musicale this evening.”

“Indeed?” he said, affecting polite indifference.

His cousin laughed merrily. “You deceive no one with your disinterest, dearest cuz. I made sure I learned Miss Studley’s plans for the next week. I knew you’d want to know. She’s going to the soirée tonight, and then she’ll attend the Peplowes’ rout party, and on Wednesday she’s going to Almack’s—not that you’d be interested in that. I know how you feel about Almack’s.”

Race stood up. “Thank you for the tea, Maggie. It was very nice.”

“Said the man who let his tea grow cold, untouched, and hasn’t tasted a single crumb of Cook’s delicious shortbread,” his cousin said affably. She rose and patted his cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you informed of all her activities. We can’t let the saintly wounded hero of Waterloo get the better of us, can we?”

Race had nothing to say to that. He didn’t want his gossipy cousin to be involved in his courtship at all, but since he could not call on Miss Studley himself—curse it!—he had no choice. But it went very much against the grain. He’d always managed his own affairs in private.

He kissed his cousin’s cheek and took his leave of her.

Old Lady Gastonbury’s soirées musicale were strangely popular with the ton, though why, Race couldn’t understand. They were primarily a venue for showing off the talents of her beloved granddaughter. He’d never met Cicely or heard her sing, but rumor held her to be a pleasant girl who couldn’t carry a tune to save her life. Apparently neither she nor her grandmother was aware of it.

But Lady Gastonbury was well-liked, and her soirées were famous for the lavish suppers that followed the performances. He supposed that might explain it, though hunger wasn’t generally a feature of society life.

Race arrived a little late—he didn’t want to appear too eager. As it was, Lady Gastonbury greeted him effusively and his entrance caused a ripple of speculation among the waiting audience. He gritted his teeth. He was prepared for his ears to be tortured in the name of love, but he hated the attention he drew.

He stood in the doorway and surveyed the room. Immediately half a dozen women—both matchmaking mamas and married women seeking dalliance—waved to him, and there was a general shifting of seats as they made room for him to sit.

Miss Studley was sitting on the far side of the room, and luck was with him: there was a spare seat between her and her chaperone. The chaperone was in conversation with another lady. Miss Studley didn’t seem to have noticed him yet—she was looking straight ahead of her—but as he watched, her color heightened. She knew.

He made his way between rows of chairs, heading toward her, nodding to various people who greeted him along the way, but when he finally reached Miss Studley, dammit if that spare seat wasn’t taken.

He glared at the white-haired elderly dandy who’d stolen his place. The old fellow beamed up at him. “How d’ye do, young Randall? Come to enjoy some fine music, eh? Miss Cicely’s a marvel, don’cha think?” He glanced at Miss Studley sitting demurely beside him, and added, “I expect you’d prefer to be sittin’ where I am, but when this kind lady invited me to sit with her, well, what sort of a slow-top would refuse, eh? A thorn between two roses, eh? Delighted to be here.” He chuckled.

She invited him?

Miss Studley smiled politely, but failed to meet Race’s eye.

Race inclined his head. “Good evening, Sir Oswald, Miss Studley, Mrs. Price-Jones.”

Miss Studley murmured a greeting, but still didn’t meet his eyes.

Old Sir Oswald Merridew kept rabbiting on about something, but Race paid him a bare minimum of attention. Why wouldn’t she look at him? Was she embarrassed about the kiss they’d shared? Surely not.

But if it had rocked him to his foundations, maybe it had the same effect on her. Had it alarmed her, perhaps? Her first taste of passion.

Or was she really planning to marry Clayborn as the fellow had claimed?

The thought filled his veins with ice. But why else would she refuse to look at him? And invite some jolly old buffer to sit beside her when she must have known he was here and would wish to sit with her.

Lady Gastonbury tinkled a little bell and a hush fell over the audience. By now there were only a few chairs left on the other side of the room. Race took himself to the end of Miss Studley’s row and propped himself against the wall, where he could watch her, as well as the performances.

Tonight she was wearing a dress of the palest green, and somehow it made her eyes look almost green. So changeable they were, he’d never get tired of gazing into them.

She was well aware of him, he decided. The music had started—not Cicely yet, some soprano he didn’t know; quite good. Miss Studley gave her entire attention to the performance. Her blush had faded a little but it was still there, and she kept darting quick, sideways glances at him and pursing her lips a little.

It was adorable.

She couldn’t possibly be thinking of marrying that wretched Clayborn.

The soprano finished her piece, and everyone applauded, then Cicely stepped onto the small stage. Race braced himself—he hadn’t ever been to one of these events before, but Cicely’s fame had gone before her.

The pianist played the opening bars and Cicely opened her mouth and the noise that came out…Lord, but the suppers had better be worth it. He glanced at Miss Studley and almost laughed out loud at the politely smiling rigidity of her expression. Her ears were being lacerated, too.

The song came to an end and she applauded enthusiastically. Race did, too, wondering how many of those clapping were clapping in relief.

But there was more to come. Next she murdered a song from Mozart’s Così fan tutte, then a Scottish ballad, then it was back to Mozart, who would surely be spinning in his grave.

The concert was endless. Race endured it. What animal was it that could close its ears? Otters? Seals? Whichever it was, he devoutly wished he could close his against the assault they were experiencing.

Finally, blessedly, Miss Cicely finished, and supper was announced. Miss Studley rose, murmured something to her chaperone and they both hurried from the room.

Call of nature, he decided, and sauntered out to the supper room to await her return. Ten minutes passed, then another ten. Where was she? Was she ill?

He waited another few minutes and then took himself to the hall outside the ladies’ retiring room. An elderly lady he didn’t know was about to enter. “Could you tell me if my er, cousin is in there, please?” he asked her. “Her hair is a soft brown and she’s wearing a pale green dress.”

A few minutes later the old lady came out. “Nobody else in there at all,” she said. “She’ll be in the supper room. The Gastonbury suppers are famous. Nobody wants to miss them.”

But she wasn’t in the supper room at all. She’d left. Understandable—her ears were probably bleeding. But she knew he was here and that he clearly wanted to talk to her. But apart from the murmured greeting when he first arrived, she hadn’t spoken a word to him.

She was avoiding him. Why?

“Coming back in, young Randall?” Sir Oswald clapped him on the back. “You’ll get a seat this time. Smaller audience in the second half—a lot leave after the supper. Don’t understand it, m’self.”

There was more alleged music to come? Race was appalled. Murmuring some excuse, he took his leave from Sir Oswald, thanked Lady Gastonbury and Cicely, lied in his teeth about how delightful the evening had been, and how sorry he was that he was expected elsewhere, and fled.

“Would you like me or Joan to make you a nice, soothing tisane, miss?” Betty said in a solicitous voice as she lifted Clarissa’s dress carefully over her head.

“No thank you,” Clarissa said. It wasn’t a soothing tisane she needed, it was a purge, a Lord Randall purge.

“Well, if you’re sure, miss. It’s no trouble.” Betty was helping Clarissa get ready for bed, and at the same time issuing a low-voiced series of instructions to the maid-in-training, Joan, explaining how to wash miss’s good silk stockings, clean her shoes and put away her lovely dress—wrapping it in tissue just so, to prevent it creasing. Secrets of a lady’s maid.

“Thank you, but no, I just need to sleep.” She didn’t deserve Betty’s concern. She was becoming a liar. This was the second time in a week she’d used an imaginary headache as an excuse to leave a function early. But what else could she do?

The way Lord Randall had lounged against the wall, arms crossed, pretending to listen to poor Cicely’s singing, when all the time he was watching Clarissa like a hawk—she could feel his gaze resting on her like a warm caress. It made her ridiculously self-conscious. She was sure everyone must have noticed how she was blushing.

Betty finished undoing her corset and set it aside, leaving Clarissa in her chemise. Her nightgown lay ready, draped across the end of the bed.

“Shall I—” Betty began.

“No, that will be all, thank you, Betty—and Joan.” She smiled at the new girl. “I want to wash first. I won’t need you again tonight—thank you for waiting up.”

“You’ll need hot water then,” Betty said. “Joan—”

“No, no, cold will do very well, thank you. Good night.” Cold water was exactly what she needed, in more ways than one.

The maids left and Clarissa washed, using the large ewer of cold water on the marble-topped side table.

She had to find some way of squashing these inappropriate and unwelcome feelings she had for him. She should never have allowed that kiss, that magical, intoxicating, deeply disturbing kiss. She couldn’t get it out of her mind.

She smoothed the cool face flannel over her hot cheeks.

What was he trying to do? He never attended things like musical evenings, though people had hinted that he often attended the opera. Not that she ever asked about him, but he was a common subject of gossip among some of the ladies she was acquainted with, and the ladies she’d overheard weren’t usually talking directly to her.

The consensus seemed to be that it wasn’t the music that attracted him to the opera, so much as the opera dancers. It’s what attracted most men, according to the gossips. Opera dancers, Clarissa gathered, reading between the lines, were attractive young women of loose morals. Very loose morals.

She was inclined to believe it. Nobody who loved music would attend Lady Gastonbury’s soirées unless they were deaf, fond of the old lady and Cicely, or desperate for a good supper, and in Lord Randall’s case she doubted any of those applied.

He must have come because of her—but how did he know she was planning to attend?

She climbed into bed and pulled the covers up.

His cousin. Of course. She had mentioned her intention to Maggie the other day, and Maggie had teased her, saying that her ears would regret it.

He was spying on her, and his cousin was helping him.

It was a very lowering reflection. She punched her pillow into shape and lay down. She’d thought she and Maggie were becoming friends. How disheartening to realize it wasn’t true friendship at all, that the lively lady had an underlying intention: to keep Lord Randall informed.

It was more than disheartening, it was infuriating. Leo must have set Lord Randall to watch over her. He could deny it all he liked: she knew better now.

And in the process, he’d decided to entertain himself by teasing her, and flirting. It was what he was renowned for.

The memory of the way he’d leaned against the wall, watching her, that…that look in his eye, as if he and she shared a secret—she could feel herself blushing even now.

She sat up and punched the pillow again. This ridiculous tendre she had for a completely unsuitable man—she had to cure herself of it. Somehow. And with that resolution in her head she leaned over, blew out the candle by her bedside and lay staring into the dark. Willing herself to sleep to—what was it?—“knit up the ravelled sleave of care,” as Shakespeare put it.

But when sleep finally came—and it didn’t come easily—she dreamed of a pair of laughing gray eyes and a tall, lanky and infuriatingly attractive man.

The morning after the soirée unmusicale dawned clear and fine, so Race sent a note around to his cousin, asking her to invite Miss Studley to go for a ride. He had to see her, had to discover what she was feeling. Why had she avoided him last night? Was she embarrassed? Did she regret their kiss? Had he upset her in some way?

Half an hour later his cousin responded, passing on Miss Studley’s regrets but she was not free to go riding today. “Never mind,” Maggie had added. “There’s always the Peplowe rout party tonight.”

Very well then. The rout party it would be.