They were not emerald green. Lord Bolton’s eyes were startlingly vivid in colour. She wished that the drapes were a similar shade and then clenched her fists, swallowing around the lump in her throat.
I am being ridiculous. She admonished herself. I cannot afford to spend any time thinking of the man.
Before falling asleep, she had spent a great deal of time trying to remember the specifics of his conduct. Lord Bolton had the advantage of being absent from the regular ballrooms, which meant others were targeted in his place. She remembered that his name had been mentioned in conjunction with gambling and a great number of women. However, she could not remember any of their names.
She had definitely been told of a widow. It was allegedly ‘common knowledge’ in Paris that he had set himself up witha mistress. The mere idea filled Clarissa with dread. Not only that but she felt an irritating thread of jealousy mixed in with it. Somehow, Lord Bolton had managed to get under her skin in a matter of hours, and she was exceedingly concerned by her own reactions.
Catherine’s disgrace might have been at the rear of many minds in good society, but it only took one mistake, one fresh scandal, for everything to be exposed again. Clarissa had lived through it before. She did not believe she could do so again.
Mr Harrison had been charming. He’d had a smile similar to Nicholas’s. It lit up the room. Clarissa had been blind to it, always believing him below her notice as he was merely a tutor. Perhaps if she had been less obstinate and paid more attention, the disaster might have been prevented.
I would have stopped my sister from following her heart. Is that better than having lost her?
If she had asked that question of her mother, she had no doubt of the answer. Lady Crompton would never have allowed Catherine any liberties. She would have married her off to the first suitable man who crossed her path and would have no qualms in doing so.
Her mother was not a cruel woman, but in her mind, nothing would have been worth losing their reputation. Catherine’s happiness—indeed Clarissa’s happiness—was secondary to everything else.
She wondered what she might have done if she had known of Catherine’s intentions. Would I have stopped her? What would she say now if I could tell her of Lord Bolton?
And what would she tell her? That she had felt an electric connection as soon as he had taken her hand that night…that when he looked into her eyes, it was as though he looked into her very soul?
None of that mattered.
What mattered was propriety and getting her family back where they were no longer looked down on by everyone around them.
She pushed the covers off and sat up, shivering at the chill in the air. She got out of bed, pushing the curtains aside roughly, and walked to the window. The floorboards were icy to the touch, and she hopped quickly onto the window seat, hugging her knees to her chest and looking out at the perfect, snow-covered world around her.
Lady Eleanor’s gardens were beautiful. Large ferns were at the back, covered with snow, and a fox must have pottered across the lawn in the early hours, for his perfectly round footprints could be seen across the otherwise virgin snow.
Clarissa wondered what Lord Bolton thought of Madeline Wilde. She was a wealthy widow, and she had seen him look at her more than once. Perhaps he would have his head turned while he was here, and she would not have to manage any more intense emerald-green gazes before they left.
Something about that made an unpleasant tendril of discomfort unfurl inside her, but she pushed it away. A tentative knock on the door meant the arrival of Annie, and Clarissa was most grateful for the distraction.
As she dressed, Annie fussed over her hair, placing small pins akin to snowflakes at the back where she had plaited it into circles within the central knot. The overall effect was lovely, and Clarissa was surprised to see a refined lady looking back at her again in the mirror.
It was not as though she had not dressed appropriately before. But being at the edges of society meant one tended not to draw attention to oneself. She was not used to the darker gowns that Annie had brought. Her maid had pulled many that Clarissa had not worn for years from the back of the wardrobe. Today, she was in a lilac gown with mauve ribbons across the bodice.
“You do look well, Miss Crompton,” Annie said as she stepped back to observe her.
Clarissa smiled at her. “All your work, I assure you.” They shared a brief smile but were interrupted by the door opening as Lady Crompton entered the room.
As it was her wont to do, she wafted a hand at Annie to let her know she would no longer be needed. Through force of habit, Clarissa stood a little taller as her mother walked in, looking at her up and down appraisingly.
Once the door closed, however, her mother’s eyes fixed her with a knowing stare. She stepped forward, a look of barely contained excitement on her face as her hands came to rest on Clarissa’s shoulders.
“My dear, you have done very well,” she said enthusiastically, brushing a hand down one side of Clarissa’s dress as though to straighten it.
“Mama?” she asked, her heart picking up at her mother’s expression.
“Lord Bolton showed you some interest yesterday, did he not?”
“Mama!” Clarissa said reproachfully, horrified by her implications. “I have not—”
“No, of course not,” her mother waved dismissively into the air. “You are the epitome of propriety, my dear, but you cannot deny that he favoured you much with his company last evening. The game you played where you had the whole room behind you. I remarked upon it to your father.”
Clarissa felt sick at her mother’s words. This was exactly what she had feared.
“Mama, I have no interest whatever in Lord Bolton,” she lied. “He is a known rake. You cannot possibly approve of the match.”
