He wanted her.
It was too soon for such a conclusion, yet it was no thoughtful, logical, intellectual process that brought him to the knowledge. It was instinct. Desire. Passion.
Poor yardsticks when choosing a wife. Yet so he found himself. He wanted her. With such a woman, having her required marriage. For her he was willing to pay the price, though it was high.
Propriety demanded a lengthier involvement before pronouncing his intent. Propriety demanded that he proceed slowly. Propriety demanded that he appear reasonable and methodical. He had never once considered the demands of propriety, and he saw no reason to begin now. The choice was made. Clarissa Walingford would be his wife, and the sooner the better.
He could not help wondering if she knew of their inevitable union as certainly as he did.
She did not.
She stood alone, Russell having taken himself off to another part of the shop while she conferred with the clerk. She felt his presence before she saw him, her breath quickening to match her pulse. It was a most inappropriate response to a man her logic had rejected. His arm appeared over her shoulder, and in his hand he held… a small square of embroidered linen.
"Do you like it?" he said, his words warm and soft on the back of her neck.
She turned to face him and held his green eyes with her gaze. She would not run from Lord Montwyn again, of that she was certain, though the urge to retreat from his proximity was strong. He was so very tall and broad, the shadow of his dark beard leaving a clear outline underneath his skin. She could see all so clearly, so intimately, and her heart raced. Against all logic her heart raced. But she would not run; she would instead compel him to run from her.
"A trifle ornate for my tastes, but then, it probably suits you."
He smiled and tucked the bit of linen into a pocket in his coat. "Searching for a book on embroidery?"
"No. I am not," she said, turning back to the clerk.
Montwyn moved to stand beside her and took the book she had been considering from her hands. His hands were large, his fingers long, his nails squared and clean. She looked away from his hands.
"A History of the Peloponnesian Wars," he quoted. "Not in Greek?" he asked.
"No," she said, lifting her chin.
"You disappoint me, miss."
"With pleasure, sir," she said with a sharp smile. "I'll take it," she said to the clerk. She had been debating choosing lighter reading; the debate within her ceased upon the arrival of Henry Wakefield. Where was Russell?
"Any more shopping to do?" Montwyn asked as the clerk wrapped the book and tallied the bill.
"Yes, but only for husbands," she said, watching the book being wrapped, not watching him. But she could feel him, feel his strength, the power of his personality. He was most unwelcome. If only he had the sense to realize it.
Montwyn laughed with genuine pleasure. The man was an obvious imbecile.
"You think to shock me," he said.
"Only if you find the truth shocking," she answered.
"Never." He smiled.
Even his smile was powerful. He was overwhelmingly masculine, a most unwelcome man.
"The truth," he continued, "is always delightful and precious for its rarity."
"That statement speaks volumes about you, sir. The truth is not rare, in my experience."
"And that, miss, speaks volumes about your innocence."
"I can only think you mean to insult me," she said.
"Never," he replied.
If not for his arrogance, his insults, his bone-deep Englishness, she might have found him attractive. But she did not. She would not. Where was Russell?
"Has your escort gone missing?" he asked, seeming to read her.
"My brother, Russell," she answered, taking the package from the clerk and nodding her thanks.
"A Walingford I have yet to meet, and I have met so many."
"Have you?" She smiled. "I rather doubt you have met us all. We are a rather large clan."
"Clan? An odd way of putting it."
"Not if one is Irish," she said, walking away from him. He followed. He was either more arrogant than she had thought or more unintelligent. Perhaps he was both.
"And your being English is then what makes it odd. Is that not so, Lady Clarissa?"
Russell's arrival, late but welcome, kept her from having to make a response to his most uncomfortable question and his most impertinent address.
The introductions were brief and cordial, both men seeming to take a liking to each other almost immediately. It was most irritating. They knew some of the same people, even shared common friends between them; when the conversation strolled in the direction of hunting parties, she loosed the reins on her strict and composed silence. Russell would no more build a friendship with this man than she would be ignored by him.
"I am certain that with all of your mutual acquaintances, there must be one among them who has a sister or a cousin of marriageable age who would be more than pleased to welcome Lord Montwyn into their company. I feel that his time would be so very well spent in such a gathering," she said.
Russell, dear Russell, could only blink in shock.
Clarissa smiled, awaiting whatever answer Montwyn could think to give, oddly gratified to have his full attention once more. That was odd, was it not? That she should so want those green eyes of his to be looking fully at her? It was not the way of a woman who disdained a man, and she was too honest not to see the truth in herself. She did not like Lord Montwyn. No, she did not. But… she did enjoy the time spent in his presence. He excited her as did no other. And that was something to ponder.
Montwyn smiled in the face of her challenge and her dismissal while she awaited his reply.
"I can only be eager to meet any woman of fine family and good name. Thank you for your avid attention to my needs; it speaks… volumes," he said with a knowing smile, and without taking another breath he excused himself and left the shop.
Which only irritated her. She was to have made her exit first, leaving him behind, leaving him defeated. It would not happen again, of that she was determined.
"What were you thinking to speak so to Montwyn, Clarissa? I hope you haven't offended him. He seems a likely chap, after all," Russell said, taking her arm and guiding her out of Lackington's.
Clarissa smiled and said with rueful respect for such a stellar exit, "Worry not, Russell. Lord Montwyn will be smiling for an hour."
Dalton happened upon Beau in the glove maker's shop. Montwyn was wearing an odd sort of half smile, which Dalton took note of but could not decipher. Whatever it was, Beau looked well pleased with himself and, knowing Beau as he did, Dalton could only conclude that Montwyn thought he had Clarissa well in hand. Such a conclusion would not do. An easy victory would only bore him, of that he was certain. Clarissa, nobly doing her part to cause Beau to trip at every turn, needed his help. He was only too glad to give it.
"You know, Beau, Kilworth's cousin is out this season. A fine-looking girl with a pleasing countenance and gentle manner. Blond, I've heard, but whether the curls are natural, no one is offering. She would do for you, I think," Dalton said, looking over Beau's selection. "This gray pair doesn't suit you, Montwyn, too pale."
Beau looked at him askance and tossed the gray to the clerk with a nod, making his selection. "You know that I've been rather taken with your own sister, Dalton. Why fob off Kilworth's cousin on me?"
"Just hate to see you settle in so soon, that's all," Dalton said. "Plenty of girls out this season. Clarissa isn't right for just any man."
"I am not 'any' man," Beau said, selecting a bloodred pair of gloves.
"No, of course not," Dalton said, holding up a pair of parrot green gloves and shuddering mildly before tossing them down. "But perhaps a girl of more… delicacy… would better suit. Marriage is a serious step. One must be certain of eventual contentment."