"Tell me your thoughts, Jane," he said softly, his face still to the glass. "What of Montwyn?"
Jane shrugged, and he saw the faint reflection of the gesture in the wavering glass. "You are worried. You need not be."
"You heard what she said to him?"
"No," Jane said cautiously. "But I did observe them from my place near the fire, and the air between them did not seem hostile."
"Not hostile? When she blatantly told him that she was shopping for a husband?"
Jane swallowed before she answered. "Lord Montwyn seems a capable, forthright man. I do not think such bantering will dissuade him."
"Dissuade him?" Albert turned to her. "Was he that interested, and so soon?"
"Let me not misspeak," she said softly. "I think him a man of firmness, of maturity. I think that if Lord Montwyn is at all interested in Clarissa, a few thoughtless words from her will not subdue that interest."
"You have always been observant," he said. "Let us hope you are right. I would not have her season so quickly spoiled."
"Nor would I," she agreed.
With a nod, he gazed back out at his frozen garden. Jane, without another word, left him to his contemplation.
In Lackington's, Beau spotted her immediately. Her dark red hair shone like bright embers against the dark green of her coat. But it was not her hair that drew him; it was her manner. Bright and sharp, feminine and soft, quick and proud- all mixed and blended to such confused refinement that he was able only to smile in bemusement at the contradiction of her.
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.