Clarissa said nothing, eating her food and listening as Rosemary continued.
“If he does stay, I would very much like to invite you to the house again.” Rosemary hesitated and Clarissa felt her fingers clench around her cutlery. “Do you believe,” Rosemary paused again, her eyes flitting about the table to ensure they were not overhead. “Do you believe you will come back next season?”
Clarissa paused, also looking about them, but Lord Wilde was far too interested in his food to listen too closely, and everyone else seemed occupied.
“It has been praying on my mind,” she confessed. “Catherine’s absence has been over three years now. It would be a case of whether the majority have forgotten it.”
Rosemary shook her head. “I believe you are thinking of it in the wrong terms.”
“What do you mean?”
“Society never forgets. That is something I learned many years ago. Some scandals are always discussed. It is whether you can hold your head high and return in the manner of the person you are, not your sister. As far as I can see, your family has been exiled for long enough. I know my aunt would support you.”
Clarissa smiled. “She already has. Perhaps next season might be too soon. But I will see what my father and mother wish to do. I long to see Emily out in society. She had never attended a ball before she came here. I would not wish for her to miss out on such things in future.”
“Do you think married women enjoy balls as much?” Rosemary asked, and Clarissa looked at her in astonishment. They glanced across the table at Emily, who was flushing prettily as she spoke with Henry.
Clarissa looked back at her friend and the twinkle in her eye. “I could not say,” she said happily. “But if so, I hope she would still attend with me.”
Rosemary’s expression was difficult to read. She gave a small smile, her eyes flicking to the end of the table and back,and they fell into a companionable silence.
Clarissa observed Nicholas out of the corner of her eyes throughout the dinner. He was attentive and courteous with everyone. His manner was more reserved than it had been, but not in any detrimental way.
She was gratified to see that Lady Wilde, who was sat opposite her father and next to Nicholas, attempted a few times to draw him into conversation. Although Lord Bolton was always polite and friendly, he did not entertain her for long. He kept his conversation chiefly with Lady Bartholemew and Lady Garriton.
Whatever he was saying had them in fits of laughter, and Clarissa could not help smiling down at her plate at his wit. When she looked up, it was to be skewered by Lady Wilde’s uncompromising stare, and Clarissa had no illusions that they would never be friends.
She felt a flutter of hope that Lady Wilde’s charms had left Lord Bolton unaffected.
As the meal ended, the party went to the drawing room to hear a poetry reading. Everyone gathered and took their seats. Clarissa was once more reminded of the joys of the season. Everything in Lady Eleanor’s house was festive, and mulled wine and minced pies were served as they settled in their seats. The mulled wine had a beautiful spice to it and filled the room with the scents of oranges and cinnamon.
Clarissa sat on the long settee beside her mother. Her father was on the end, lounging happily and rather pink-cheeked. Clarissa simply enjoyed the delightful atmosphere as snow started to fall against the windows again. Lady Eleanor had been right; another snowstorm was on the way. Clarissa was glad they would not need to make their journey home for some days.
To her surprise, Lord Bolton approached her and asked if he could sit beside her at the end of the settee. Clarissa could think of no reason to object save her own reckless heart, so she noddedwith a smile.
As he took his seat, Clarissa noted her mother’s approving gaze beside her. The subtle nod that followed spoke volumes of her continued approval of the match.
Various guests stood up and took turns reading. Some more skilled than others in how to recite, others with a great deal of confidence but an inability to read aloud to much effect. Clarissa was extremely aware of Lord Bolton’s presence at her side.
There were inches between their bodies, and occasionally, his knee would brush against the edges of her skirt. Their elbows brushed together frequently as they moved or resettled themselves and she was finding it increasingly difficult to remain indifferent.
Under her mother’s watchful presence, Clarissa felt her muscles stiffen at their proximity, not wishing to give anything away. In truth, she wanted to lean into Lord Bolton’s warmth, imagining a situation where he might put his arm about her, and they could lean back together, cradled in each other’s embrace.
Finally, it was Lord Bolton’s turn to read, and he stood, straightening his immaculate frock coat as he walked to the head of the room. The fire crackled behind him, and Clarissa did not miss the opportunity to admire his strict, toned figure as he took up his position.
He held out the book he had chosen to read from. There was no cheerfulness in his expression, no teasing light in his eyes this time. He looked at Clarissa, his eyes gazing upon her for too long to be an accident, and then he began to recite.
“When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
