Authors: Lynsay Sands
Any woman who could make him feel like that deserved his interest, and yes, Adrian acknowledged to himself, he was
most definitely
interested. Which would please his mother no end, he thought. However, there was a problem. The very thing that had allowed him to relax in her presence was also the source of the problem. Clarissa could not see him, but she was not permanently blind, merely temporarily so. He worried about what would happen when she could see again, when she saw
the
horror of the man she had spoken and danced with. How would she react? Would she shrink from him as if he were a monster? Faint in horror at the sight of him? It hurt him to consider either option.
"Shall I find out more about the chit for you?" Lady
Mowbray
asked, drawing Adrian from his thoughts. He peered at his mother, unable to answer. A large part of him wanted to say yes, but another very large part was afraid, and Adrian hadn't been afraid of anything in a very long time.
Suddenly irritated with the entire matter, Adrian turned away without answering and moved toward the door. He'd had enough of so-called polite society for one night.
"You will not speak to Lord
Mowbray
again."
Clarissa stared blindly across the coach's dark interior at the blur that was her stepmother. Lydia had not just yanked her away from the man she'd danced with, but had dragged her across the dance floor, out of the ballroom, and straight out of the house entirely. Her stepmother had been so obviously furious that Clarissa had kept her mouth shut as Lydia shouted orders, demanding their carriage be brought around at once.
Her silence hadn't seemed to ease the woman's upset, either, and Lydia had dug her fingers painfully into Clarissa's arm as they waited, as if afraid she might flee at any moment and rush back inside to throw herself at the man.
Other than that cruel grip, however, Lydia had ignored Clarissa, giving off a positively frigid air as they waited for the carriage. Once the coach had stopped before them, she'd practically shoved Clarissa into the vehicle, then taken the opposite seat and glared at her until they were in motion.
"Is that the name of the man I was dancing with?" Clarissa asked, realizing only now that she didn't know the man's name. Had he known hers? she wondered, then glanced warily at her stepmother as the woman's teeth snapped together with a click.
'Yes," Lydia snarled. "Lord Adrian Montfort, the Earl of
Mowbray
. And you shall stay away from him completely."
Clarissa hesitated, debating whether it was wise to question her stepmother when she was so angry, but she simply couldn't help herself, and blurted, "But why should I stay away from him? He behaved like a perfect gentleman, and if he is an earl—"
"He did not behave like a perfect gentleman," Lydia countered at once. "He danced far too close to you, and he should not even have approached you without a proper introduction."
Clarissa bit her lip. She supposed that hadn't been well done of either of them, but still...
"
Mowbray
was a rakehell when he was younger," Lydia continued. "He ruined many a poor girl. No doubt that is why God saw fit to ruin his looks."
Clarissa bit back the protest she wanted to make at
this satisfied claim; it would do no good anyway, she knew.
"You will stay away from him. He can have no good intention toward you. He will merely toy with your affections and further damage your already shredded reputation. Your father is counting on me to see that you marry well. He would never forgive me should I allow you to get tangled up in some scandal with that man."
Clarissa sighed unhappily at this edict, but said little, merely turned to peer at the haze of dark and light speeding past outside the carriage. There was little use in arguing; she'd learned that through the issue of her spectacles. So Clarissa merely swallowed her anger, pretended to be distracted by the passing lights, and replayed her short time with Lord
Mowbray
in her head.
Adrian Montfort, the Earl of
Mowbray
. She repeated his name in her head and thought it suited him. He'd seemed terribly nice to her, not at all what she would expect of an earl. The few she'd met before this had always seemed rather arrogant and cold, but Adrian hadn't displayed either tendency. He'd been patient and sweet, so understanding and encouraging. Clarissa could still remember the sound of his smoky voice, the fresh, almost woodsy scent of him, and the feel of his strong arms around her as he'd moved her across the dance floor. She'd felt so safe in his arms, Clarissa found it hard to believe he was a rakehell or debaucher of young women.
A loud sigh from her stepmother interrupted her thoughts, and she squinted warily at the smeared figure on the opposite seat.
"If only you were not so blind," Lydia bemoaned
suddenly. "I would not even need worry about you fancying him."
"Why?" Clarissa asked curiously, just barely managing to refrain from pointing out that she wouldn't be blind if she had her spectacles back.
"Because the man is as ugly as his sins," Lydia pronounced. "He used to be considered one of the handsomest of men in the
ton.
However, when the war started, he went off to battle and came back with that huge ugly scar. He is the talk of the
ton
now. No one can believe he would show his face in polite society, ruined as it is."
"Then we are a perfect pair," Clarissa muttered. "Two misfits everyone likes to point at and whisper about."
"What was that?" Lydia asked sharply.
"Nothing." Clarissa turned her gaze back to the passing city streets, blurry as they were, and heaved a sigh. Nothing her stepmother said had lessened
Mowbray
in her eyes. She simply didn't believe he would ruin her, and she knew he wasn't ugly. Clarissa had seen the scar that marred the side of his face. True, she'd seen it in bits and pieces, glimpses caught only when he'd leaned close to speak, but it hadn't seemed all that awful to her, and the other side of his face was perfect. She had found him terribly handsome.
Clarissa didn't say as much to her stepmother, however. She knew better than that.
Chapter Four
Clarissa watched the blur of movement in the ballroom and sighed deeply. It had been a week since the De
Morriseys
' ball, where she'd met the Earl of
Mowbray
. A mere week, she thought with a sigh. It felt like ten. Life had slid back into its pattern of blind clumsiness on her part, and the tedious—not to mention somewhat dubious—attentions of the elderly Lord
Prudhomme
. It seemed, despite her little accident in setting him afire, he was willing to continue his courtship. But the man now made sure that any and all incendiary and liquid-bearing items were kept well away from her.
Clarissa was eternally grateful that he was too busy playing host at this, his own ball, to bother her with his attentions, but she was bored. Bored to tears. She was also slightly obsessed with the evening she'd made the acquaintance of Lord
Mowbray
. That was the one bright spot in the entire time she'd spent in London
to date. And despite her stepmother's orders to avoid him, Clarissa found herself watching every passing blur in the hope that it might be him. She was also listening for the low, smoky tones of his laugh. He had a lovely laugh.
As if her thoughts had produced it, that low, smoky voice was suddenly whispering in her ear, "These
are
rather boring affairs, are they not?"
Turning with a start, Clarissa peered at the dark smudge that had slid into the seat her stepmother had only recently vacated, and blinked rapidly.
"Lord
Mowbray
!" She beamed at him, then realized how pathetically eager she must seem and said, "I mean, no—no, of course not. Why would you think I was bored?"
Clarissa could hear the amusement in his voice when Adrian said, "I could not help but notice that you were yawning as I joined you just now."
'Yes, well... perhaps I was a
little
bored," Clarissa acknowledged, aware she was flushing at being caught yawning, then gave up her pretense and admitted, "Oh, bother! I
am
bored. Terribly bored, in fact. Why, do you know that I have been in London for nigh on five weeks, and the night I met you is the only time anything interesting happened?"
"Setting Lord
Prudhomme
afire did not raise any interest in you?" Adrian teased.
Clarissa flushed a deeper scarlet, then made a face at him. "That is not what I meant, my lord. I meant that. . . well, I quite enjoyed myself with you. And that was the first—and, so far, only—time I have enjoyed myself in London to date."
"You flatter me," Adrian suggested, his voice gone husky.
"Not at all," Clarissa assured him. "
Tis
true. Why, dancing with you I felt as light as a bird, and I did not trip once, nor even stumble."
"Then let us dance again," he suggested, taking her hand to urge her to rise.
"Oh, nay!" Clarissa cried, tugging her hand free. She then offered an apologetic smile. "I am sorry, my lord, but my stepmother will not be gone long, and if she sees us together she will. . . well, I fear she will be displeased. I hope you are not too offended by my admission of this?"
"Oh, nay," Adrian echoed dryly, and she bit her lip unhappily. Clarissa had known the news would be insulting, but she had not known how to get around her situation. She certainly hadn't wanted to just send him away thinking that she herself was the one displeased with his company.
Adrian must have spotted her misery, for he suddenly gave her hand a squeeze. "Never fear. I am made of stern stuff. Besides, 'tis not the first time I have heard such a thing said this season, Lady Clarissa."
The words were spoken with a rather distracted air, and Clarissa could tell by the movement of the blur that was his head that he was glancing around. She'd just decided that he was looking for an excuse to leave her when he suddenly turned back and urged her to her feet. "I believe I do not see your aunt, or any of her cronies, nearby just now. If we hurry, I think we might make it out onto the balcony undetected."
"Onto the balcony?" Clarissa echoed with confusion, instinctively following the hand holding hers. He led her through the balcony doors behind them. "Whatever for?"
"To dance."
"Dance?" she repeated with surprise, but then he closed the door behind them, cutting off the music and chatter of the ballroom.
'You would like to dance, would you not?"
Clarissa could hear the frown in his voice and nodded quickly to please him. Then she admitted uncertainly, "But should my stepmother return while I am missing—"
"Oh, yes," Adrian muttered. "I suppose you are right. She might look out here and see us; then we would be in it"
Clarissa was just sighing unhappily, thinking they would return inside now and end this first bit of excitement she'd had since last meeting him, when he suddenly tugged her away from the doors.
"Come along. We shall move farther out into the gardens, where she will not find us. We can dance there."
Adrian was dragging her along and down the stairs to the gardens as he spoke, and Clarissa stumbled to keep up, but she managed to murmur, "No, my lord. I meant that, should she find me missing, I shall surely be in trouble when I do return."
"Ah, well, you can simply tell her you had to attend to personal needs, and had to find a powder room," he suggested.
"My lord!" Clarissa gasped, taken aback that he would mention such things so bluntly. It simply wasn't done. She could hear the grimace in his voice as he made his apologies.
"I am sorry, but I was simply trying to— Damn, someone is coming."
Clarissa forgot his breach of manners, her heart tripping with anxiety as he stilled. "Who is it?"
"I do not know, but I can hear . . . Come." Tugging
her to the side, Adrian slid into the bushes, taking her with him. When he paused, she paused as well, some instinct warning her to be quiet as they waited.
It was no more than a moment before two figures came into view, approaching from the direction they'd been headed. Unfortunately, rather than walk by, as Clarissa had hoped, the pair chose that spot to stop and embrace.
"Oh, Henry!" the woman murmured.
"Hazel," came a
quavery
little voice that made Clarissa frown. She was positive it was the voice of Lord
Prudhomme
.
'You do not truly mean to marry that wretched girl?" the woman said suddenly. "What of us? What of our grand passion?"
"I love you, Hazel," the
quavery
voice came again. "And I shall do so until I die, but I must have an heir. Mother is quite insistent on that point."
Clarissa grimaced. It
was
Prudhomme
; she was sure now, as she had met his mother. Lady
Prudhomme
was a rather horrible old lady. The woman must be at least a hundred years old. Still, she was a frightening harridan for all that, and Clarissa could not blame
Prudhomme
for his terror of her.
'Yes, but—"
"
Shh
, my love,"
Prudhomme
hushed. "Just let me hold you and pretend that the dreams I have each night are true. That you are mine and that all this sneaking about is unnecessary."