Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance)

by Wendy Lacapra

  It was complete humiliation.

  She’d attempted to avoid the collision by ducking into the adjacent servants’ stair, but Markham had been moving with uncharacteristic singleness of purpose, and she hadn’t time to avoid his chest.

  His uncommonly broad chest.

  A chest with a cheek-sized valley conveniently situated over his rapidly beating heart.

  The edge of his collar tickled her nose. She sniffed and was engulfed by his scent. Spicy and dark…rather like tea. The richly steeped kind that lingered on the tongue, hot and tart.

  Tasty.

  Warming from the inside out.

  Just like she was warming right now.

  She jerked back, pinched her lips, and glanced up. His pupils were still wide from the darkness outside. Rain had dampened his amber hair into the color of newly fired brick. Much to her dismay, those dimples that never ceased to raise her ire failed to appear.

  He exhaled harshly. “One hundred and fifty-one.”

  “Pardon?”

  He shook his head involuntarily. A rain droplet transferred to her cheek.

  “Never mind.” He released his grip on her elbow, and the room swayed, absent his sturdy support.

  She stepped toward him, and he stepped back.

  Well, then.

  Did he find her that abhorrent?

  She stepped forward again. The door clanged shut as his back hit the wood.

  Obviously.

  “I hadn’t realized you needed to collect more evidence of my want of character,” he said acidly. “Did you hear anything of interest?”

  She held his gaze, blinking.

  Markham was glib. He was infuriatingly patronizing. He was far too confident. But never before had he sounded bitter.

  She cleared her throat. “I don’t know what you are—”

  “Oh?” he interrupted. “I suppose you were just searching for the ladies’ retiring room…in a house where you’ve been a guest for the last eighteen months.”

  “Not quite eighteen,” she pointed out. “I did accompany you and your sisters to Bromton Castle last summer.”

  Recognition flared behind his eyes—a brief remembrance of the uneasy truce they’d called while trying to distract Julia from remembering her broken heart.

  She’d seen a different side to Markham, then.

  But that didn’t change the fact that he moved through the world totally at ease, rarely serious, taking the admiration of his widows as his due. And I’ve had quite enough of men who think only of themselves, thank you.

  She lifted her chin. “For shame, Markham—stealing away from a party, no doubt arranging another sordid liaison.”

  His eyes flashed. “Not tonight, Clarissa.”

  Bitterness again.

  She searched his eyes—bleak, if she were not mistaken. She had the odd desire to run her fingers through his damp hair and pinch those sharply angled cheeks until the impish grin she hated returned.

  “What’s happened?” she asked.

  He sighed. “I just want to go back inside and—”

  “You can’t.”

  He lifted his brows. “I can’t?”

  “I’m afraid”—her cheeks heated—“my rouge has stained your collar.”

  He glanced down, sucked in, and slumped his shoulders.

  Again, the baffling urge to hold him.

  “If you would make my apologies to Lady Darlington, I fear I must return home and…” He snorted. “…change.”

  “Markham—”

  “Later, Clarissa. Please. I haven’t the fortitude to suffer your quips at the moment.”

  Her jaw dropped open.

  “Well—good night.” He pursed his lips and dropped his gaze to her feet. “And you needn’t wear any rouge, you know. You are just fine”—he flushed—“the way you are.” He turned on his heel and went back out the door.

  Clarissa touched her cheek.

  Just fine the way she was?

  Since when did Markham spend time considering the color of her cheeks?

  Chapter Two

  Dazed, Clarissa returned to her friends: Katherine, Lady Bromton; Philippa, Lady Darlington; and the Dutch widow Mrs. Katerina Van Heldt.

  Around them, the ballroom spilled over with sartorial elegance made brighter by the sounds of cheerful chatter. Inside, however, Clarissa remained bewildered—a state she’d thought she’d risen above long ago.

  She’d been promised to the son of a neighboring marquess as a child, orphaned at ten, had her expected betrothal broken at twenty, and then been unceremoniously abandoned when her brother had abruptly left Britain. She wouldn’t have survived if she allowed herself to dwell on dismay.

  Her mind drifted back to the first day her life had irrevocably changed—a dull Wednesday afternoon in the fall of her seventh year.

  Her governess stood with her in the doorway to her father’s study.

  “Oh! Girl!” Her father, then the Earl of Rayne, spoke as if startled anything feminine could exist in his home.

  Indeed, Clarissa had been the only female beneath his roof not on his staff.

  “I have secured a husband for you, daughter.” The earl cleared his throat. “You’re to marry the future Marquess of Bromton, once you are of age. …I need no longer be concerned with you, nor you with your future.” The earl glanced over his glasses, fixing his gaze on a spot above Clarissa’s head. “You may thank me now.”

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “Curtsy,” her governess whispered.

  Clarissa dropped her knee, yielding to her governess’s greater expertise.

  Back then, why and when and to whom she should curtsy had perplexed her. She did not understand why she was not to curtsy to the woman who brought her meal, even though she was thankful, yet she must curtsy to her fourteen-year-old brother Graham—who was rather over-fond of thrusting toads in her face, and to her father who had never once looked directly into her eyes.

  In fact, that afternoon, her father had not even seen that beautifully executed curtsy. The eighth Earl of Rayne had gone back to his papers. And she, to the schoolroom.

  “What did his lordship mean?” she’d asked her governess.

  “Nothing you need worry about now,” her governess had replied, giving Clarissa a look she knew well—the same silencing look she’d given whenever Clarissa said, “But it doesn’t make sense.”

  Then, her governess had drawn her to the window, where the imposing turrets of Bromton Castle were visible in the distance.

  “The future marquess and the castle will become part of your studies,” her governess stated.

  The weight of those cold, distant stones had descended on her shoulders for the next thirteen years. She had learned from her governess—and the formidable Marchioness of Bromton—how she was expected to behave in the future marquess’s presence (polite, dutiful, biddable—and she must always, always curtsy). She’d studied precedence, protocol, meal plans, and seating arrangements.

  Eventually, she’d learned to silence her questions before they roused her governess’s disapproving glance. Where civility was prized above truth, and order above all else, a satisfactory answer to the question why simply did not exist.

  Of her future betrothed, she saw very little. What she knew came from her brother who was, in brotherly fashion, besotted with him—He’s brilliant, I tell you! Brilliant!

  By the time Clarissa reached twenty—the age the newly minted Lord Bromton was to formally offer for her hand—she had mastered a Bromton chatelaine’s duties. Lord Bromton, however, had refused to make good on their long-planned betrothal, and had released her from their expected engagement, taking full blame.

  Her brother—who had, on their father’s death, become the ninth Earl of Rayne—had been enraged.

  Clarissa had not.

  Nor had Clarissa been brokenhearted…merely disoriented.

  Refusing a duty was possible? The idea had never entered her mind.

  And then, a
year later, Bromton had wed Markham’s sister, and Clarissa’s brother Rayne had left on a merchant ship bound for New York, leaving Clarissa alone in the ton but for a few close friends.

  She’d faced down those twin scandals by shining her most civil smile, and she’d done her best to quell talk by forging a genuine friendship with Bromton’s new bride.

  For the most part, she’d succeeded.

  No thanks to her brother and former betrothed.

  While not specifically angry with Bromton, she was rather disenchanted by Society in general. And she’d developed a rather concentrated enmity toward glib young men—especially those who did not care how their actions affected the women in their lives.

  Like her brother.

  And like Markham.

  “Oh, spillikins!”

  Katherine’s exclamation ended Clarissa’s reverie before she had time to revisit what had happened in the hall. She exhaled, grateful for the distraction, and turned to her friend.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Katherine wrinkled her nose. “Lord Moultonbury just left his pack of fawning puppies, and he’s greasing his way across the room with all his usual subtlety. If I’m not mistaken, he’s headed for Julia and Lady Horatia.”

  Clarissa caught sight of Lord Moultonbury.

  Nearly everyone Moultonbury passed assumed a pitted prune expression, though the man was not without his admirers. Clarissa glanced back at the young pups in the far corner of the room. Toadies, more like—servile flatterers gleefully commenting on his progress.

  Indeed, each conversation brought him one step closer to the girls.

  “He must be intercepted,” Philippa said to Katherine. “Mama warned me to look out for Horatia—her kind heart will be her undoing.”

  “In a confrontation with Julia,” Katherine noted, “I’d be more afraid for Moultonbury.”

  Clarissa sighed. “Too bad Bromton could not attend this evening. I daresay one of his glowers would be ample enough warning to scatter Moultonbury and his weasels.”

  “Where are your father and brother, Philippa?” Katerina asked. “The Duke of Shepthorpe has a rather impressive glower, too. And while Farring might appear harmless, something tells me he is not to be crossed.”

  “Unfortunately,” Philippa replied, “they always escape to my upstairs parlor during the more enthusiastic dances. His Grace says he’s earned reprieve. As for Farring,” she shrugged, “he tells me he is too fond of his shoes to place them at risk, even for his older sister.”

  Katerina snorted. “You’re older?”

  “By three full minutes.” Philippa fluttered her fan as she glanced between Katherine, Katerina, and Clarissa. “One of the benefits of this being my house, however, is that it is perfectly acceptable for me to intervene. Which one of you ladies volunteers to be my sacrificial lamb?”

  “I’ll do it,” Clarissa offered.

  Moultonbury’s smug air, his lifted chin, and the Brummell-inspired froth at his throat—they all set Clarissa’s teeth on edge.

  Knocking him down a peg or two just might restore her spirits after her strange encounter with Markham.

  “Are you sure?” Katherine asked. “Despite our past, I can manage a quarter hour of his company, if I remind myself that I’m keeping him from my sister.”

  “Valiant, but unwise,” Clarissa replied. “You haven’t been feeling quite yourself this evening, and a dance with Moultonbury is unlikely to improve your condition. You and Katerina collect Julia and Horatia. I will distract Moultonbury.”

  Katherine sent Clarissa a grateful glance. As far as Clarissa knew, Katherine had yet to tell their other friends she was with child. And no one else knew that Moultonbury had once insulted Katherine by deliberately befriending a young Markham in order to catch a glimpse of “the most unmarriageable lady in England” as she’d been known back then.

  “Handle Moultonbury carefully,” Katerina advised. “He’s dangerous.”

  “What harm could he possibly do to me?” Clarissa asked. “He finds me unworthy of his attention, let alone his venom. To him, I am firmly on the shelf.”

  And, was being “on the shelf” such a bad thing?

  Perhaps invisibility had benefits, although she’d have to think hard about what those benefits might be.

  “Well then, you’re It, my dear.” Philippa lit a false smile. “Here I go.”

  She glided toward Lord Moultonbury with all the authority of a ducal daughter.

  Katerina grinned, showing a gap between her front teeth. “Never underestimate a daughter of the Duke of Shepthorpe.”

  “Yes,” Katherine agreed. “The Maxwell-Hughes girls are formidable, one and all.”

  “As is the single male,” Katerina replied.

  “Farring?” Katherine wrinkled her nose. “But he’s always cheerful and obliging.”

  “Go,” Clarissa replied under her breath. “Philippa’s ruse won’t work if you and Katherine are clucking around.”

  “Very well,” Katherine said. “Au revoir and bonne chance.”

  “Vaarwel,” Katerina added in her native Dutch. “Veel succes.”

  “Blessed in two languages.” Clarissa lifted a brow. “What could go wrong?”

  Across the room, Philippa stopped Moultonbury. She said a few words and then sent a pitying look in Clarissa’s direction. Moultonbury’s face darkened.

  For a breath, Clarissa believed he would refuse.

  Which, truth be told, would be just as well.

  If he refused his hostess’s request to dance with her, he must declare an intention not to dance at all, thus sparing herself, Julia, Horatia—and, frankly, every lady present—his disagreeable presence.

  Unfortunately, he held out his arm and allowed Lady Darlington to lead him.

  Clarissa read the repugnance in his gaze and stiffened.

  Just how puffed up was his self-importance? She—she fisted her hand within the folds of her skirt—was just fine the way she was.

  Her throat dried as she thought of the little hitch she’d noticed in Markham’s voice when he’d said that.

  “Lady Clarissa.” Moultonbury bowed.

  “Lord Moultonbury.” She bent a knee—a sham of a curtsy at best.

  “It has been brought to my attention that you have not danced this evening.” His words were perfectly elocuted. “I would be most appreciative if you’d join me.”

  “Delighted,” she replied, without the tone to match.

  She held out her hand as if she were the one doing him a favor—which, she decided, she was. With the flash of an acerbic smile, he led her to the floor. The musicians struck up the tune to “A House Afire.”

  At least it wasn’t a dance that allowed for overlong pairing.

  “Is it true,” Lord Moultonbury asked, “your brother Rayne is expected to return any day?”

  “That is my understanding,” she replied, with an air of disinterest.

  “Perhaps”—his eyes glittered as his hand met hers—“we shall finally learn the cause of his abrupt departure.”

  She lifted a brow as she turned.

  If any man could sniff out scandal, it was Moultonbury.

  “I haven’t any idea to what you are referring,” she lied. “My brother’s trip was long-planned, if only discussed among his closest confidants.”

  Luckily, the dance parted them, granting her a brief reprieve.

  She was lying, through and through.

  Rayne had told her he was leaving in a letter and hadn’t discussed why. Philippa had immediately taken charge—You cannot possibly live alone in London, Clarissa. What would people say?

  Clarissa pursed her lips.

  They would have said what they’d said, anyway—that Rayne had left to avoid scandal, and that Clarissa—pitiful Clarissa—had been abandoned once again.

  Clarissa tamped down her anger and moved through circles that paired her with two additional gentlemen. As she followed the steps, she considered the idea of becoming a p
ermanent spinster and the concept of invisibility.

  The drawbacks of invisibility were clear—she’d be an object of pity. Checked, already. But what were the benefits?

  No chaperones, no tiresome rules, and an end to the appeasement of aristocratic men. She could move through the world at her own pace and with a sense of settled confidence—like a man, only with more finesse.

  And much prettier clothes.

  Invisibility, now that she contemplated it, was tempting.

  Once she fully embraced spinsterhood, the scions of Society would busy their tongues with others.

  Oh, she might cause a stir if she were to, say, set up her own household. But who would such talk injure?

  No one.

  Censure matters only if one wishes to belong.

  The realization so startled, she missed a step.

  Freedom—a dizzying thought for a woman groomed like a racehorse to serve a single purpose. She clutched her sudden sense of freedom—of possibility—with greedy hands and a mind full of wonder.

  If only she could transport herself away from this dance and arrive, triumphant, within her anticipated autonomy.

  But, alas, the dance returned her to Moultonbury.

  She gazed beyond Lord Moultonbury’s shoulder to a window, blank with the darkness of the Darlingtons’ terrace. All this time, she’d begrudged Markham his freedom when, really, she should have been seizing her own.

  Somewhere out there was a life—her life—and once she had time to think, time to plan, she intended to become one with that life’s promise.

  “I asked you a question, Lady Clarissa.” Moultonbury spoke loudly enough for the couple next to them to frown.

  “Pardon?” Clarissa replied. “I couldn’t quite hear.”

  “Hearing is frequently the result of one’s attention. I asked if it would be too much trouble for you to smile.”

  He waited for her to comply, lips curled into an expectant half smirk.

  No. She set her lips in a thin, straight line as her internal answer flared with startling violence.

  Baiting Moultonbury was unwise. As Katerina had noted, he was dangerous. He set impossible standards and then singled out those who failed those standards for public disdain and ridicule.

  Disdain and ridicule his cackling herd of pups repeated with fawning eagerness. Parroted insults made them feel as if they, too, had been initiated into Moultonbury’s self-crowned crowd.