"It must be for Montwyn to appear on your list."
"Why else would he be there?" she said stiffly. "I simply must return to Ireland, Perry. You, of all people, should understand that."
Perry sat down next to her and took her hand in his. "I don't want you to go back," he said gently. "I don't want it to be so important to you."
"But it is," she said, stroking his hand. "I must go back."
Perry dropped his head and sighed. "Are you still having the dream?"
Images jolted into her mind's eye at the question, unwelcome images of red coats and bright blood and blazing fire. Swirling and unwelcome shades of red burned behind her eyes. And then screams and gunfire and explosion; the sounds of war and battle and pain. All were viewed from above, as if she had no part in it. But she was a part, had been a part, could not forget. She would never forget the screams of a dying man, the eyes of an English soldier.
She forced herself to keep her expression calm as she answered, "Not as much."
Perry, it seemed, was unconvinced. "You should stay here," he pronounced, and not for the first time. All her brothers were in agreement on that: keep Clarissa out of Ireland.
"If I am in Ireland again, the dream will leave me," she said, standing and escaping his touch. She felt trapped and hated it; she should not feel trapped by Perry. He loved her.
"I don't know why it would," he said, his eyes never leaving her.
"It just would," she insisted. "I must go back."
"Albert will never allow it."
"It will no longer be Albert's decision," she said softly, hiding her triumph.
"Your husband will leave you in Ireland while he lounges in England?" Perry asked mockingly. At her nod, he said, "It is at moments like this that I wonder how well you truly understand men, Clarissa."
"I understand them well enough," she said, and then laughed, breaking the somber mood. "Each one of these men will offer for me by year's end." And at that she was being conservative. She doubted it would take even two weeks. She would be married by Christmas.
"Even Montwyn?" Perry asked.
Clarissa smiled. "Even Montwyn." Especially Montwyn.
Lindley called upon Beau at his home on Grosvenor Street and managed to catch him in.
"Well done, Beau," he greeted upon being directed into Beau's handsome library.
Beau rose from his chair at the greeting and said, "While I enjoy praise as earnestly as any man, for what am I being congratulated at this hour of the day?"
"Why, for your success with Clarissa," Lindley said, a scowl just beginning to form at the evidence of Beau's ignorance. "Whatever you have done must be working quite to your advantage, because she is more than half prepared to accept an offer of marriage from you."
"Really?" Beau said with a bemused smile.
She was prepared to accept him? She'd be a damned fool not to, by his reckoning. He was quite aware that she was attracted to him; she hadn't been adept at hiding that from him, not that he cared, in any regard. Still, Lindley had a right to be pleased; it would be a good union for all concerned. He was more than a sight pleased himself. He had come to London to find a wife, and he had done so rather expeditiously, not wasting time when his duty was to get an heir at all speed. Perhaps he'd have a son by Christmas next.
Yes, he was quite pleased with the way events were progressing. Lindley had an air of being almost relieved to have the matter of Clarissa settled, and well he should be; Clarissa was ravishing, true, but she was a bit of a scold. Not a proper sort of wife for every man, but he was more than certain that he would manage her most efficiently.
He had almost reached the stables when Russell Walingford greeted him. Truly, London seemed awash in Walingfords since Clarissa had come to town to find a husband. Beau greeted him cordially, as befitted a future brother, and waited civilly while Russell came to the point. He was beyond certain that Clarissa would be mentioned.
He was wrong.
"I noticed how prettily Miss Maria Belgrave played. Did you not also make note of it? A lovely young woman, is she not?"
"I would not disagree," Beau said with a mental shrug.
"So many young women to meet this season, Lord Montwyn," Russell said, pressing the point. "Delightful parties and splendid dinners abound, wouldn't you say? A shame for a man to cut himself off, so to speak, so early in the season."
"Cut himself off?" Beau repeated heavily. "I do not comprehend you."
"Have you not met Lady Mary Beckham? A most delightful girl. She is to be at the Mongrave dinner, to which I am certain you have received an invitation."
"Is that where the Walingfords will be spending their evening?" Beau asked.
Russell cleared his throat before answering, "I do not believe so, but you should avail yourself of the invitation. Mary is a stellar woman of rare beauty and pleasing deportment."
"Then allow me to encourage you to attend the Mongrave dinner, so that you may better enjoy the company of Lady Mary," Beau said, striving to maintain his cordiality.
"It was your own enjoyment that prompted me, Lord Montwyn," Russell said. "You would be rewarded in pleasure by spending time in Mary's company."
How much more pleasure he would have received if he had not understood Russell's intent; he was obviously trying to dissuade him from Clarissa by throwing Mary Beckham, or any other young woman, in his path. What to make of this state of events when Lindley, not half an hour since, had hailed him on, encouraging him to finish the task he had started when first he came to London and beheld Clarissa?
According to Lindley, Clarissa was his. According to Russell, he should look elsewhere. But perhaps Russell was not privy to Clarissa's thoughts… and perhaps Lindley was not either. Perhaps it was only that Lindley voiced his own wish. Blast! These Walingfords were a bedeviling lot, Clarissa the worst of all with her bold talk and mischievous air. He should forget her and give Mary Beckham a look, find a wife of a more demure nature and submissive demeanor.
He should, but he would not.
How could he, having met Clarissa?
He had excused himself-rather abruptly, if he must admit it-from Russell and proceeded to the stables. A good ride in the park was just the thing to clear his head and illuminate his resolve. His mount was reliable and of an easy temperament and just as eager for a run in the cold winter air as his master. Beau gave him his head and threw out all thoughts but the pure joy of riding a good horse. Clarissa and her brothers would be managed in their own time. For the moment he wanted to be free of the responsibility of making a good marriage and the necessity of producing an heir to secure Montwyn for future generations.
It was a burden that had belonged to his older brother, William, and William had borne it cheerfully. But William had died of a fever without issue, his widow had remarried, and now it fell to Beau to carry on. He had never wished for the duty. He had taken up a commission in the regiment and found joy there. He had resigned his commission and taken up a life of gaming and women and found joy there. He was now called upon to resign his life of decadence and assume the role of Lord of Montwyn. He only hoped he could find some small measure of joy in it.
Meeting Clarissa had given him hope. He had to marry and to marry a certain type of woman, of certain family and certain position, and such women were generally of the same type: quiet, demure, and biddable. Certainly there were benefits to having such a woman in a man's life, but the drawbacks gleamed more brightly. He did not want to share his life with a woman of little more spirit and fire than a babe. He suspected that such a woman would drown a man with her constant need for guidance and direction. And, for all that it was unfashionable, he wanted a wife with whom he could converse.