"Confound you, Clarissa! You know there is no such need-"
She laid a hand upon his arm and looked up into his eyes. "I would rather have it behind me, Lindley. The matrimonial blade gleams quite wickedly over my neck. I would the sooner have it drop."
Now it was guilt that dogged him; she could read it in his eyes. But she had spoken truly; she had no will to delay what she knew was her family duty. To delay meant to feed the illusion of choice, and she had no choice. She must marry and marry well.
Lord Montwyn, joining their company, ended the argument, which was just as well.
"Good evening, Beau," Lindley said with a bow. "A pleasure to see you, as always."
"Good evening." Montwyn bowed, his eyes lingering on Clarissa. She returned his look after her quick curtsy. "I had hoped to see you tonight," he said.
Of course he had. He was behaving very much like a man who had made up his mind as to the woman of his choice; she knew enough of men to know that. And she knew Lindley well enough to know that her blatant perusal of Montwyn was making him uncomfortable. That was a pity-for Lindley. Henry Wakefield, Lord Montwyn, was not discomfitted at all, that she could see. She was quite certain that, having made the ill-guided decision that she was to be the future Earl of Montwyn's mother, Henry Wakefield expected her to be honored and flattered. He truly was an imbecile.
"You are called Beau, Lord Montwyn? I was told your given name was Henry," she said.
"Beau, for Beauford, another of my names. A childhood name that has stuck with me," he answered, holding her eyes. His eyes were the most intense shade of green…
"I should think that few men would be so mild as to keep a childhood name alive into adulthood," she said, breaking contact with his eyes and looking down at her fan. What was behind his eyes? Something that called to her heart and not her head; she would ignore it.
"Yes, I suppose I would feel so if my nurse had taken to calling me Puddles," he said, grinning.
His face was transformed when he grinned. Oh, he was still formidable, but now he also seemed playful, boyish. He must have been a wild youth. She did not know but that he was a wild man. And, foolishly, the thought did not dismay her as it should have. He was bold, yet she could be bold as well.
"Did you make any other purchases at Lackington's today, Lady Clarissa?" Montwyn asked.
"Didn't you watch?" she said. Yes, she could be bold and would be. It delighted him, she knew, and delighting him, just for the moment, amused her.
"Please excuse my sister-" Lindley began, his cheeks red with fury. She knew she had pushed him past mere embarrassment.
"There's no need," Beau interrupted. "She's quite right. I did watch. One book. No-"
"Husband," Clarissa completed for him, smiling up at him. His eyes were like emeralds, deep and sparkling, almost blue in the candlelight.
"Come, Lindley," Jane said, approaching and drawing Lindley off. "Miss Whaley insists on hearing of your exploits with your regiment. It seems her cousin has just bought himself a commission…"
Lindley let himself be taken off, for the most part because Clarissa made it clear that she wanted him to go.
"You enjoy embarrassing him?" Beau asked when they stood alone.
"Not at all. I simply enjoy speaking my mind," she said, still holding his gaze.
Beau studied her, this bold girl, and decided again that he liked what he saw. She had a tongue in her head, and he'd always had an appreciation for redheads. Good family, good name, good looks-and she was not immune to him. He could read her fascination easily enough, and none of it had anything to do with his Irish estate, not with that glowing eye and flushed cheek. A girl could well like Ireland and not have that sort of response. No, she had an affinity for him; that was plain. And she was not afraid of him. So many of these girls this season appeared overawed. But not this one, this girl who so boldly declared herself to be shopping for a husband this year.
Beau smiled deeply, and decided. She was the one. He'd make an offer for her tomorrow morning. It should all be settled by next week-by Christmas, in fact. Convenient, that. He liked to be at Montwyn Hall for the holidays. It would be good to get it all settled and behind him.
"And every Englishman has the right to speak his mind," he answered. "You will find no hindrance here, Lady Clarissa." She bristled as if poked. Had he insulted her somehow? Damned if he knew.
He had insulted her, the dolt. Instantly his facility at amusing her vanished. Really, there was so little logic in allowing herself to find enjoyment in the company of a moderately handsome man of marginal intelligence; her heart thumped an entirely different summation of the man, but her heart- and her eyes as well-had no part in this.
"Excuse me, but I have promised this dance to another. I should like to see you again this evening." He bowed, his eyes never leaving hers.
Arrogant fop. Words of insult crowded her tongue and threatened to smother her judgment. She had been better brought up than to bow to uncivilized urges.
"Enjoy your dance, Lord Montwyn," she said.
"Oh"- he turned to her-"but it is more than a dance, is it not? I am shopping for a bride."
"You attempt to shock me," she said, furious with him as completely as she had been delighted by him a moment before. "All you have accomplished is to illustrate the degradation of your manners and, perhaps, your morals."
"By speaking my mind?" he said with a smile, tormenting her with her own choice of words. "Good evening, Lady Clarissa. I hope to see you again. Soon."
He left her then, his smile as wide, arrogant as a fox. He was a boor. She hated him. He was the most arrogant and insufferable of them all. He was also the one her eyes followed. Stupid thing, eyes. One didn't need them to make a marriage contract. She forced herself to look away from him and survey the rest of the room.
He did cut a splendid figure, though, his height being an advantage few could lay claim to. She forced her eyes to obey her will and studied the other men arrayed for her consideration. What she needed was a list, a list of net worth, annual income, and, most important, Irish holdings. That would be the measure of the man she chose, not green eyes and a devilish manner, for she would return to Ireland as mistress of her own domain and destiny. Let her husband, whomever he was, wallow in London. In fact, she would prefer it.
Chapter Four
The next morning, in the privacy of her room, with a cup of chocolate to sustain her, Clarissa sat amid a haphazardly organized pile of papers and lists-all necessary research materials in her attempt to compile her list of men suitable to fill the position of husband.
Naturally Jane was horrified by the cold-bloodedness of it, but Jane had a strong leaning toward sentiment and romance. Clarissa was going to be ruled by her head and the sense that God had given her; she was going to be logical and she was going to be efficient. And she was going to be quick.
"But Clarissa," Jane pleaded, clasping her hands before her, "there is more to marriage than contracts and obligations."
"Is there? I fail to see it. What is there of sentiment in arranging a marriage anyway? Albert would scoff at you, Jane."
"But sentiment should grow in such a union. What chance is there for warm sentiment with such a cold beginning?"
"Let him have lands in Leinster and I shall have sentiment enough," Clarissa said, taking a healthy swallow of her morning chocolate. "If he has lands in Wexford itself, I shall love him unreservedly… from Wexford. Let him occupy himself in London or even Dublin."