Clarissa felt the beginnings of a headache behind her right eye.
Small wonder.
Each of her brothers in residence had felt it imperative to impart special instruction, counsel, and advice into her ear before she left for the evening. Lindley had urged her not to be a lackwit and let Montwyn slip by her. Dalton had stopped her to point out that Montwyn's Irish lands were very fine and that she wasn't the only young woman out for her first season who would enjoy an estate in Ireland, or Montwyn himself, for that matter. Russell had been considerably gentler when he had reminded her that Montwyn was well known as a guest at some of the more questionable house parties, in season and out; something he well knew, as he was often at the same parties. Perry, her most devoted brother, had warned her not to allow Montwyn to get so firm a hold on her attentions that all other possible suitors would bolt before the game had been played out. Though each bit of advice was as different as her brothers were different, the common thread was Montwyn himself.
Had the field narrowed so drastically and so soon, then?
Had it really all come down to Henry Wakefield?
Past the slippery sound of Lord Baring's crunching, she watched Beau. His dark hair was thick and shining, his brow noble and high, his eyes intelligent; he was a most handsome man. Tall, broad in the shoulder, trim in the waist, and powerful. He was a most powerful man. He was magnificent, and, of course, he had those very necessary Irish lands.
Lady Elena, rapt at his side, laughed sweetly at something he said, and Beau smiled his response to her.
Awareness surged through her as completely as a shiver. She wanted that smile to be for her. She wanted those eyes to look only at her. She wanted his attention and his conversation and his regard.
And as she was filled with wanting, Beau looked away from his dinner companion and stared straight into her eyes. Unerringly, he pinned her with a look. Unreservedly, she returned it.
Feminine awareness took hold and set its roots deep within her for the first time in her life. She understood his look, understood the wanting behind it, the power that drove it, the determination to fulfill its demands. Such a look, a look of hunger for her and recognition that it was she and she alone who could meet his need, filled her with a sense of joy and power such as she had never known. She held his look, wanting it. Wanting the desire she saw glimmering just beneath the surface, understanding that she aroused him. Glorying in the knowledge.
And then the look was broken. It was just a glance, really, nothing more, yet she had read all that in the short moment it took for a brief meeting of their eyes.
She had read something of his heart in that glance.
The list could be burned. Montwyn was her choice. The only thing left to do was let him know of his good fortune.
Their after-dinner entertainment was supplied by Lady Elena of the sweet smile. She played the pianoforte and she played it very well. She would make someone a very pretty wife. But not Montwyn. Montwyn was to be hers.
She could not see him from her position on the couch, but she knew that he was somewhere behind her. Where behind her? Looking fondly at Lady Elena, imagining her playing the pianoforte in Montwyn Hall?
Clarissa turned her head as casually as she could manage in order to look into the dim corners of the capacious room. She did not have to look so far as that, for Beau stood just behind her and met her eyes as she turned. Green eyes sparkled into deepest brown; she did not look away, but took in the sight of him, knowing that he had been looking at her and not at Elena.
The glance, growing into a stare of awareness, did not break. She could feel the power of him through his eyes. She could see him smile in self-satisfaction.
Oh, yes, that was what it was. She had ten older brothers; she knew the look well.
Clarissa turned away and fanned herself gracefully, pretending to listen to the crescendo of Elena's piece. Beau grew more confident by the hour, and such confidence, since it was directed at her, did not sit well. It was stupid to delay the inevitable when it would only gratify his arrogance. She would not be coy or flirtatious with the man she had chosen to marry. To what purpose to pretend hesitation or uncertainty? She had made her selection-all that was left was to pay the bill.
Elena concluded to a round of warm applause at her skill and her general prettiness. Beau left his position at Clarissa's back and went around to the pianoforte, bowing low over Lady Elena's hand and murmuring words that only she could hear-and that caused a most delicate blush to rise in her cheeks. Clarissa watched all with a cold eye and a trim smile of amusement. Let him play at seduction; he was already hers. She was certain he knew that as well as she, for she would never have chosen a man of low intelligence or dull sensitivity.
After escorting Elena back to her seat, Beau approached Clarissa. She rose so as to meet him standing. She had known he would return to her; it was inevitable.
His eyes searched hers again, and again she held his gaze. She was not insensible to him-hardly that, for he made the blood grow thick in her bosom and her legs felt as soft as pudding-but she would not be the timid miss for him; he would not want that, and she did not want it for herself. Let them meet as equals in this matrimonial excursion, and let them both willingly and openly pay the price of union.
"You've made your selection," she said softly, her bosom heating as she said the words. "Why encourage her to think otherwise?"
"Have I?" he whispered, staring down at her.
He was such a tall man, so broad, with such bearing; it came to her mind that she should be the slightest bit in awe of him. She rejected the thought as illogical.
"You would like to play out the farce?" she asked. "When we both know the finale?"
"Are you as bold as you seem?" he said, almost in an undertone for his own ears.
"Is it boldness you see in me?" Clarissa asked, wanting him to see more.
"Assuredly," he said.
"Not astuteness? Not discernment?"
He took her arm in answer, and they left the light and noise of the salon behind them. Lord Wingate and his sister were being encouraged in a duet. Beau closed the door behind them and led her into the wide central hallway. It was well lit, with the noise of the party and the bustle of servants surrounding them, yet the quiet and seclusion, the intensity of his presence, made all seem intimate and clandestine. She felt, somehow, that it was intentional on his part-that he was testing the degree of her temerity. She did not care. He was her best choice, and, without undue pride, she determined that she was his.
"Because you are an astute shopper?" he asked, his eyes intent upon her face. "Able to choose the finest lace at the most reasonable price?" He moved closer to her, just a step, but she felt her breath catch and moved away from him.
"I am a good shopper. Your vanity must compel you to agree. And there are worse attributes in a wife."
"And what woman, maid or matron, shops without a list?" he said abruptly, hoping to catch her in an embarrassment.
"Not I, surely," she said, chin up and eyes clear as fine wine.
Yet she, impossible woman, would not be pricked by so small a thing as shame. She did not bleed from the wound his words had attempted. She was bold, no matter her claims to be discerning. What woman on the marriage mart would be so obvious, so blatant, so without feminine guile in her matrimonial pursuits? Was it a game she played to catch his interest, for she surely had, or was she truly as bold as she appeared?
He pressed closer to her, his hand upon her arm, and forced her to promenade the hallway with him; he would not compromise her, for he did not want her by that route, and he would not give her the chance to catch him with that old ruse. No, all would be proper, if a bit irregular.