"What was the body of your list? How was it compiled?" he asked.
"By priorities, my lord, how else?" she said, and then smiled. "Surely Dalton told you as much."
He smiled down at her, amused and engaged. She was astute. And a beauty. If he had bothered to compile a list, certainly it would have featured those two attributes. Rather call them necessities.
"I was informed only of a list in the making," he quibbled. "I am… honored?… to have been included."
"You are not sincere, but I am," she said, her hand light upon his arm. She did not tremble. He was impressed. "You are on my list of possible husbands. If the truth be told, I am quite certain that you are on many similar lists throughout London. I'm sure your dining companion who plays the pianoforte so sweetly will add your name to her list before she retires."
Her boldness went too far, straying into vulgarity. "You show only boldness and no discernment in making such a remark," he said with tight anger.
"You are right. I apologize," she said quickly enough. "But it is the truth."
It may well have been the truth, but he was both appalled… and flattered. She could read it in him, he knew.
"The truth is delightful, is it not?" she said, laughing lightly.
He had never found being laughed at to be even remotely tolerable. Until now.
He wanted to tell her that she was the rarity, the delight. He didn't know there could be such a woman as Clarissa Walingford seemed to be. But perhaps she only seemed to be.
"Shall we test it?" he challenged. "A conversation of truth, only truth, with none of the layered shadings of practiced civility? Do you dare it, Clarissa?"
"Truth need not be uncivil," she said, her manner quietly cautious. He silently applauded her: bold but not reckless.
"Then a civil truth. Shall we try?" He grinned, pressing his hand over hers as it lay upon his arm.
Clarissa smiled up at him, her expression playful, and said, "Yes. I would enjoy it."
"The first truth. And a truth most civil," he teased. But he wanted more than careful, polite truths from her. He wanted to see into her heart. "How real is your list?"
"Quite real. I held it in my hand but hours ago," she said.
"And my name was on it, held between your hands?"
He did not touch her hand, but his eyes went there, and she clenched her hand upon his arm to keep him away from the vulnerability of her palm.
"Yes," she said softly, averting her eyes. He was so overwhelming at this proximity. It was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain her composure.
"Why am I on your list?" he asked.
She could only look at him, feeling his nearness and his strength, feeling that she should take care and protect herself, but she could not. She stood, immobilized by his touch and by the impossible nature of his question. Why was he on her list? She would not tell him that he was handsome. She would not tell him that he amused her. She would not tell him that he drew her in when all of London seemed closed to her Irish heart. She would not tell, for she would not allow those words into her thoughts. She could only want him for what he could give her, not for what he could inspire in her. That was all she would allow herself.
"What is it about me that has made me so profoundly eligible?" he said.
Ah, he wanted compliments, as all men did. That, also, she would not do. A man never appreciated the giver of the compliment, but only the compliment itself, hugging the words to his chest as he strolled off in self-congratulation. She had not needed ten brothers to teach her that basic truth.
"You have a wonderful… estate in Ireland," she said casually.
It was not what he had expected to hear. It was not what he wanted to hear. He was titled, well regarded, fit, and not unpleasant to look upon. All for naught if his Irish lands were forfeit? Impossible. No truth could have so much folly in it. She wanted him; he knew that for a truth.
" Dalton mentioned as much to me. I assumed in jest," he said, turning her for the walk back down the hall. It was much quieter here, which did not suit him at present, as it made the sound of his shattering vanity ring more loudly in his ears.
"It is no jest."
"I can see that it is not. Why Ireland?" he asked. He had been wondering. It was a strange prerequisite for a betrothal.
" Ireland is home," she said in all simplicity. "I want to go home."
" Ireland is home? When were you last there?"
"Ten years or so. I miss it very much."
"I would say that you could hardly remember it."
"Then you would be wrong. I remember it well," she said, her voice firm and strangely resolute.
He doubted the truth of that statement. She must have been a young girl when she had left, not above ten years. But he could see that she believed her words. As it was to be a discussion of civil truths, he would not argue the point with her.
"Why do you want to marry me?" she asked into his silence.
"Have I said I do?" he replied, just a bit flustered. What sort of woman asked such a question?
"Is this not to be a conversation of truths?" she asked, her words biting into his manhood. "Were the truths all to be my own?"
"I blush," he said almost comically. "You shame me." He grinned and granted her a brief bow. "Very well. I do want to marry you. Have I just proposed?"
"If you need to ask me, then no, you have not. I would not be so unfair."
But he would not call it unfair to achieve union with such a woman. She was enchanting, completely out of his experience, delightful. He was more than ready to ask her for her hand.
He was not to have the chance that evening. Perry and Jane, obviously concerned over her lengthy absence and not put at ease at finding them in such relative seclusion, interrupted their conversation. It would not be resumed that night; he was to have no such liberties with Lady Clarissa again. His eyes followed her throughout the remainder of the evening; he could not even think to play at his amusement with Lady Elena. In all the room there was only Clarissa.
They had not finished their conversation, not yet. Tomorrow… tomorrow he would call upon her. The thought was a fever in his blood that he welcomed as warmly as a brother.
"Has he proposed yet?" Jane whispered as they donned their cloaks.
"Tomorrow," Clarissa said softly, with a smile of pure anticipation. "He will tomorrow."
At the hour of three, which was when Beau felt it appropriate to make his appearance at the Walingford town house, everyone in the house, including the pastry chef, knew he was there to propose marriage. Her brothers were especially jubilant; after all, Clarissa might have an imperfect understanding of politics, but she understood the way a man's mind worked well enough. With ten tutors it was hardly likely that she'd be less than proficient at it. They were damned proud of her, too. Montwyn was a good match for them. She'd done well. For privacy, it was agreed that they be allowed to stroll the garden together. Clarissa looked fetching in a lilac pelisse with a matching bonnet. Dalton, watching from a third-floor window, could only smile. Montwyn had been spoken for. One could only wonder if he realized it yet.
However, the more interesting question was whether Clarissa understood that Montwyn would never let her plop herself down in Ireland without him.
The garden was barren of leaves, but the privet hedge provided structure, as did the stone bench on the back wall. It was a pretty garden, the bricks laid in a herringbone pattern around a sundial that amply demonstrated how cloudy a day it was. Fortunately there had been no rain for a week. It was a pleasant place to linger, even in December. And they had all the privacy they could wish.