But the new Clarissa realized she could not force his love. And the new Clarissa knew she could not bear to have his body, his name, perhaps even his children, without an affection that at least in part matched the all-consuming passion she felt for him.
Besides, she knew what sort of wife the colonel desired, and even at the cost of her own happiness, the new Clarissa wanted the colonel to be happy.
Swallowing a sea of misery, she struggled to keep her tone tart and accusatory. “A fine honor that allows you, for the price of a few kisses, to conveniently claim a rich girl’s fortune.” Pleased to note the stunned reaction to that salvo, she finished him off with a final one. “I can protect my own reputation, thank you, Colonel, and you may recoup your fortunes elsewhere. I recommend you fill your coffers with the virtuous virgin’s money. Before anyone else leads you astray.”
He was tight-lipped in anger now. “You are adamant in refusing an offer honorably given?”
She made an elaborate courtesy, a portrait of mockery. “I am. Honor has been satisfied,” she deliberately employed the terminology of the duel. “You may withdraw.”
He glared at her a long moment, as if he would once more bare her not just to the skin but to the soul. Almost she quailed before it, but nowhere this side of hell would she let him see how much she longed for that which he so casually, callously offered, how cut to the very marrow she was that he would offer her his name but not the love she craved more than she’d ever wanted anything in life.
Damn him. If he didn’t leave this instant, she’d take the fireplace poker to him.
When at last he broke the tension of their gaze, she almost slumped backward. “As you wish then, madam,” he spat out, and strode from the room.
Her legs suddenly rubbery, her vision blurring, Clarissa held herself upright by force of will.
Let him believe she thought he’d tried to compromise her to gain her fortune. He’d hate her for it, but that was better than his tempting her to accept from him a marriage without the love he could not give. Touched on the quick in the pride and honor he so valued, Clarissa doubted he’d propose again.
Thank a merciful God. When at last she heard the slam of the front door heralding his departure, Clarissa slid to the floor where she stood and bent her bowed head to her hands.
If this misery was what being in love entailed, the state was vastly overrated.
Chapter Eighteen
He was, Sinjin told himself once his anger cooled enough that he could think, enormously relieved. He had made the offer honor required, and been refused. And in such an insulting manner! As if he, he! an officer of the Tenth, would ever stoop so low as to trick a woman into marriage for her money. Thank heavens he need never speak to that red-haired virago again.
At the thought of that valiant spirit and passionate body claimed by another man, his fingers clenched on the reins, causing Valiant to prick up his ears and whinny. Well, perhaps he was a little disappointed.
Was he not in fact trying to lure another young lady into marriage for her money? But both parties in that transaction understood his circumstances from the start. If they did make a match, it would be an honorable bargain. Even if the idea still left a sour taste in his mouth.
Realistically, did he have any other choice? An idle ornament from the ton would be of no use to him. Surely under the surface veneer that ladies’ academy had painted on, surely beneath the airs and graces Mrs. Cartwright tried to convey to her, he would find in Miss Motrum a kind, industrious soul who would be a helpmate. And if the lady was a trifle—placid, after the fits and starts of the tempestuous Miss Beaumont, that must only be welcome.
Besides, Mr. Motrum’s kindness in intervening with the bankers only reinforced the imperative that his benefactor’s daughter become Sinjin’s wife.
He laughed shortly without humor. Such a signal honor he’d convey, to offer her a loveless match with a penniless aristocrat.
But then, there was always the possibility Miss Motrum might also refuse him. His bruised spirits lit with a glow of…surely not hope.
He sighed. A good commander moved swiftly, using the resources he had available. And, as Miss Beaumont so nastily reminded him, he did need to settle his future—not just his, but that of his mama and any future generation of Sandifords. He’d reexamine the matter, but if no better plan presented itself, he would offer for Miss Motrum this very week.
Clarissa raised her head from her lap. She could, of course, sit here in a soggy heap until one of the maids found her, thence to spread the word throughout the house that not only had Miss Beaumont come in from the garden all red-cheeked and rumpled, she later received a call from the gentleman in question and been prostrate with grief after.
Not Clarissa Beaumont. Bad enough her fair skin betrayed her with a telling redness about the eyes. She’d not have the rumor spread to the ton through the subtle network of servants’ gossip that Miss Beaumont had been disappointed in love. Especially since it was true.
Too agitated now to tolerate the idea of returning to mope about her rooms, she rose, her legs cramping a little. What she needed was some occupation, some task to take her mind off her own misery.
A mail coach would arrive soon. Perhaps this evening she could check with the runner on their progress there. And though at the moment she was thoroughly disenchanted with the business of love, she still had Lieutenant Standish’s affairs to settle.
The groundwork for that had been well laid. Perhaps it was time to pay a visit to Lady Barbara herself. And given the swirl of grief, anguish and anger tightening her chest, seizing the opportunity to rout the girl’s top-lofty mother would be most satisfying.
She felt the blood lust of battle rise within her. She might not be able to entice one unmentionable colonel, but the Countess of Wetherford was about to discover that Miss Clarissa Beaumont usually got what she wanted.
Eyes bathed with lavender water and arrayed for social combat in her most modish new gown, an hour later Clarissa presented herself at the Countess of Wetherford’s townhouse. The drawing room was so full of guests, young ladies and gentlemen clustered around Lady Barbara and society matrons about the Countess, that Clarissa was forced to make polite chat for some minutes before being able to insinuate her way close to Lady Barbara.
The Countess followed her progress with a narrowed eye. No doubt the fastidious old beldam thought Clarissa Beaumont, with her scandalous gowns and flamboyant behavior, much too “fast” to be a fit companion to her delicate daughter.
Oh my, she was correct, Clarissa thought, tossing a savage smile in that lady’s direction.
With her usual precision she quickly flattered, redirected or intimidated away the knot of young people about Lady Barbara, then honed in on her target.
“Would you not take a turn in the garden with me, Lady Barbara? The plantings are so lovely just now.”
Ruthlessly suppressing the pain of what had occurred when she’d used that ploy just this morning, she made herself beckon to the door.
Countess Hawk Eye swiveled her head around. “Another time, perhaps, Miss Beaumont. It would be rude of Barbara to abandon her other guests.”
Who are far better companions for her than you, Clarissa finished the unspoken phrase. “Countess, the tulips bloom but a few days merely. I’ve heard such high praise of the superior arrangement of your garden, I should be vastly disappointed to miss the display.”
The Countess twitched her lips, unable to extend the blooming time of tulips and unwilling to protest her garden was not out of the ordinary. “Perhaps one of the gentlemen could escort you.”
Clarissa had no intention of carrying along excess baggage, even as several gentlemen eagerly indicated their willingness to oblige.
“And have them abandon the other young ladies? That would be rude. No, the walk shall take but a minute. Lady Barbara, do you require your shawl?”
Given Clarissa’s recent highly publicized excursions with Lieutenant Standish, it was
no wonder the look Lady Barbara cast her was distinctly hostile. “I suppose so, if Mama permits.”
“Of course she does. Come, we can fetch it in the hallway. I’ll bring her back to you, ladies, gentlemen, in a trice.” With that, she stood and tugged with unladylike force on Lady Barbara’s arm.
With honeyed words and ruthless precision she got Lady Barbara out of the room, had her shawl fetched and propelled her into the garden. As soon as they walked beyond hearing of the gardeners, Clarissa began.
“I suppose you may wonder why I sought you out. I wished to speak with you about Lieutenant Standish. He used to be a particular friend of yours, did he not?”
Lady Barbara stiffened. “Since you’ve spent so much time with him, I should think you know him better than I.”
So the little cat had claws. “Such a charming young man. As you’ve just noted, I have spent time with him of late. Indeed, I begin to consider him a serious suitor.”
Lady Barbara’s eyes widened. “A s-suitor?”
“Yes. So of course I’m anxious to know if my impressions are correct. He appears to be a kind, honest, intelligent, charming gentleman. Amusing, and yet ever mindful of a lady’s sensibilities. Did you find him so?”
Lady Barbara was beginning to look stricken. “Y-yes.”
“And so handsome.” Clarissa gave a delicious chuckle. “He kisses divinely, do you not think?”
“Yes! No!” Lady Barbara went pink, then white. “How should I know anything about his kisses?” she declared hotly, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes.
“No? I thought you might have some experience.” Clarissa sighed. “His having been wounded has made him so much more compelling than other young men. He understands endurance, perseverance, and loyalty. Qualities that will make him an excellent husband, don’t you think?”
Lady Barbara, her glance full of loathing, did not answer.
“Though it’s a shame the lady he really loves won’t have him, eventually he shall have to marry someone. I’d best entice him before that black-haired granddaughter of Lady Arundell does. Thank you, Lady Barbara, you’ve been most helpful. Shall we return to the house?”
Lady Barbara seized her arm. “He…he is still is love with someone else?”
Clarissa felt it time to drop the pretense. “Don’t you know the answer to that better than I?”
For a long moment the girl was silent. “I…I had hoped he was.”
“Then what do you intend to do about it?”
“I—I don’t know! If only Mama weren’t so set against him! I keep hoping if I follow her wishes now, and wait long enough, she’ll eventually see what a fine man Alex is, and…and give him her blessing again.”
Clarissa sniffed. “If some other young lady hasn’t snapped him up first. Do you really believe his injured arm makes him less a man?”
“Of course not! Why, he’s a hero!”
Clarissa smiled, her last doubt removed. “Then if you love him, you must let him know that, disapproving mama or no. If you don’t think him worth defying your mama to love, perhaps another woman deserves him.”
“I don’t want another woman to have him!” Lady Barbara burst out.
“Then you must act. Now.”
“But how can I approach him? Mama forbids it!”
Clarissa sighed. The girl was such an infant. “Send him a note, asking him to meet you at the park, or Hatchard’s, or some other place your mama permits you to go without her.”
Lud, was she going to have to write the note as well?
“I—I don’t know. I shall have to think of a way.”
“My dear Lady Barbara,” Clarissa replied impatiently, “In whose affection would you prefer to bask for the rest of your days? Your mama’s? Or Lieutenant Standish’s?”
The dark, troubled eyes cleared. “I’ll send the note. If you would be so kind as to get a message to him?”
Spineless still, Clarissa thought with disgust, and then caught herself. She had not grown up overshadowed by a domineering mother, so who was she to judge? At least the girl was making the right choice now, while still at considerable risk of her mother’s ire.
Botheration, was that tolerance and compassion speaking? She was in danger of turning into Colonel Sandiford’s saint. The memories of that conversation, before she could extinguish them, cut deep.
She surfaced from that anguished thought to find Lady Barbara’s eyes on her. “Why are you doing this for me?” the girl asked softly.
Clarissa managed a slight smile. “Lieutenant Standish is a fine soldier, an admired friend. He loves you. And I want the people I care about to be happy.”
Once you’ve inspected the battlefield and written your orders, implement them—another good commander’s axiom. Having arrived at no feasible alternative to offering for Miss Motrum, Sinjin set his plans in motion.
He sent her flowers the first day, a small book of poetry the next. This morning he’d sent around yet another floral tribute which included a message informing Miss Motrum he would call upon her this afternoon at two.
It being nearly the appointed hour, he had dressed with care—in his best blue coat, not his regimentals—and ordered a bouquet of roses to bring with him.
Did Miss Motrum like roses? The scent of them on another woman’s passion-dewed skin wafted up from memory.
Shaken, he banished it. Thinking of one woman while preparing to offer for another simply wouldn’t do. He owed Miss Motrum better than that.
Yet, with still certainty, do what he might to squelch the memory after, he knew the scent of roses would forever conjure up one certain face.
Ridiculous, to be turning sentimental now, when he needed his wits about him to phrase a proper proposal. After all, he’d not done so well with his first. He’d best insure this one was better.
To keep the dust of the road off his pristine coat, he took a hackney. And occupied the journey rehearsing perhaps the most important short speech he’d ever give.
Miss Motrum and Mrs. Cartwright were expecting him, the butler told him. Feeling as nervous as he had on the eve of a battle, he paused at the threshold.
Somewhat to his surprise, another visitor occupied the sofa in the parlor. At his entrance, an older lady dressed in rich brocade ornamented with braid and buried beneath the weight of so much expensive jewelry he wondered she could walk, turned to eye him avidly.
“So you’re Mr. Motrum’s lordling,” the woman said after the introductions had been made. She gave Miss Motrum an arch look. “I’d say your papa’s bought himself a prime one.” She turned to give Sinjin an exaggerated wink.
Affronted and uncertain what he should reply, Sinjin stood speechless. With a hasty glance at him, Mrs. Cartwright interposed, “Mrs. Wintergreen was just leaving. Do let me escort out, dear ma’am.”
“I’ll be sure to see you again Friday at Mr. Motrum’s turtle-dinner. And maybe you, too, eh, my lord? Close as my Henry is to Mr. Motrum, I dare swear we shall meet again often.” Mrs. Wintergreen gave Sinjin a broad wink.
With proper expressions of delight, Mrs. Cartwright ushered out the visitor, whose inquisitive glance rested on Sinjin all the way to the door. As if judging whether a shipment of goods had been worth its price.
Wonderful. Unless after their marriage he forbade Miss Motrum to attend her father’s entertainments, or sent her to them alone—a rude and insulting gesture—he’d be enduring the woman’s stares in future. Would she wonder whether his services in the bedchamber gave full value?
Dismissing that distasteful thought, he glanced at Miss Motrum’s serene face.
Surely she understood his reason for coming here today.
Mrs. Cartwright apparently did, for she remained standing by the door. After Mrs. Wintergreen’s heavy tread and strident tones faded away, she turned to them. “I believe I left my needlepoint in the library, Anne, dear. You two will excuse me while I fetch it, won’t you?”
The soft tap of the closing door echoed unnaturally l
oud in his ears. Miss Motrum sat beside him, her face demurely lowered.
This was the moment. Should he go down on one knee? Or did one not do so until the actual proposal?
Sweating now in his fine wool coat, Sinjin combed his memory for the well-rehearsed opening line. “Miss Motrum, as we’ve become acquainted, you may have noticed my regard for you has steadily increased.”
No, drat—that was how he’d begun his other, disastrous speech. A little rattled, he remembered he must add something about growing affection. Women expected that.
“I’m honored, my lord,” Miss Motrum replied, startling him.
He cleared his throat. “That is to say, I admire your character and think my regard could grow into a warm affection. That we might share. Ah, both of us.”
There, ’twas badly done, but he’d said it. The only thing remaining was to deliver the proposal. Just go down on one knee and get it over with.
He shot a quick glance at Miss Motrum. Hands clasped in her lap, she waited expectantly.
But his legs seemed cast in iron, and the words stuck to the roof of his mouth.
He simply couldn’t do it.
He felt heat rise up the back of his neck, suffuse his face as he tried to get control of his tongue. He dared not even look at Miss Motrum.
At that moment, the door burst open and Mr. Wickham fairly flew into the room. Here, Sinjin realized immediately, lay Salvation.
“Jeremy!” Miss Motrum exclaimed, her cheeks pinking as she looked uncertainly from Sinjin to her father’s assistant and back. “What an…unexpected pleasure.”
“Miss Motrum, Lord Sandiford,” Mr. Wickham gasped. He caught his breath and bowed, the smile he offered Miss Motrum fading to a frown as he faced Sinjin. “When I asked your papa if you would be walking in the park this morning and he informed me you were…entertaining instead, I hastened to, um, pay my respects.”
Miss Motrum giggled. “Jeremy, I saw you just last night.”
The Proper Wife Page 21
