Lady Hartley's Inheritance Page 3

  “I look forward to making their acquaintance,” said Lady Hartley with apparent sincerity.

  “Oh, Clarissa, they are so looking forward to meeting you as well. It will be such fun. But where was I? Oh yes, Claudia — my youngest but one — was only married last month, and is still on her wedding journey.”

  “Indeed, Aunt, you wrote me all about it.”

  The countess chatted blithely on about her family, and with few responses necessary on her part, Luc could see that Lady Hartley was allowing her attention to wander. He was watching her closely, without making it apparent, and would have given much to know what thoughts were passing through her head. His mother was now telling indulgent tales of her second son, Simon — an officer in The Prince of Wales 12th Light Dragoons, and married to the delightful Francesca.

  “Two dear children already, and a third on the way. It’s so exciting, my dear!”

  Lady Hartley smiled. The gesture lit her remarkable eyes, turning them a soft cinnamon colour, the candles highlighting the darker swirling streaks of brown in their depths. “I’m sure it must be so, ma’am. How I envy you.”

  “You like children, Lady Hartley?”

  “Oh yes, very much.”

  “It’s such a shame you have none of your own, Clarissa dear. But there is plenty of time for that. No doubt you will marry again and be blessed with a large family.”

  “Oh no, ma’am.” Sadness clouded her features. “I shall not marry again, and will never have children of my own.”

  “But you can’t possibly predict what the future holds for you.”

  “Believe me, Aunt, I know.”

  His mother, once again displaying a rare degree of tact, changed the subject, chattering on about Anthony, Luc’s youngest brother.

  “He’s in his final year at Oxford. Such a clever boy — as, of course, are all my children.”

  The melancholy left Lady Hartley’s face as quickly as it had arrived, and she was once again smiling. But, as Luc lingered in solitude over his port, he couldn’t help wondering what had occasioned it, and why she was so determined not to take another husband.

  Chapter Three

  When Clarissa entered the breakfast parlour at an early hour the following morning, thinking to have the place to herself, she found Lord Deverill already halfway through breaking his fast. He seemed surprised to see her, but rose courteously to his feet and pulled back a chair on his right hand side. After a moment’s hesitation she took it, attempting to hide her annoyance at having to endure his tiresome company. She had imagined him to be the type who slept until noon.

  “Good morning, Lady Hartley. I trust you slept well.”

  “Thank you, yes, but then I always sleep well, my lord.”

  “The sleep of the just, no doubt. But why so early this morning?”

  “I’m in the habit of rising early. My life is not one of idleness, you know, and I see no reason to change my habits simply because I am away from home.”

  “Perish the thought.”

  A footman poured coffee for Clarissa, and she smiled her thanks. She felt the earl’s eyes on her back as she stood and helped herself to a large breakfast from the sideboard.

  “What is it?” she asked, resuming her seat and waving his offer of assistance aside. She could sense that he was amused about something.

  “You have a very healthy appetite, ma’am.”

  Clarissa put down her fork and glared at him. “Lord Deverill, I work extremely hard and very long hours. It would be impossible for me to put in a full day without proper sustenance.” She paused, tilted her head to one side and examined his reflectively. “But then, I suppose hard work is a subject upon which you are ill-qualified to voice an opinion.”

  “I wonder what caused you to reach that conclusion?” he asked mildly. “After all, you barely know me.”

  Clarissa’s spirited response froze on her lips as the door opened and a shaggy black head appeared. The body that followed the head belonged to one of the largest and scruffiest dogs Clarissa had ever encountered. She was astonished. What on earth was a nondescript hound doing in a household such as this? She would have imagined that if there were any dogs in the house at all they would be of the finest pedigree. This one was charmingly anything but. It had impossibly long limbs and walked with a definite limp.

  “Oh!” Clarissa smiled with delight and offered her hand for the dog’s inspection.

  “Be careful! Mulligan doesn’t care for strangers.”

  “He belongs to you?” Clarissa couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.

  “Yes.”

  Clarissa suppressed a chuckle as she fell to her knees, suspecting that no one had ever been ill-bred enough to behave thus in his lordship’s breakfast parlour before. She talked to the dog in a reassuring voice, telling him what a handsome beast he was. Mulligan responded instinctively, demonstrating his dislike of strangers by rolling on his back and graciously allowing Clarissa to tickle his tummy. When she stopped for a moment an impossibly large paw touched her arm, demanding more attention. Clarissa obliged. At the same time, she chanced a glance at Lord Deverill, ready to enjoy his disgusted expression at her lack of restraint in crawling about his floor. In this, though, he disappointed, for she could detect only a thoughtful expression and casual amusement in his features.

  “He’s beautiful!” she said.

  “There I agree with you, Lady Hartley, but I suspect that few others would share that opinion.”

  “Well, that’s their loss. What do we care for the opinion of others, eh, Mulligan, darling?” She looked up at her host. “Where did you get him?”

  “He was found abandoned and half-starved in the East End.”

  “And you took him in?”

  Lord Deverill lifted his shoulders. “What else could I do?”

  Clarissa had trouble imagining most gentlemen in his lordship’s elevated position giving a second thought for the welfare of a stray dog, and reluctantly admired his compassion.

  “I see. And what happened to his leg?” Clarissa stroked his injured limb with infinite gentleness. She was unaware that Mulligan had previously permitted no one, other than Lord Deverill, to do so.

  “It was broken.” The earl’s jaw tightened. “We think he’d been tortured, his leg broken for sport.”

  Clarissa gasped, and stroked the dog more gently still. She placed a few delicate kisses on his shaggy head, and was rewarded by having her hands thoroughly licked. “You poor, poor boy.” She looked up again. “Can nothing more be done about his leg?”

  “No. It won’t set right, but he gets about on it well enough.” He smiled, and Clarissa thought it to be the first time he’d not offered her his artificial, tonnish smile. She warmed to him a fraction more. If he cared about a scruffy mongrel, there must be some hope for him. “You should see him cavorting about on the estate in Berkshire. Anyway, we’re convinced he no longer has any pain.”

  “I’m delighted to hear you say so.” Clarissa reluctantly righted herself and returned to her breakfast.

  “Lady Hartley, I have a favour to ask of you.”

  “By all means,” she said absently, eating with one hand whilst stroking the dog’s head, now resting in her lap, with the other. “What is it that you want of me?”

  “My mother has been looking forward to your visit with great anticipation. She doesn’t often have female company, now that my sisters are married with households of their own. Would it be too much to ask you to accompany her to a few balls and parties whilst you’re here?”

  The affection that he clearly felt for his mother was reflected in his words, and Clarissa was moved by his concern for her enjoyment. “I understand you desire to oblige your mother, my lord, and I applaud your motives, but unfortunately it’s not possible.”

  “Why not?” He was looking at her intently. His eyes were soft, and there was a warmth about him that she’d not previously detected; but Clarissa didn’t doubt it was a façade he employed to get hi
s own way, and wasn’t about to be taken in by it.

  “I don’t care for such activities, my lord.”

  “And so you would deny my mother on so flimsy an excuse?”

  “Well no, I — ”

  “As a distinguished guest surely you realised when coming to the ton during the season that some sort of small effort might be required on your part?”

  “No, it’s not so much that. It’s just that I’m not accustomed to dancing and I…well, what I mean is, I — ”

  “Is it money, Lady Hartley? Is that what holds you back?” He spoke so quietly, his tone imbued with such empathy, that Clarissa thought she must have misheard him.

  “What? No, of course not.” She squared her shoulders and glared her defiance, too embarrassed to give him the put-down he so richly deserved.

  “No?” He said the word quietly but managed to infuse a wealth of challenge into it.

  “Oh, well — all right, I suppose there’s no harm in your knowing. I do find myself temporarily short of funds…but that’s not the point. Anyway, what made you suppose that my reluctance was in any way pecuniary?”

  “Well, if you’ll permit me to speak freely and not take offence?” Clarissa nodded, too embarrassed to find her voice. “The condition of your carriage first alerted me to the possibility. That and the fact that you travelled only with your maid and coachman and, excuse me, but your clothing, too, and…well, your hands.” He picked one up and turned it over, touching her with infinite gentleness. “No lady I’ve ever met has undertaken manual labour to the extent you appear to have done,” he said softly. “Why would you do it, I wondered. The only conclusion I could draw was that it’s financially necessary.”

  “Yes, so it is, but not for much longer. I see my man of business next week, and hope he will tell me that my husband’s affairs have been settled. I shall then have full access to the funds I need to continue my work.”

  “You have not had access to them in the interim?” The earl sounded surprised.

  “No, unfortunately not. But Mr. Twining informs me that’s quite normal.”

  She thought he was about to disagree, but instead he asked her another question. “But you assume that when you see this Twining person next week all will be successfully concluded?”

  “Yes, I can’t imagine why else he’d wish to see me.”

  “Then in that case, Lady Hartley, there can be no harm in your visiting my mother’s modiste and purchasing a few suitable gowns.”

  “There is a problem, my lord.”

  “The gowns will, of course, be added to my mother’s account and you can repay me when your affairs are settled.”

  “Oh, no, I would prefer not to be indebted to you.”

  “You would be doing me the greatest of favours. Besides, the pleasure my mother will derive from escorting you to these functions must surely be worth the sacrifice on your part?”

  Clarissa narrowed her eyes at him, convinced that she had somehow been manipulated, but unable to fault what was, after all, a very trifling request from his perspective. “Well, all right, since you put it like that I suppose I can’t refuse. But only one or two simple, practical gowns, mind, which will be of service to me when I return home. You’re right, I suppose, in that I should eschew black. But I’m only doing this for your mother’s sake — and,” she added, wagging an admonishing finger at him, “if you know what’s good for you, you’ll refrain from smiling in such an insufferably smug manner.”

  “Was I smiling, ma’am?” His expression was entirely innocent. “Your pardon, I was not aware.”

  But it appeared to Clarissa that he was having the greatest possible difficulty in keeping his lips straight.

  When Clarissa finally left the modiste’s the following morning, in company with a very animated Aunt Marcia, she felt as though she’d been thoroughly duped. In spite of Agnes’s best efforts over the years, Clarissa had demonstrated little or no interest in ladylike apparel. That being the case, she was completely unprepared for the complications pursuant to being supplied with a few supposedly simple gowns…to say nothing of the expenditure, which had to be mounting alarmingly by the second. The problem was that no one would tell her exactly how much things cost, and when she tried to protest, Aunt Marcia waved her objections airily aside. Clarissa could tell that her godmother hadn’t enjoyed herself so much for years, and simply didn’t have the heart to disappoint her by constantly objecting.

  Clarissa decided upon just one ball gown. Nothing Aunt Marcia said on the subject could persuade her that she would need more. What occasion would arise for ballroom apparel when back in Northumberland? She did, however, succumb and order two beautiful evening gowns and four day dresses. She refused to differentiate between morning and afternoon, shocking the entire salon by insisting they would just have to do for both. She also ordered a carriage dress, the only item in her new wardrobe that she anticipated getting any use out of when she returned home.

  What totally flummoxed Clarissa was the need for so many accessories. It was necessary, apparently, to have different petticoats to compliment each dress. When Clarissa innocently questioned why one or two shouldn’t suffice for all her new gowns, an incredulous silence fell over the salon. An array of different footwear was required, as were gloves and hats for every conceivable occasion. A never-ending list of undergarments and stockings was deemed indispensable. So, too, were ribbons, shawls, and decorations for her hair. It was exhausting, and at the end of it all, Clarissa decided that she’d been less tired after a long day in the saddle rounding up stray sheep.

  “Now, dear,” Aunt Marcia said when they finally left the salon, “was that not the greatest fun? I do so enjoy spending money.” The alarm that this reminder caused must have been apparent in Clarissa’s features, occasioning a hasty retraction on her godmother’s part. “Not that it cost very much at all, of course, have no concerns on that score. But what did you think of the design for your ball gown, darling? You seemed rather animated, and I don’t believe you’re quite as indifferent to the prospect of showing it off as you’d have me believe.”

  Clarissa recalled the cool, luxurious feel of the beautiful silk as she held it against her skin. It made her feel overtly feminine, an alien, but not altogether unpleasant sensation, and she reluctantly admitted that she was indeed looking forward to wearing the gown.

  “Of course you are, dear, and I can hardly wait to see you in it in two nights’ time.”

  “Are you sure it can be ready by then? It seems such a short time away, and I hate to be the cause of so much trouble.”

  “Oh, of course it will be ready. Nicole can work wonders. Now then, why don’t we return home for a nice restorative cup of tea? Then my maid will trim your hair for you, and tidy your poor nails too.” Aunt Marcia beamed, making it impossible for Clarissa to object.

  “Why not, Aunt?” she said with a resigned smile.

  Over the next two days, Clarissa continued to wear her black. She examined her image in the full-length glass and saw herself for the first time as these elegant people must be seeing her. She shuddered, surprised to discover that she minded embarrassing them. That, she told herself, was the only reason why she was looking forward to the delivery of her new gowns and the opportunity to show them off. She had never before been to London and was anxious to see the sights. She’d been naïve to consider that she could do so dressed as she was, whilst in the company of a countess. She cared nothing for herself, but knew her appearance would reflect poorly upon Aunt Marcia if they were seen together.

  Grudgingly, she admitted that Lord Deverill had been right to persuade her, for her aunt had been positively animated since Clarissa had agreed to a new wardrobe. She pushed her concerns about the cost resolutely to the back of her mind, time enough to worry about that after she had seen Mr. Twining.

  The dinner party on Clarissa’s second evening proved to be a great success. Clarissa, still wearing her shabby black, began to have concerns as the time approac
hed that she might become the subject of the earl’s sisters’ derision. But she couldn’t have been more wrong. Both girls were mirror images of their mother: attractive, witty, full of fun and ceaseless chatter. Their husbands were very elegant gentlemen, but both appeared genuinely pleased to meet Clarissa and went out of their way to make her feel comfortable, seeming not to notice her shabby attire. They were interested in her farming methods and would have spoken to her on the subject at some length had not Aunt Marcia intervened. “Dear Clarissa” was having a well-earned rest and they were not to tax her with bothersome questions!

  What amazed Clarissa most of all was the way in which Lord Deverill’s sisters treated him. There was none of the deference she would have expected for the head of their family; instead they appeared to take pleasure in baiting him about his unmarried state. They competed with one another to make helpful suggestions — delivered with disarming smiles — as to potential wives. More amazing still was the calm way in which their brother tolerated their high spirits and allowed them to run on. This was a close-knit, loving family, and Clarissa felt a pang of loneliness for all she’d missed.

  When the ladies were not interrogating their brother about his matrimonial intentions, they bombarded Clarissa with questions, many of them related to her new wardrobe, which Aunt Marcia had already described to them in exacting detail. Their husbands, seemingly undeterred by the ban on the subject of sheep farming, continued to converse amiably with her as well, putting her more and more at her ease.

  Only his lordship seemed to have little to say to her. He looked in her direction frequently and appeared a little disturbed when his sisters’ husbands engaged her in conversation for too long. Presumably he considered her incapable of conducting a civilized conversation and feared she would be an embarrassment. But he need have no concerns about that in his particular case; for the most part a penetrating silence reigned between them. Whenever he did address a remark to her, he demonstrated the languidly indolent attitude which Clarissa now associated with the man, whom she still considered to be no more than a wastrel and a rake.