Wish List

Chapter One

London, December 1808

Clarissa Walingford came down the stairs with a step that was so firm and so determined that it came perilously close to being a childish stomp. Her brothers understood both the distinctiveness of her step and the restraint that hobbled it from becoming an all-out tantrum. This evening marked her coming-out.

Clarissa had arrived at that precise moment in a woman's life when a husband must be obtained for her. Clarissa did not want a husband at present, but Clarissa had been well brought up and understood her duty to her family and her name. Clarissa would marry.

But she did not want to marry an Englishman.

"It's not so bad, once you wade in and find your footing," Lindley said.

"Prettily put, Lindley. I can hardly wait," she said, adjusting her shawl.

"Lindley, keep your encouragement to yourself if that's the best you can do," Dalton said, smiling at her.

Dalton 's smiles were wasted. She did not want to go.

"It won't be so bad," Perry said, coming close. "You look wonderful. I'm certain that your season will be a smash."

"Kindly keep your vulgar euphemisms to yourself, Perry," Albert said, glowering. "Clarissa will have a successful season because she is a Walingford, has a fine, healthy figure, and lovely, clear eyes. All the Walingfords have done well in their seasons."

Albert, the eldest, had used similar language to describe the new hunter he had just purchased, but Clarissa refrained from making that comparison aloud. She felt that the comparison, though unintentional, was too apt for her tranquillity; she was on the block, so to speak, and would be bid upon by gentlemen who would look her over as carefully as a man purchasing a horse. What else was an offer of marriage but a bid to be rejected or accepted or even negotiated until both seller and buyer each felt himself to have made a good bargain? A woman in such an exchange was neither the seller nor the buyer; she was the horse.

"And your gown is lovely," Jane added with a gentle smile and a brief hug. Jane, sister to Albert's wife, was the soul of compassion, a rare commodity in a houseful of older brothers. Clarissa much appreciated her companionship.

"Yes, what color is that?" Russell asked. "Looks like weak tea with too much milk."

"Lovely," Dalton murmured sarcastically in an undertone just loud enough to be heard by Russell.

"It's called Ivory Bisque, if you must know," Clarissa said, crossing her arms over her chest. "And the decoration around the hem is a thistle design in russet thread. Any other questions or comments about my attire?"

"Well, now that you mention it… I don't know why you had to chop off all your hair like that. Makes you look like a boy."

"Clarissa looks nothing like a boy!" Jane protested.

"It's the fashion, you dolt," Dalton said. "Leave the club more than once a month and you'll find out what women are wearing."

"Shut up, Russell," Lindley said, scowling. "You look beautiful, Clarissa. You are beautiful."

"Very fashionable," Perry added.

"Very feminine," Jane said, sounding almost warlike for her.

"I'm quite confident that you'll have an offer of marriage before Christmas," Albert said comfortably.

It was not the sort of compliment she wanted.

She did not want to marry an Englishman.

She was solitary in that opinion and desire. Quite solitary. Even Jane did not understand her distaste for the prospect.

Though even if all understood her reasons, she supposed there was no escape. It was her time and her duty to marry. Certainly Lindley had no desire to marry, and yet he was engaged to Miss Emeline Brookdale, who had agreed to his proposal with the appropriate degree of both eagerness and submission.

She was no Miss Brookdale. She was neither eager nor submissive; in point of fact, she was the exact opposite, a situation that Albert found beyond tolerable. Her other brothers were more tolerant, but then they were not the eldest and had not his duties and responsibilities; oh, yes, she understood all dispassionately. Yet the fact remained: she did not want to marry an Englishman. Small chance of finding anything else in London.

"You'll find someone… acceptable," Perry offered.

Acceptable? Perhaps some Scotsman down looking for a wife? That would be more acceptable than having to settle into the rest of her life with an English lord as a husband. As helpful as Perry was trying to be, he was off to a fine military career while she had to tramp about London searching for a husband.

"Will I?" she asked, looking at Perry and then at them all.

"Of course you will, Clarissa; don't be absurd," Albert said. "You must stop this nonsense about not wanting to be married to an Englishman. You are as English as anyone. Whom else would you marry?"

"An Irishman," she answered, her ever-ready answer.

"An Irishman? When all the owners of land and title in Ireland are English?" Albert said gruffly. "Think logically, Clarissa, and be reasonable. You are here for your season. You will attract many admirers and from them you must choose your husband. It is all quite simple."

Yes, it was all quite simple. And there was no avoiding it. Albert, as head of the family, would always have his way in all things.

The carriage was waiting and they went in, Lindley, Perry, and Jane accompanying her on her first of many parties in London. It was a mild night and all that was needed was her shawl, which was somewhat unfortunate, as she would have liked to burrow her face into the folds of a cloak and have a private sulk. Unfortunately, all within the carriage could read her mood well enough.

"Albert is quite right, you know. There is no point in pining for Ireland when we hold all the land worth having," Lindley said.

"Explain the justice of that to me, Lindley, for how that should be so escapes me," Clarissa said.

"I can't change what is in order to suit you, Clarissa."

Lindley said stiffly. "You know the truth of the situation. You also know that there is no one in Ireland of sufficient station to marry."

"You will find someone, Clarissa," Perry said, taking hold of her hand. "You will be the girl of the season and will have your pick."

"Yes, my pick of Englishmen," she grumbled, squeezing his hand in gratitude before she released him.

"Who holds the land in Ireland, girl? How do you think to regain Ireland if you dismiss the means to grab hold?" Lindley said.

She bit back a reply, forcing herself to consider. Lindley was surly and stubborn half the time, but he had made a valid point. It was beyond question, no matter how unpleasant the prospect, that she would marry an Englishman. Perhaps an Englishman could be found who had an Irish estate. He would, of necessity, remain in England most of the year, while she could live out her life in Ireland. He could come to visit. Or he could not. She would not demand his presence if only she could reside in Ireland again.

Ireland was home.

England, with her destructive policies and disregard for Irish ways, with her planting of British troops on Ireland 's soil, was the enemy. And all England 's men were English: arrogant and cold, proud and cruel. She understood them well by the soldiers sent to subdue the Irish. Albert was correct: she was English by birth, but her blood and her heart belonged to Ireland. What English husband would understand that?

"Stop scowling, Clarissa," Lindley admonished. "We have arrived."

It was true. The carriage slowed to a stop and the door was opened by a footman. Lindley exited first, followed by

Perry, who then turned to offer a hand to Clarissa. She hesitated, against her better judgment. She had few options. In truth, she had none. It was time to marry, and the only dignity left to her was to put a good face upon it and not disgrace herself or her family.

"'Tis not so bad, Clarissa, to come out into society. I would be much surprised if you did not enjoy yourself completely," Jane said by way of encouragement.

"I cannot disagree if it were only balls and parties and concerts to be enjoyed, but the goal of all the entertainment is to acquire a husband for myself."

"You will have your choice, my dear. None shall force a decision upon you," Jane said softly, taking her hand.

"You are correct in that, and I take what comfort I can in it," Clarissa said. She had to marry, but her brothers knew well enough that she would do her own choosing. "Perhaps 'twill not be so vexing if I can but remember that I do have a choice."

"Clarissa," Lindley called, clearly impatient. A choice she surely had, but Lindley was eager for her to make it.

Without another word to either bolster her courage or delay the inevitable, Clarissa stepped down from the carriage and walked up the steps into the brick town house on Grosvenor Street. Host and house had been amply prepared for a small gathering of twenty-five or so, all friends to greater or lesser degree of the host. Jane was an old friend of their hostess, Lady Morland, and it was to her good grace that Clarissa owed her invitation.

Good breeding required that she be polite anyway.

Lindley and Perry disappeared readily enough after being greeted by Lord and Lady Morland, leaving Clarissa and Jane and Lady Morland-or Fanny, as Jane called her-in an intimate conversation of three, two of whom were happily engaged in conversation, one of whom was pretending to be.

"A lovely gathering," Jane said to Fanny. "The candlelight looks so well against these walls. When did you repaint?"

"In the autumn," Fanny replied. "I found myself dismally bored with the green and chose this tawny gold instead, just for the warmth and light it seemed to offer."

"It is wonderful. Very daring," Jane said.

"I suppose I should confess, or perhaps it is obvious, that I chose the color after a month of cold rain and heavy cloud. I was yearning for the gleam of sunlight, I daresay."

"What nature will not provide, man must supply." Jane smiled. "Don't you think it a lovely color, Clarissa?"

"Yes, it is lovely. So… warm," Clarissa said. She did not care about the color of the walls.

The room was full of pleasant-looking people, fully half of them men, and perhaps six of them under thirty, excluding Perry and Lindley. Was she to choose from this random collection? And if so, how was she to go about making her choice? Age was one factor to be considered. She did not want a husband more than twice her age; the tendency would be for him to be rather fatherly, and she did not yearn for that characteristic in a husband.

"And how is your mother, Fanny? Has her cough abated? I have been most concerned about her."

"That is very kind of you, Jane. No, she is still weak and abed much of the day. I think a walk in the gardens would do much to clear her lungs, but the weather is so damp yet that it is not to be."

"Perhaps the weather will clear by Christmas," Jane said.

"Perhaps. In the interim, Dr. Spenser has prescribed a soothing tonic that has the added benefit of aiding her sleep. I think all will be well in time."

"Clarissa, what was it you drank when you suffered last winter from that sharp cough?"

"It was chamomile added to my tea that brought me some relief," Clarissa said quietly, forcing her eyes away from the corners of the room and the men who loitered there. It would not do to appear too forward; naturally all knew that she was looking for a husband, but to be blatant in her search would not put her in a good light. It would be a very tedious search if she had to practice such discretion week after week. She did hope to have the whole thing settled by the new year.

Across the room, loitering in a dimly lit corner, Lindley was aiding her in her search, though she could not know it.

"Did I not tell you? Such beauty you will rarely find," Lindley said softly.

"It is rare as well to find such eagerness on the part of a brother to rid himself of a sister," Beau answered.

"I do not rid myself of her, but rather encourage you to become a part of my family. I do not do so lightly," Lindley said stiffly.

Beau, known to most as Henry Wakefield, Lord of Montwyn, laughed and said, "Still more starch than sense, Walingford. I was jesting. She is a fine-looking woman, as you said."

And she was. Hair of bright auburn, skin pale and smooth as milk, eyes the dark brown of rich chocolate; she was a beauty. Shapely and of a good height, not as petite as the current fashion, but then, he had no desire for a small wife, fearing that carrying his babe and delivering herself of it might kill her. Too many women died so. He was a large-knit man and he wanted a wife he wouldn't dwarf.

"She is just come out, so the field may well be yours. If you do not hesitate," Lindley said.

"You are eager, aren't you?" Beau chuckled. "Well, the season is early and I do not fear a more protracted interlude before the rigors of matrimony. Do not mistake me," Beau said into Lindley's frown. "I am interested, particularly if her manner matches her look, for she does please the eye, and, of course, her family is impeccable." He smiled. "I will look and I will woo, if the mood strikes."

"Does one require a certain mood to obtain a wife?"

"No, but the mood for haste is certainly not upon me. I need a wife. Why not the sister of a friend? Yet there is time to enjoy the season and to undertake my introduction to your sister slowly."

"You are not the only man in London this season," Lindley said grimly.

"Nor is she the only woman. Come." Beau laughed lightly. "Let us not come to blows over this. I am taken with her. You spoke truly when you described her to me. Let it proceed as it will. By all that I can see, I will offer for her. But I will not be rushed to the altar, no matter how eager or fetching the maid."

Lindley kept his tongue firmly between his teeth so that Beau would not so soon know that Clarissa was anything but eager.

Jane was battling that knowledge at that precise moment.

"He is a rather handsome gentleman," Jane said softly into her glass, her observation for Clarissa's ears only. "A friend of Lindley's, by the look of it."

Clarissa had taken note of him. How could she not? He was a man of above average height, dark of hair, with a fine brow and a well-shaped mouth. His dress was of the highest quality and cut, his hair well-groomed, and his cravat impeccable. It was equally obvious that he knew he cut a fine figure. His pride affected her mood like cold water on a frigid day; there was no warmth in her toward him, as she could detect no warmth in him. He called from her, for all his masculine appeal, only the chill of winter. Though it was difficult to keep her eyes from him.

"He has a loose button. I cannot abide a slovenly man," Clarissa said, turning her face away from the sight of him.

"A loose button?" Jane was incredulous. "At this distance? And surely, if so, his valet is to be blamed and not the man himself."

"You are of a generous nature, Jane, a trait I find most welcome, most comforting, but in this instance, when I must choose a husband, I must be exacting in my standards. I will not wed a slattern."

"Surely a wife would be of assistance to him. If a slattern he is-and I do not say so, for I think he is a most fine-looking gentleman-then a wife's gentle counsel would cure such an ill. He but wants feminine care."

Clarissa looked over her shoulder at the man. With his looks, she was quite sure that feminine attention was not something he lacked. He was a most… rigorous-looking man.

"He looks very English," Clarissa said instead.

Jane smiled and arranged her shawl over her shoulders. "As do we all, I would say. It will be a fault most difficult to cure."

"Impossible, you mean to say," Clarissa said. "Would that there were a single Irishman in the room. I would happily give myself into his keeping."

"And into his small cottage?" Jane said. "You know Lindley spoke only the truth. Who among the native Irish owns a fine Irish estate? To have the life to which you have been born, you must marry a man as English as yourself."

Clarissa tried not to bristle at the insult, for she saw it as nothing less. Jane meant well and, as far as she was able, spoke the truth.

"I do understand your fascination with the Irish," Jane continued, looking down at her hands, "for during my own come-out, I developed a fondness for an Irishman who spoke tenderly and beautifully to me. I would have married him and even believe he would have asked, if not for my father's blunt refusal to have any part of him. So you must see, I share your frustration in being urged to marry against one's heart. But cannot the heart learn to follow where the mind has led?"

Perhaps. Perhaps the mind could lead the heart. She had a good mind; it should not be terribly difficult to command her heart to follow where reason led. Yet Jane had never married, never followed her own counsel. And perhaps she was warning Clarissa against making the same choice. Was the life of a companion to a distant relation really the life she sought for herself? It was clear Jane did not want it for her.

Clarissa looked at Jane with eyes full of gratitude at baring her soul in a heartfelt attempt to keep Clarissa from making the same misstep that she had made long years ago. The attempt had succeeded. She would rather marry than remain a spinster, even if that meant marrying an Englishman. Her head would rule her heart; she would become the buyer in this game of matrimony and find herself the husband who best suited her, Englishman though he be.

But certainly in all of London she could find a man who owned property in Ireland.

"Any progress?" Dalton asked.

Beau greeted Dalton with a grunt and a half bow of recognition.

"I thought to find you well engaged, with perhaps half a dozen women simpering at your elbows by this hour. What have you been up to, to be standing here alone?" Dalton persisted.

"Alone? I am hardly alone. I have my thoughts, my speculations, my plans to abide with me," Beau answered.

"Better than a wife, I daresay. Smart man. Keep marriage as a speculation and all will be well."

"Can't," Beau said. "Must get myself an heir. Family duty requires it."

"Not such an onerous duty, when it comes to that." Dalton grinned. "Have you found any takers?"

"I am rather taken with her," Beau said, looking across the room. "Why didn't you tell me that you had such a fine-looking sister? Lindley was more than happy to point her out to me."

"Lindley would be," Dalton said. "He's been made to take the plunge and is grabbing for any and all to get wet with him. I wouldn't fall for it, were I you."

"I must marry," Beau said easily, still looking at Clarissa. "Your sister has a look about her… Will you make the introductions? I've looked enough; 'tis time to take the first step."

"I will not," Dalton said stiffly. "You and Clarissa would not suit at all. I'm surprised you would suggest it, even more surprised that you can't see it for yourself."

"I beg your pardon?"

Beau looked stupefied. Dalton couldn't have been happier.

"She's a sheltered girl, hardly out of the country, and as innocent as rain. A man as experienced as you with a girl like that? You'd have nothing to say to each other inside of five minutes. Besides, as you said, she's a fine-looking girl; she could do quite well for herself this season. Isn't Halston looking for a bride this year? He's got Haverly to offer. Must be worth more than-"

"Montwyn Hall is no shabby cottage on the edge of a field, Dalton," Beau cut in. "And Halston is almost forty. You'd encourage a match with a man twice her age?"

"And why not? He would be a stable, solid man for her." He ended the sentence there, but both heard the unspoken insult to Beau's maturity, solidity, and stability.

"I'm certain he would be," Beau said coldly. With a bow, he excused himself from Dalton 's company, his anger plain.

Dalton watched him go with the faintest of smiles. Leave it to Lindley to play his hand openly, boldly encouraging Beau to offer for Clarissa. He pursued a darker course, one less plain. Nothing would set Beau after Clarissa like opposition; the man was as bored as he was himself in a sea of smiling and submissive girls. A squall would make him sit up and check his ropes. Dalton had stirred the breeze, and if he knew Clarissa, which he did, she would do the rest. If all went well, not only would Beau offer for her, he would be fairly determined to have her and none other.

Dalton smiled again at the thought of the two of them together and ducked his head until he had composed himself. He liked Beau, he truly did, and he would be a splendid match for Clarissa. Beau had an estate in Ireland, after all.

Determined not to indulge her sense of injustice and outrage about her inescapable fate as the wife of an Englishman, Clarissa decided to enjoy herself as well as she might in such company and circumstance. She had much to do if logic was to triumph over sentiment. With Jane beside her, they circled the room, mingling.

"He was rather… moist, was he not, Jane? I do not think that I should have to tolerate a damp husband. All the upholstery would be ruined in a month," Clarissa said softly as they moved away from Lord Dalrimple and his sister.

"Clarissa!" Jane gasped.

"What?" she replied.

"It is not seemly to say-"

"He cannot hear me, and I do say that I should be allowed my own opinion on the matter of my husband and his odors," Clarissa said. "Now, shall we join Lady Wolling and her son? He looks a likely sort, though a tad small for me. I should hate to outweigh my husband. Most difficult. I foresee very small and fragile children, and if they are boys… Well, perhaps we should simply bypass Lady Wolling altogether."

Jane nodded to Lady Wolling as they passed, her eyes alight with embarrassment and horrified humor.

"Although, now I do ponder it, I do not think that man capable of siring boys. Oh well," Clarissa said cheerily, "on to Miss Warthom and her sister, Eliza. No, never mind, I cannot stop to mingle with mere ladies. I must be about my duty to find myself a husband whom I can tolerate. A most difficult dilemma, is it not?"

"Really, Clarissa," Jane began, her cheeks flushed and her brow as white as chalk.

"Ah, but who is that in the corner with Perry? He's a likely looking young gentleman. Tall, well dressed, dry; why, he may be the very thing."

"Good evening, Lady Jane," he said with a bow.

"Good evening, Lord Stanson," Jane said.

Perry said, "May I introduce my sister, Lady Clarissa Walingford, to you? This is her first trip to London this season."

"My lord." Clarissa curtsied modestly.

"Lady Clarissa," Stanson answered. "Your first London season? And how are you finding it? An amusement, one hopes."

"Oh, yes, I have been often amused," Clarissa said, smiling. Stanson spoke with a slight lisp. Really, she had never heard her name pronounced so… delightfully in her life.

"How lovely," he answered. "And what sights have you seen thus far?"

He was not bad to look upon, though he had a mole near his nose and, of course, that lisp.

"Only the dressmakers thus far, my lord, and whatever amusements can be found within this room," she answered.

Perry grinned and took a quiet sip of his drink. Jane coughed and fussed with her shawl. Clarissa stood with complete composure, looking up at the Lord Stanson and all the amusements he offered her.

"She only came down last week," Perry offered into a silence that was stretching out uncomfortably. "I imagine that she'll be out more now that her wardrobe is set."

"Perry, a woman does not care to have her wardrobe deficits discussed in public," Clarissa said, "even if those deficits are now canceled. London has so much to offer, does it not, Lord Stanson?"

"Yes, the best shopping in all the world, I daresay. Have you tried Lackington's shop? The best bookseller in the city. He even carries the most popular novels, which are an especial favorite with my own sisters," Stanson said.

"Really?" Clarissa smiled too sweetly. "I shall stop there tomorrow."

"If you will excuse us, Lord Stanson?" Jane said, steering Clarissa away. "I see Lady Morland and must compliment her on the sweetness of her tarts."

"It is not her tarts that concern you," Clarissa said when they had left Stanson behind to resume his conversation with Perry.

"No, it is the tartness of your tongue. Were you going to tell him that you do not read novels?" Jane asked.

"Why would I be so rude when he was only trying to help me find proper London amusements?" Clarissa asked in return. "Really, Jane, you must think me a horrid child to have such fears concerning my deportment."

"Well," Jane huffed. "I do apologize. It is only that you do seem to be possessed of an uncertain temper tonight, when the evening is so lovely."

"Temper? I have no temper," Clarissa said somewhat stiffly.

"And the scar on Braden's hand did not come from the cup you threw at him?"

Clarissa lifted her chin in annoyance. "If all my childhood indiscretions are to be laid at my feet, I shall surely stumble. But do not all children fight?"

"Clarissa, it was but two years ago," Jane said dryly.

"And I was sorely provoked, if you will also recall," Clarissa defended.

Braden, home on leave from his regiment, had thrown her cat out of the window for making a bed for itself on his sleeping face. And she was the one accused of having a temper?

"Your pet was fine. She landed on her feet, as cats will do."

"I do not see how it pertains. It was most unreasonable of him to react so violently to a sleeping cat."

"Ah, Fanny," Jane said, ending the budding argument, "what a lovely evening. You have made us all, each one, feel so very welcome."

"You are most kind, Jane," Fanny replied with a genuine smile. Hostessing was so very trying, and one had to think of so many details. Another guest had caught her attention and she drifted over to smile with warmth and welcome.

Perry quietly joined the ladies of his house and whispered to Clarissa, "You're fortunate. Stanson did not realize that you mocked him."

"If he is as obtuse as all that, then I am fortunate in finding out so soon. I will not wed a dullard."

"You will not wed at all, if you follow your inclinations."

"But I am not following my inclinations. I am following the course of familial duty. And I will marry, Perry. You may rely upon it," Clarissa said firmly.

Perry smiled and bowed to her. "Rely upon it I will. How do you progress?"

"Not well," she said bluntly. "But it has been only an hour and I am not discouraged. I never buy the first hat I try, and I don't imagine shopping for a husband to be a matter of less consequence than a hat."

"Clarissa!" Jane remonstrated.

"Well spoken, Clarissa," Perry said, laughing.

"Excuse me," Fanny said, rejoining them, "but I don't believe I've introduced Lord Montwyn to you."

Clarissa turned and faced the man whom she had observed speaking to Lindley earlier in the evening. He was more forbidding when seen at close quarters, and more handsome. He knew it, too, and such arrogance, such pride, was more tempting a target than she could bear to turn from.

He bowed. She curtsied. And she waited. Such a man would feel it his right to speak first. She would allow him that, for it was she who would have the last word.

"You are new to London, Lady Clarissa," he said.

"I am. Does it show?" she answered.

Perry snorted in amusement while Jane gathered breath to fuss and apologize.

"Actually, yes," he answered, his smile as light and bright as a rapier.

Looking up at him, at his dark brows and his deep green eyes, his very unrepentant eyes, Clarissa felt herself smile. Finally, a worthy adversary.

"Really," she responded. "Would it be terribly gauche of me to ask how I have… exposed myself?"

"If you will excuse me, Lord Montwyn, Clarissa," Jane said, "I will visit with Miss Walburn."

Montwyn bowed at her departure and then turned back to Clarissa and Perry.

"Let us not say 'exposed,' but rather 'revealed.'"

"Really, I cannot say I approve of this conversation," Perry interrupted.

"I'm certain that Lord Montwyn would not 'expose' me to any conversation not within the bounds of correct London etiquette. Would you?" she said.

"The bounds of etiquette shall be observed, naturally. I would do nothing to damage your reputation, Lady Clarissa."

"My brother will be relieved to hear it," she said.

"But not you?" Montwyn asked.

"I guard my own reputation, Lord Montwyn."

"And she does a fine job of it, too," Perry added.

"But this is London, Lady Clarissa," Montwyn said, his eyes twinkling, "and you are inexperienced."

"Rather say I am new to London, sir. I am not inexperienced."

"No?" He smiled. "But that is how I knew you were new to town. Your naivete lights you like a candle."

Clarissa took a breath and felt herself grow still at the raw sting of his insult. This man was different, and it was not London that made him so. His pride lit him like a bonfire, and while the light drew the eye, the heat of him was oppressive.

"I am certain you are mistaken. My education has been most complete."

"Yet how else to explain my knowing that you were new to town?"

"Perhaps"-she smiled-"because you visit every house that will open its door to you. You were invited to Lord and Lady Morland's tonight, were you not? I am certain that Lady Morland is too refined to have anyone thrown out. She is a most welcoming hostess."

"Well done, Clarissa," Perry chimed. "Not many can stand against my sister in verbal warfare, Lord Montwyn. I commend you for your bravery."

"Is that what this is?" Montwyn asked calmly, studying her boldly.

Most aggressive, even for an Englishman. Not appealing at all, but… compelling. A most disturbing thought-she would not tolerate it or him.

"Hardly," Clarissa said, affecting boredom with Lord Montwyn and his superiority. "I am looking for a husband tonight. Tomorrow I shall shop for books and a new pair of boots."

"A shopping trip to London," Montwyn summarized.

"Precisely," Clarissa said, looking him in the eye, communicating her disdain.

"Really, Clarissa," Perry sputtered. "I apologize, Lord Montwyn, for my sister's-"

"Unnecessary," Montwyn cut in. "I am here for the same reason. I need a wife."

He looked down at her while he said it, and she felt the weight of his words and his intent hit her like a stone. He was not put off. He should have been. He was not the sort of man she was looking for, though her eyes continued to look.

Masculine power emanated from him with every breath, confusing her purpose. She searched for an acceptable husband-Montwyn commanded a response from her heart that was completely unacceptable.

"Then you'd best circulate and find one," Clarissa said sharply.

"I am not an impulsive shopper. I like to take my time over my selections," Montwyn said, holding her eyes.

"How odd," Clarissa spat. "I can tell at a glance if a smock or even the merest bit of embroidered linen will suit. I know my own tastes and inclinations. Good evening, sir," she said, and turned to go, her arm resting on Perry's. Call it not a rout, but a wise retreat; she had to put distance between herself and Montwyn.

"But I am shopping for more than fripperies," Montwyn said to her retreating back. "Or would you disagree?"

Clarissa turned and said over her shoulder, "Only you can know your own intent."

"I would share it with a willing ear," Montwyn said with a smile.

"Again I say circulate, sir, to find what you seek."

Beau, Lord Montwyn, watched her walk away, her bearing regal, her head proud and high, the long line of her torso as graceful as a sapling in the wood.

"No need, miss," he said softly to himself, "for I've found what I came to London to find."

Chapter Two

It was a complete waste of time," Clarissa said to Albert the next morning while helping herself to a cup of tea and a scone.

Albert sat up straighter in his chair and tugged at his waistcoat. "Kindly explain yourself, Clarissa. Do you mean to tell me that Lord and Lady Morland invited only women to their party last night?"

"They may as well have," Clarissa said over her cup, "if what I saw last night represents the best England has to offer. I will not marry either a runt or a sweaty, odorous beast to fulfill my family obligation, and if you were a loving brother you would not ask it of me."

"Since Henry Wakefield, Lord of Montwyn, is neither a runt nor odorous," Perry said, coming into the room, "I would hazard that you have not made mention of your meeting with him."

"No, I have not. Let me add him to the list: he is a boor."

"You seemed to be enjoying your conversation with him last night," Perry said. "At least, I was. Most entertaining."

Most entertaining, indeed. At first, yes, she had thought so, but then his countenance had seemed to her to be so proud, so overbearing. Such a man, no matter his fine form, would not do. He was a bear of a man who would crush her for his own amusement; or perhaps it was better said that he would try to, for she would not be cowed so easily by mere rudeness, no matter the level of his offenses. Or attraction. He had been attracted to her, that much was obvious, and perhaps she could even find something admirable in his boldness. She had not frightened him; he had made that plain enough. But he was not the sort of man she had in mind, and it was her mind that would decide her future, not a pair of shining green eyes.

"You at least were entertained," she said to Perry. "I was not. He will not do."

"How is it that an earl will not do?" Albert asked, rising from his chair.

"Oh, he would do," Perry chuckled, "if Clarissa had not prodded him unmercifully. She baited the man and then ran from him when he growled back."

"I did not run. He did not growl," she snapped.

"Good heavens, Clarissa, do not tell me that you have made a spectacle of yourself in London society," Albert said sternly. "You will not take that way out of your proper duty to marry and marry well. A union with Montwyn would be most advantageous to this family."

"And would it be advantageous to me, Albert?" she asked. "Besides, we would not suit. His temper is uncertain."

"Oh, I would say his temper is most certain, most predictable," Perry said with a smile.

"Oh, Perry, do keep your remarks to yourself!" Clarissa said.

"Do not say that you antagonized Lord Montwyn," Lindley said, coming into the room.

"I say no such thing," Clarissa said.

"'Twas I who said it." Perry grinned.

"Couldn't you have been civil to the man?" Lindley grumbled, fetching himself a plate.

"I was more than civil."

"She was," Perry agreed. "She was blatantly entertaining. At least, I was entertained."

"And Montwyn? Was he?" Lindley asked.

"I thought he was, when she said she was in town shopping for a husband," Perry volunteered.

Albert and Lindley were silent, their faces as dark as gloom. Dalton, having just come in, laughed. Clarissa was not grateful for it.

"Well done, Clarissa," Dalton said. "If a man can't stand a little ribbing, he'll make a sorry husband."

"I shall remind you of that sentiment when you are shopping for a bride," Lindley said, his dark eyes glowering at Dalton.

"Do you think you can remember it for that long?" Dalton smiled sharply at Lindley. Dalton would not be pushed into marriage, no matter what Albert threatened.

"Enough," Albert said. "It's past now, and nothing to be done but put a brave face on it. And try to make amends in your next encounter," he said, looking censoriously at Clarissa.

"Russell!" she said to her brother as he came in, refusing to answer Albert and all the rest. The best path for her at the moment lay in a controlled retreat. There seemed to be too much of that in her life of late, and Montwyn was ever the cause. "Will you please accompany me to Lackington's? I am book shopping today."

"Of course, Clarissa," he said agreeably. She knew beyond a doubt that he had been out all night and had just had time to change out of his evening wear; Russell would not want to stay and risk his own encounter with Albert's censure.

At her departure, the room broke up quickly, for none cared to stay and face his own comeuppance with Albert. If he had been a man of milder and softer temperament, he might have evoked pity, but he did not. He had been the head of the family-a family that consisted of nine younger brothers and Clarissa-for ten years. It was a burden he was accustomed to, one that he had been trained for all his life. If only his siblings would take to their traces as he had taken to his.

Jane entered as he stood in silent contemplation, his dark eyes studying the view of the garden through the glass. All was cold and gray and wet, yet the sundial gave the garden form and weight when all was leafless and bare. He had once enjoyed planning gardens, before he had been required to oversee the lives of his brothers. And Clarissa. Wild, impetuous Clarissa.

"Tell me your thoughts, Jane," he said softly, his face still to the glass. "What of Montwyn?"

Jane shrugged, and he saw the faint reflection of the gesture in the wavering glass. "You are worried. You need not be."

"You heard what she said to him?"

"No," Jane said cautiously. "But I did observe them from my place near the fire, and the air between them did not seem hostile."

"Not hostile? When she blatantly told him that she was shopping for a husband?"

Jane swallowed before she answered. "Lord Montwyn seems a capable, forthright man. I do not think such bantering will dissuade him."

"Dissuade him?" Albert turned to her. "Was he that interested, and so soon?"

"Let me not misspeak," she said softly. "I think him a man of firmness, of maturity. I think that if Lord Montwyn is at all interested in Clarissa, a few thoughtless words from her will not subdue that interest."

"You have always been observant," he said. "Let us hope you are right. I would not have her season so quickly spoiled."

"Nor would I," she agreed.

With a nod, he gazed back out at his frozen garden. Jane, without another word, left him to his contemplation.

In Lackington's, Beau spotted her immediately. Her dark red hair shone like bright embers against the dark green of her coat. But it was not her hair that drew him; it was her manner. Bright and sharp, feminine and soft, quick and proud- all mixed and blended to such confused refinement that he was able only to smile in bemusement at the contradiction of her.

He wanted her.

It was too soon for such a conclusion, yet it was no thoughtful, logical, intellectual process that brought him to the knowledge. It was instinct. Desire. Passion.

Poor yardsticks when choosing a wife. Yet so he found himself. He wanted her. With such a woman, having her required marriage. For her he was willing to pay the price, though it was high.

Propriety demanded a lengthier involvement before pronouncing his intent. Propriety demanded that he proceed slowly. Propriety demanded that he appear reasonable and methodical. He had never once considered the demands of propriety, and he saw no reason to begin now. The choice was made. Clarissa Walingford would be his wife, and the sooner the better.

He could not help wondering if she knew of their inevitable union as certainly as he did.

She did not.

She stood alone, Russell having taken himself off to another part of the shop while she conferred with the clerk. She felt his presence before she saw him, her breath quickening to match her pulse. It was a most inappropriate response to a man her logic had rejected. His arm appeared over her shoulder, and in his hand he held… a small square of embroidered linen.

"Do you like it?" he said, his words warm and soft on the back of her neck.

She turned to face him and held his green eyes with her gaze. She would not run from Lord Montwyn again, of that she was certain, though the urge to retreat from his proximity was strong. He was so very tall and broad, the shadow of his dark beard leaving a clear outline underneath his skin. She could see all so clearly, so intimately, and her heart raced. Against all logic her heart raced. But she would not run; she would instead compel him to run from her.

"A trifle ornate for my tastes, but then, it probably suits you."

He smiled and tucked the bit of linen into a pocket in his coat. "Searching for a book on embroidery?"

"No. I am not," she said, turning back to the clerk.

Montwyn moved to stand beside her and took the book she had been considering from her hands. His hands were large, his fingers long, his nails squared and clean. She looked away from his hands.

"A History of the Peloponnesian Wars," he quoted. "Not in Greek?" he asked.

"No," she said, lifting her chin.

"You disappoint me, miss."

"With pleasure, sir," she said with a sharp smile. "I'll take it," she said to the clerk. She had been debating choosing lighter reading; the debate within her ceased upon the arrival of Henry Wakefield. Where was Russell?

"Any more shopping to do?" Montwyn asked as the clerk wrapped the book and tallied the bill.

"Yes, but only for husbands," she said, watching the book being wrapped, not watching him. But she could feel him, feel his strength, the power of his personality. He was most unwelcome. If only he had the sense to realize it.

Montwyn laughed with genuine pleasure. The man was an obvious imbecile.

"You think to shock me," he said.

"Only if you find the truth shocking," she answered.

"Never." He smiled.

Even his smile was powerful. He was overwhelmingly masculine, a most unwelcome man.

"The truth," he continued, "is always delightful and precious for its rarity."

"That statement speaks volumes about you, sir. The truth is not rare, in my experience."

"And that, miss, speaks volumes about your innocence."

"I can only think you mean to insult me," she said.

"Never," he replied.

If not for his arrogance, his insults, his bone-deep Englishness, she might have found him attractive. But she did not. She would not. Where was Russell?

"Has your escort gone missing?" he asked, seeming to read her.

"My brother, Russell," she answered, taking the package from the clerk and nodding her thanks.

"A Walingford I have yet to meet, and I have met so many."

"Have you?" She smiled. "I rather doubt you have met us all. We are a rather large clan."

"Clan? An odd way of putting it."

"Not if one is Irish," she said, walking away from him. He followed. He was either more arrogant than she had thought or more unintelligent. Perhaps he was both.

"And your being English is then what makes it odd. Is that not so, Lady Clarissa?"

Russell's arrival, late but welcome, kept her from having to make a response to his most uncomfortable question and his most impertinent address.

The introductions were brief and cordial, both men seeming to take a liking to each other almost immediately. It was most irritating. They knew some of the same people, even shared common friends between them; when the conversation strolled in the direction of hunting parties, she loosed the reins on her strict and composed silence. Russell would no more build a friendship with this man than she would be ignored by him.

"I am certain that with all of your mutual acquaintances, there must be one among them who has a sister or a cousin of marriageable age who would be more than pleased to welcome Lord Montwyn into their company. I feel that his time would be so very well spent in such a gathering," she said.

Russell, dear Russell, could only blink in shock.

Clarissa smiled, awaiting whatever answer Montwyn could think to give, oddly gratified to have his full attention once more. That was odd, was it not? That she should so want those green eyes of his to be looking fully at her? It was not the way of a woman who disdained a man, and she was too honest not to see the truth in herself. She did not like Lord Montwyn. No, she did not. But… she did enjoy the time spent in his presence. He excited her as did no other. And that was something to ponder.

Montwyn smiled in the face of her challenge and her dismissal while she awaited his reply.

"I can only be eager to meet any woman of fine family and good name. Thank you for your avid attention to my needs; it speaks… volumes," he said with a knowing smile, and without taking another breath he excused himself and left the shop.

Which only irritated her. She was to have made her exit first, leaving him behind, leaving him defeated. It would not happen again, of that she was determined.

"What were you thinking to speak so to Montwyn, Clarissa? I hope you haven't offended him. He seems a likely chap, after all," Russell said, taking her arm and guiding her out of Lackington's.

Clarissa smiled and said with rueful respect for such a stellar exit, "Worry not, Russell. Lord Montwyn will be smiling for an hour."

Dalton happened upon Beau in the glove maker's shop. Montwyn was wearing an odd sort of half smile, which Dalton took note of but could not decipher. Whatever it was, Beau looked well pleased with himself and, knowing Beau as he did, Dalton could only conclude that Montwyn thought he had Clarissa well in hand. Such a conclusion would not do. An easy victory would only bore him, of that he was certain. Clarissa, nobly doing her part to cause Beau to trip at every turn, needed his help. He was only too glad to give it.

"You know, Beau, Kilworth's cousin is out this season. A fine-looking girl with a pleasing countenance and gentle manner. Blond, I've heard, but whether the curls are natural, no one is offering. She would do for you, I think," Dalton said, looking over Beau's selection. "This gray pair doesn't suit you, Montwyn, too pale."

Beau looked at him askance and tossed the gray to the clerk with a nod, making his selection. "You know that I've been rather taken with your own sister, Dalton. Why fob off Kilworth's cousin on me?"

"Just hate to see you settle in so soon, that's all," Dalton said. "Plenty of girls out this season. Clarissa isn't right for just any man."

"I am not 'any' man," Beau said, selecting a bloodred pair of gloves.

"No, of course not," Dalton said, holding up a pair of parrot green gloves and shuddering mildly before tossing them down. "But perhaps a girl of more… delicacy… would better suit. Marriage is a serious step. One must be certain of eventual contentment."

"I am content with Clarissa."

"But Clarissa is hardly likely to be content with you," Dalton said, choosing a dark brown pair of gloves and nodding his decision to the clerk.

"I beg your pardon?" Beau asked, his voice as rigid as his posture.

"No insult intended, naturally," Dalton said casually.

"Naturally," Beau repeated with a stiff smile.

"For some strange reason, Clarissa has determined to marry only a man with Irish property. And you have nothing there, unless I am mistaken?"

"That's blatantly ridiculous," Beau grumbled, making a mess of the clerk's carefully arranged selection. "Petulant. Outrageous."

"I agree completely, and that is only another reason for you to discard Clarissa from your consideration, as fond as I am of her-"

"It so happens that I do hold an estate in Ireland," Beau bit out, both angry and proud, it seemed to Dalton.

Dalton did an admirable job of appearing shocked. They really would have to get up more private theatricals to stretch his skill and give him the proper acclaim for his talent.

"Wouldn't tell Clarissa 'bout that. Would put you square in her sights," Dalton said in grim warning.

Beau merely scowled at him.

Really, Beau was a most unsatisfying audience.

She'd consider him because he held Irish lands? Ridiculous. Absurd. She'd consider him-by God, she'd have him-for more reason than that. He had lands, yes, and income, and title-all important when making a match, and there was no shame for it to be considered bluntly and in the bold light of day. But for such a girl to weigh him on the scales of matrimonial worth and find him acceptable because of Irish lands and nothing more was… insulting.

He knew his worth. He was a well-built man with regular features and a not unpleasing manner. He'd had his share of victories with women, broken a heart or two when all was said and done; he'd be considered for more than his land. She'd take him for more than his land. And what was more, she'd admit it. He'd not have her marrying him with Irish lands in her thoughts.

If she married him. Beau frowned and silently cursed Dalton and his serpent's tongue. And when he had calmed himself, he cursed Dalton again. It wouldn't do for a brother of hers to be against the match; it was hard for a girl to go against her brother, though Clarissa looked the sort to do as she pleased when it pleased her. That stood in his favor. She was pleased by him, hide it though she would. He was not so dull as not to sense a woman's interest in the very texture of his skin, and when he was near Clarissa Walingford, his skin very nearly burned. There was more to that than Irish lands.

Beau grunted and tugged at his cravat. Were all the brothers against a match between Walingford and Montwyn?

"Beau," Lindley said, interrupting his thoughts. "Didn't think to see you today," he said, stopping, urging Beau to stop his striding walk. Beau stopped. Lindley looked eager to see him. Lindley looking completely eager was something.

"No, well, I was out… shopping," Beau said with a tight smile.

"Yes, well," Lindley said haltingly, "I didn't know if you'd been invited to the Blakelys' tonight."

Beau said nothing; he merely waited, almost joyous at the look of eagerness on Lindley's face. Lindley was clearly not against the match, but Lindley might be alone in that.

"Should be an enjoyable evening," Lindley said. "Clarissa will be there. I hope to see you too."

"I haven't made my plans for the evening as yet," Beau said cordially. He would not so boldly reveal his interest in Clarissa, not with so many uncertainties. It would not do for word of his intent to get back to Clarissa, feeding a confidence he did not want her to feel. This matter of the Irish lands would be settled.

"Really?" Lindley said, his own irritation mounting and displaying itself on his face. "I wish you a pleasant evening, whatever your diversion."

"Thank you," Beau said. "And you as well."

Both men parted, one newly frustrated and one with renewed confidence. Beau was more than happy to pass his frustration regarding Clarissa off to Lindley, old friend though he was.

Chapter Three

She would wear the lavender silk tonight, and for jewels… Perry came in as she was deliberating.

"What do you think, Perry? The amethyst necklace or the pearl? I cannot decide," she said, turning in her chair, her hands holding each selection aloft.

"I prefer the amethyst. All that sparkle," he said, sitting down on a chair near her dressing table.

"Yes, so much easier to attract a husband when one 'sparkles,'" she said, laying down the pearl necklace and arranging the amethysts around her exposed throat.

Another evening to be spent shopping for a husband. She sighed and checked the arrangement of her hair in the mirror. It was so much more pleasurable shopping for books. She had been reading her new book on the Peloponnesian wars all afternoon, and now her eyes were stinging with fatigue, but she had to go out tonight.

Actually, reading about battle was the perfect preparation for facing a roomful of Englishmen. Especially Montwyn. Would he be there? She smiled at her reflection, her brown eyes dancing with confidence. Of course he would be there. The idea of battling with him was the only excitement she would have all evening, and she was almost counting on him to make her night at the Blakelys' worthwhile. She could entertain herself with him while looking elsewhere for a husband.

"You sparkle enough without the aid of any jewels, Clarissa," Perry said. "Montwyn seems fairly dazzled."

He did, actually, and she hid her smile of satisfaction in the drawing on of a glove.

"Did you see him today?" she asked casually.

"Montwyn, you mean?"

She gave him a cross look for his clumsy attempt to rile her.

Perry shrugged and said, "Sorry. Yes, actually. Jane and I bumped into him on our way to the milliner's. Jane let it be known that you were at Lackington's-ridiculous if you ask me, since we weren't talking of Lackington's at all-and off he went. You saw him there?"

"Yes," she said, standing and smoothing her skirt. "He was at Lackington's."

"He must be interested if he ran off there on just a word from Jane."

"Of course he's interested," Clarissa said with a smile of satisfaction.

"But you're not," Perry said, standing with her, his face serious. "I think Montwyn rather rude and certainly inordinately proud."

"Inordinately? Oh, I think him proud to an uncivil degree, but his pride may be well deserved," Clarissa reluctantly defended.

"I've seen Montwyn Hall," Perry said. "There's enough pride for ten heirs in the Montwyn title. But there's more to a man than his house."

"Of course. There are his lands," Clarissa said firmly. "A man must have good land, good Irish land."

"And naught else?" Perry asked. "You seem interested in Montwyn, with or without Irish lands."

"I am not interested," she said, searching for a fan.

At Perry's skeptical look, she said, "I am not. Have more faith in me, Perry. I have more sense than to choose such a man. He is too-" she shrugged-"bold a man. I am looking for a man who'll burrow quietly in London and leave me contentedly in Ireland. There is nothing quiet about Montwyn, and he would never be able to content me."

"I agree with you," Perry said, standing near her bedroom door. "I wish I could believe you. You do sparkle when he's near, Clarissa, and I know that look in you. More, I think Montwyn to be a man attracted to bright resistance. And you are just that."

"I fear I have not been complimented," she said.

"Smart girl," he said with a grin. "Sparkle all night, dear, for I will be at your elbow throughout the evening. Montwyn shall not have you to himself."

"Thank you for that, Perry," she said. "Now I must do the final touches to myself. I'll meet you downstairs."

Perry left, but he did not like the glitter in Clarissa's dark eyes whenever Montwyn's name was mentioned. And she had fairly glowed when she had learned that Montwyn had followed her to Lackington's. She was a sharp girl, quick in both thoughts and actions, but she might have come up against her match with Montwyn. He was a formidable man, experienced, proud, determined. It was an uncomfortable contemplation that Montwyn might have determined to have Clarissa.

Russell was just coming up to change for the evening as Perry was going down.

"You going with us?" Perry asked.

"Yes, I thought I would," Russell said, his tone more serious than usual.

Stabbing in the dark, Perry said, "You saw Montwyn today?"

Russell looked startled for a moment and then nodded, "I did. When I was with Clarissa at Lackington's. Odd the way they spoke to each other. Rude. But they seemed to like it."

Perry, only a year younger than Russell, nodded and then shook his head in worry.

"What do you make of him, Russell?"

Russell rested his hand on the banister and studied the ceiling plaster. "I've made discreet inquiries. He's a bit wild, or was until he came into his title. Gets out a bit. Travels. Has seen hard duty in his regiment, but Lindley could tell you more, since they met when they both wore the uniform. Not quite a regular man, they say. Harder. Prouder. Perhaps even fierce, in a quiet sort of way."

"Not the sort I'd choose for Clarissa," Perry said.

"Nor I," Russell agreed. "It's that wildness that concerns me. Doesn't do for a man to leave his wife at home while he carouses."

"But he's not married yet," Perry said, "and you know him from your own carousing."

"True." Russell grinned. "But would he want me to marry his sister, if he had one? Probably not."

"You've seen them together," Perry stated. "She's different with him."

"No, I don't agree. She's completely herself. Completely Clarissa."

"Exactly," Perry said. "Why? She hardly knows him. Why would she be so bold with him, unless she's drawn to him, feels something-"

"Not all bad to feel something for the man she might marry."

"Marry Montwyn? I don't think so. Steel against steel, the two of them. And I think he may be scaring off other suitors, leaving her with little choice but him."

"He's scaring off the suitors she's not scaring off herself?" Russell laughed.

Perry shrugged and said reluctantly, "Point taken. She is not showing her best to the London lads, as she calls them."

"Yet Montwyn-"

"Montwyn isn't put off by her manner at all," Perry finished.

Perry and Russell looked into each other's eyes in full comprehension-and with no comfort.

The evening's entertainment was a ball and it was lovely. The music, the candlelight, the colors of gowns and jewels and bouquets, were all lovely. Memorable. A sweet winter's night for a maid to cherish when she was old and fragile and lounging on her chaise in some cold and distant future. Clarissa knew it would be so. She would remember this night, this beautiful night of dancing and music, for years.

It was so sad that upon such an evening she was compelled to shop for an English husband.

Dalton had disappeared almost upon their arrival, Perry was whispering with the niece of their host quite a distance from her side, Russell was caught in what appeared to be a serious game of cards, and Lindley was at her side, his vigilance as constant as his advice.

"If you would only restrain your temper and be civil, you would make much headway," he said, not bothering to disguise his exasperation.

"I am always civil," Clarissa said, her eyes glittering more sharply than her jewels. "What I will not do is fawn over these English fops."

" You are English, as English as any in this-"

"What sort of children would I be forced to bear if married to that?" she said in a hiss, cutting him off. She used her fan to indicate Lord Darnell, as fat as always and in need of a hair trimming. "Has any one of you considered that?" Darnell was all jowl and bristle-revolting. "I could do little worse in the barnyard."

"And does the ram bring in twenty thousand pounds per annum?"

"He is no ram, Lindley," she said bluntly. "Would you bind me to a porker for even half that amount?" she rejoined angrily.

"Shall we speak of the kitchen mouse to whom I have pledged?" Lindley said in a growl, his eyes as fierce and as bright as hers.

"Miss Brookdale is no mouse!" Clarissa protested.

"With Ridgehaven in tow, no woman is a mouse," he said, calming himself. "At least it shall not be admitted aloud."

Clarissa felt guilt tugging at her heels and could not run fast enough to escape its touch. She was churlish. Everyone married for money and position; she was not the first, nor would she be the last. It was childish to be so contrary. Lindley had done his part for the family, and she could do no less.

"Is it the porker you have in mind for me?" she asked with a wry smile.

"Never." He smiled back, their argument over and done. "Do your own choosing. But choose."

"Very well," Clarissa said, taking a deep breath. "I shall. Tonight."

"There is no need for such haste. The clock does not tick so loudly as all that," he argued. Lindley never could enjoy a period of calm for more than a moment.

"I am not of a disposition to dawdle," she said, drawing herself up and surveying the room. "What matters one man over another when they are all so confoundedly English? A length of bleached linen is a length of linen, is it not? What possible reason for confusion or hesitation? I shall make my decision tonight and will have the goods delivered next week."

"Confound you, Clarissa! You know there is no such need-"

She laid a hand upon his arm and looked up into his eyes. "I would rather have it behind me, Lindley. The matrimonial blade gleams quite wickedly over my neck. I would the sooner have it drop."

Now it was guilt that dogged him; she could read it in his eyes. But she had spoken truly; she had no will to delay what she knew was her family duty. To delay meant to feed the illusion of choice, and she had no choice. She must marry and marry well.

Lord Montwyn, joining their company, ended the argument, which was just as well.

"Good evening, Beau," Lindley said with a bow. "A pleasure to see you, as always."

"Good evening." Montwyn bowed, his eyes lingering on Clarissa. She returned his look after her quick curtsy. "I had hoped to see you tonight," he said.

Of course he had. He was behaving very much like a man who had made up his mind as to the woman of his choice; she knew enough of men to know that. And she knew Lindley well enough to know that her blatant perusal of Montwyn was making him uncomfortable. That was a pity-for Lindley. Henry Wakefield, Lord Montwyn, was not discomfitted at all, that she could see. She was quite certain that, having made the ill-guided decision that she was to be the future Earl of Montwyn's mother, Henry Wakefield expected her to be honored and flattered. He truly was an imbecile.

"You are called Beau, Lord Montwyn? I was told your given name was Henry," she said.

"Beau, for Beauford, another of my names. A childhood name that has stuck with me," he answered, holding her eyes. His eyes were the most intense shade of green…

"I should think that few men would be so mild as to keep a childhood name alive into adulthood," she said, breaking contact with his eyes and looking down at her fan. What was behind his eyes? Something that called to her heart and not her head; she would ignore it.

"Yes, I suppose I would feel so if my nurse had taken to calling me Puddles," he said, grinning.

His face was transformed when he grinned. Oh, he was still formidable, but now he also seemed playful, boyish. He must have been a wild youth. She did not know but that he was a wild man. And, foolishly, the thought did not dismay her as it should have. He was bold, yet she could be bold as well.

"Did you make any other purchases at Lackington's today, Lady Clarissa?" Montwyn asked.

"Didn't you watch?" she said. Yes, she could be bold and would be. It delighted him, she knew, and delighting him, just for the moment, amused her.

"Please excuse my sister-" Lindley began, his cheeks red with fury. She knew she had pushed him past mere embarrassment.

"There's no need," Beau interrupted. "She's quite right. I did watch. One book. No-"

"Husband," Clarissa completed for him, smiling up at him. His eyes were like emeralds, deep and sparkling, almost blue in the candlelight.

"Come, Lindley," Jane said, approaching and drawing Lindley off. "Miss Whaley insists on hearing of your exploits with your regiment. It seems her cousin has just bought himself a commission…"

Lindley let himself be taken off, for the most part because Clarissa made it clear that she wanted him to go.

"You enjoy embarrassing him?" Beau asked when they stood alone.

"Not at all. I simply enjoy speaking my mind," she said, still holding his gaze.

Beau studied her, this bold girl, and decided again that he liked what he saw. She had a tongue in her head, and he'd always had an appreciation for redheads. Good family, good name, good looks-and she was not immune to him. He could read her fascination easily enough, and none of it had anything to do with his Irish estate, not with that glowing eye and flushed cheek. A girl could well like Ireland and not have that sort of response. No, she had an affinity for him; that was plain. And she was not afraid of him. So many of these girls this season appeared overawed. But not this one, this girl who so boldly declared herself to be shopping for a husband this year.

Beau smiled deeply, and decided. She was the one. He'd make an offer for her tomorrow morning. It should all be settled by next week-by Christmas, in fact. Convenient, that. He liked to be at Montwyn Hall for the holidays. It would be good to get it all settled and behind him.

"And every Englishman has the right to speak his mind," he answered. "You will find no hindrance here, Lady Clarissa." She bristled as if poked. Had he insulted her somehow? Damned if he knew.

He had insulted her, the dolt. Instantly his facility at amusing her vanished. Really, there was so little logic in allowing herself to find enjoyment in the company of a moderately handsome man of marginal intelligence; her heart thumped an entirely different summation of the man, but her heart- and her eyes as well-had no part in this.

"Excuse me, but I have promised this dance to another. I should like to see you again this evening." He bowed, his eyes never leaving hers.

Arrogant fop. Words of insult crowded her tongue and threatened to smother her judgment. She had been better brought up than to bow to uncivilized urges.

"Enjoy your dance, Lord Montwyn," she said.

"Oh"- he turned to her-"but it is more than a dance, is it not? I am shopping for a bride."

"You attempt to shock me," she said, furious with him as completely as she had been delighted by him a moment before. "All you have accomplished is to illustrate the degradation of your manners and, perhaps, your morals."

"By speaking my mind?" he said with a smile, tormenting her with her own choice of words. "Good evening, Lady Clarissa. I hope to see you again. Soon."

He left her then, his smile as wide, arrogant as a fox. He was a boor. She hated him. He was the most arrogant and insufferable of them all. He was also the one her eyes followed. Stupid thing, eyes. One didn't need them to make a marriage contract. She forced herself to look away from him and survey the rest of the room.

He did cut a splendid figure, though, his height being an advantage few could lay claim to. She forced her eyes to obey her will and studied the other men arrayed for her consideration. What she needed was a list, a list of net worth, annual income, and, most important, Irish holdings. That would be the measure of the man she chose, not green eyes and a devilish manner, for she would return to Ireland as mistress of her own domain and destiny. Let her husband, whomever he was, wallow in London. In fact, she would prefer it.

Chapter Four

The next morning, in the privacy of her room, with a cup of chocolate to sustain her, Clarissa sat amid a haphazardly organized pile of papers and lists-all necessary research materials in her attempt to compile her list of men suitable to fill the position of husband.

Naturally Jane was horrified by the cold-bloodedness of it, but Jane had a strong leaning toward sentiment and romance. Clarissa was going to be ruled by her head and the sense that God had given her; she was going to be logical and she was going to be efficient. And she was going to be quick.

"But Clarissa," Jane pleaded, clasping her hands before her, "there is more to marriage than contracts and obligations."

"Is there? I fail to see it. What is there of sentiment in arranging a marriage anyway? Albert would scoff at you, Jane."

"But sentiment should grow in such a union. What chance is there for warm sentiment with such a cold beginning?"

"Let him have lands in Leinster and I shall have sentiment enough," Clarissa said, taking a healthy swallow of her morning chocolate. "If he has lands in Wexford itself, I shall love him unreservedly… from Wexford. Let him occupy himself in London or even Dublin."

"Clarissa," Jane said, trying for severity.

"It is no use your trying to dissuade me, Jane. I am quite determined and have even given Lindley my pledge that all will be settled by next week. I do so want to enjoy the Christmas holiday without this hanging over me. Now, help me with my list if you would help me."

"I shall help," Dalton said, coming into her room, "and gladly. What is it you wish to know?"

"Oh, Dalton, just the one I need," Clarissa said, laying aside her shawl. "You know everyone in society. Just who has Irish lands?"

"Irish lands, is it? Well, I suppose I'm not surprised. You will have your way and go back, and if it takes an aging husband to get you there, then you're hardly likely to balk."

"Of course not," she said, hesitating only slightly. "If you'll only help me compile my list?"

"Yes, of course," Dalton said with a slight smile.

" Dalton, you're not to encourage her," Jane said.

"But how can I not, Jane, when she is being so very reasonable, so extremely logical?"

"Exactly," Clarissa said with a nod to Jane.

"Well, then, you must have Lord Benson on your list. He has a prime estate in County Wicklow."

"Lord Benson," she repeated, forcing herself to add him to her list. Benson was past fifty and had a small pastry for a nose.

"Then there is Lord Esherton, recently available, with an estate in Waterford much talked of."

She had already met Lord Esherton; he was without a single hair on his head, and he had a most peculiar odor about him. His first wife had most likely died of asphyxiation. Still, Waterford was so very near Wexford, the place of her youth. Esherton was added to her list.

"I almost hesitate to mention…" Dalton said leisurely, "but you did ask for my complete help."

"Yes, who is it?" she said sharply, redipping her quill.

"There is Lord Montwyn, whom I know you have met. He does have an estate of some merit in County Meath, I think it is."

"Ah," she said, trying not to smile. And failing.

"I thought you'd be glad to add Montwyn to your list," Dalton teased with a chuckle.

"Don't be ridiculous, Dalton," she barked, laying aside her quill. "If I must shop for a husband, I would be rather stupid not to have a shopping list from which to make my selections."

"And you are certainly not stupid," Dalton said merrily. "Tell me, what exactly is on your for a future husband?"

"Irish lands, of course. That is of primary importance."

"And of secondary importance?"

"His annual income."

"A most practical list," he said, smiling.

"For a most serious purpose," she said with a small scowl.

"Assuredly. Shall I inform Lord Montwyn that he is on your list?"

"Don't be an imbecile, Dalton," she snapped. "It would be so like you to do it, just for a laugh. But tell him, if you must. I'll wager it will matter little," she said, grinning.

"That confident, are you?"

"Not another word from you, Dalton," she said, turning her back to him and sipping her chocolate most delicately.

Dalton limited his response to a bark of laughter, and then left her room with Jane at his elbow, whispering words of wise counsel, no doubt. It was unfortunate for Jane that she was hampered by an obstinate family, ruled for the most part by their own stubborn ways.

But not Clarissa. She was proceeding wisely and most cautiously. Did she not have her list? And what a welcome addition Montwyn was to that list, especially when compared to his competition. But really, to be honest with herself, he had no competition. With Irish lands behind him, he became just possible for consideration as a husband. He was still rude and overbearing and proud, yet he was compelling in a blatant sort of way.

He just might do.

He was certainly a more attractive candidate than Esherton. All that was lacking was the certainty that she could manage him. Yet if she was able to manuever him into making an offer for her, it would be no great task to softly manage him during their marriage. She was almost certain Montwyn wouldn't present too much of a problem.

Let Dalton spill the truth about her list to him; she just hoped he would. If she knew men-and she did, with ten older brothers to instruct her-his knowing she had compiled a list with his name on it would fire both his anger and his interest. His pride would be pricked, as would his manly desire to win at any game, any competition. And so he would compete-to be her husband. She would have her Irish estate and, if Montwyn did as she expected, a husband who didn't smell like a dirty dish.

Dalton met Lindley in the foyer as he was pulling on his new gloves. He was in fine mettle and it showed.

"Rest easily, Lindley; I'd wager Clarissa will choose Montwyn within the week, if Montwyn can be properly encouraged to offer for her."

"Really?" Lindley asked, trying to decide just when this decision on Clarissa's part could have taken place. Of course, there was Beau to entice to the altar as well. If Clarissa was of a mind to accept Montwyn, there was no time to waste in getting Beau to offer for her. She was so changeable lately that any delay could ruin the whole arrangement.

Dalton hurried out, every item of clothing in perfect place, to find Montwyn and do his cheerful best to push him into matrimony.

Lindley, unfortunately, did not know this and left hurriedly on exactly the same errand.

Only Russell, who had heard the short exchange from the study, was of a different mind. It was obvious to him that both Dalton and Lindley were well-disposed to having Montwyn a part of their family. He, however, was much less certain of the man's worth as Clarissa's husband. Montwyn had a reputation as a hard man, and Clarissa, with her outspoken ways, would have an easier time of it with a milder sort of fellow. Certainly Clarissa could be convinced of this bald truth.

He approached her door quietly, only to hear her talking softly with Perry. It didn't sound the sort of conversation one intruded upon, and so he left to make his way to Montwyn, to put him off Clarissa, by whatever means he could find, and onto another girl. Young Mary Beckham was a lovely girl of sweet temperament and radiant complexion. If he were in the market for a wife, he'd be easily induced to look her way. He could not imagine that Montwyn would see her any differently.

He had forgotten completely how blind a brother could be to his sister's appeal.

"Is it possible that you are unaware how completely ridiculous the entire idea is?" Perry asked, as close to fury as he had ever come. "You've made a list? That is absolutely not the way to choose a husband. What if none of the men on your list offers for you? What good then, Clarissa?"

"Not offer?" She laughed. "They'll all offer for me. What is wrong with you to have so little faith in me?"

"And if they do, then whom will you pick if all are equal upon your list?"

Perry reached over and took the list from the table, reading aloud.

"Benson, Esherton, and Montwyn! They're all impossible; surely you can see that, Clarissa. How have you compiled this list, for such unsuitable men to be grouped together so cozily?"

"They are not unsuitable," she snapped. How could he put Beau in with Benson? Was it possible that a man did not see a suitor in the same light as a woman would? Could any man, even Perry, be that blind? "And I've compiled my list by priorities. My priorities. Land in Ireland is my first concern. His owning an estate in Ireland is more important than anything."

"It must be for Montwyn to appear on your list."

"Why else would he be there?" she said stiffly. "I simply must return to Ireland, Perry. You, of all people, should understand that."

Perry sat down next to her and took her hand in his. "I don't want you to go back," he said gently. "I don't want it to be so important to you."

"But it is," she said, stroking his hand. "I must go back."

Perry dropped his head and sighed. "Are you still having the dream?"

Images jolted into her mind's eye at the question, unwelcome images of red coats and bright blood and blazing fire. Swirling and unwelcome shades of red burned behind her eyes. And then screams and gunfire and explosion; the sounds of war and battle and pain. All were viewed from above, as if she had no part in it. But she was a part, had been a part, could not forget. She would never forget the screams of a dying man, the eyes of an English soldier.

She forced herself to keep her expression calm as she answered, "Not as much."

Perry, it seemed, was unconvinced. "You should stay here," he pronounced, and not for the first time. All her brothers were in agreement on that: keep Clarissa out of Ireland.

"If I am in Ireland again, the dream will leave me," she said, standing and escaping his touch. She felt trapped and hated it; she should not feel trapped by Perry. He loved her.

"I don't know why it would," he said, his eyes never leaving her.

"It just would," she insisted. "I must go back."

"Albert will never allow it."

"It will no longer be Albert's decision," she said softly, hiding her triumph.

"Your husband will leave you in Ireland while he lounges in England?" Perry asked mockingly. At her nod, he said, "It is at moments like this that I wonder how well you truly understand men, Clarissa."

"I understand them well enough," she said, and then laughed, breaking the somber mood. "Each one of these men will offer for me by year's end." And at that she was being conservative. She doubted it would take even two weeks. She would be married by Christmas.

"Even Montwyn?" Perry asked.

Clarissa smiled. "Even Montwyn." Especially Montwyn.

Lindley called upon Beau at his home on Grosvenor Street and managed to catch him in.

"Well done, Beau," he greeted upon being directed into Beau's handsome library.

Beau rose from his chair at the greeting and said, "While I enjoy praise as earnestly as any man, for what am I being congratulated at this hour of the day?"

"Why, for your success with Clarissa," Lindley said, a scowl just beginning to form at the evidence of Beau's ignorance. "Whatever you have done must be working quite to your advantage, because she is more than half prepared to accept an offer of marriage from you."

"Really?" Beau said with a bemused smile.

She was prepared to accept him? She'd be a damned fool not to, by his reckoning. He was quite aware that she was attracted to him; she hadn't been adept at hiding that from him, not that he cared, in any regard. Still, Lindley had a right to be pleased; it would be a good union for all concerned. He was more than a sight pleased himself. He had come to London to find a wife, and he had done so rather expeditiously, not wasting time when his duty was to get an heir at all speed. Perhaps he'd have a son by Christmas next.

Yes, he was quite pleased with the way events were progressing. Lindley had an air of being almost relieved to have the matter of Clarissa settled, and well he should be; Clarissa was ravishing, true, but she was a bit of a scold. Not a proper sort of wife for every man, but he was more than certain that he would manage her most efficiently.

He had almost reached the stables when Russell Walingford greeted him. Truly, London seemed awash in Walingfords since Clarissa had come to town to find a husband. Beau greeted him cordially, as befitted a future brother, and waited civilly while Russell came to the point. He was beyond certain that Clarissa would be mentioned.

He was wrong.

"I noticed how prettily Miss Maria Belgrave played. Did you not also make note of it? A lovely young woman, is she not?"

"I would not disagree," Beau said with a mental shrug.

"So many young women to meet this season, Lord Montwyn," Russell said, pressing the point. "Delightful parties and splendid dinners abound, wouldn't you say? A shame for a man to cut himself off, so to speak, so early in the season."

"Cut himself off?" Beau repeated heavily. "I do not comprehend you."

"Have you not met Lady Mary Beckham? A most delightful girl. She is to be at the Mongrave dinner, to which I am certain you have received an invitation."

"Is that where the Walingfords will be spending their evening?" Beau asked.

Russell cleared his throat before answering, "I do not believe so, but you should avail yourself of the invitation. Mary is a stellar woman of rare beauty and pleasing deportment."

"Then allow me to encourage you to attend the Mongrave dinner, so that you may better enjoy the company of Lady Mary," Beau said, striving to maintain his cordiality.

"It was your own enjoyment that prompted me, Lord Montwyn," Russell said. "You would be rewarded in pleasure by spending time in Mary's company."

How much more pleasure he would have received if he had not understood Russell's intent; he was obviously trying to dissuade him from Clarissa by throwing Mary Beckham, or any other young woman, in his path. What to make of this state of events when Lindley, not half an hour since, had hailed him on, encouraging him to finish the task he had started when first he came to London and beheld Clarissa?

According to Lindley, Clarissa was his. According to Russell, he should look elsewhere. But perhaps Russell was not privy to Clarissa's thoughts… and perhaps Lindley was not either. Perhaps it was only that Lindley voiced his own wish. Blast! These Walingfords were a bedeviling lot, Clarissa the worst of all with her bold talk and mischievous air. He should forget her and give Mary Beckham a look, find a wife of a more demure nature and submissive demeanor.

He should, but he would not.

How could he, having met Clarissa?

He had excused himself-rather abruptly, if he must admit it-from Russell and proceeded to the stables. A good ride in the park was just the thing to clear his head and illuminate his resolve. His mount was reliable and of an easy temperament and just as eager for a run in the cold winter air as his master. Beau gave him his head and threw out all thoughts but the pure joy of riding a good horse. Clarissa and her brothers would be managed in their own time. For the moment he wanted to be free of the responsibility of making a good marriage and the necessity of producing an heir to secure Montwyn for future generations.

It was a burden that had belonged to his older brother, William, and William had borne it cheerfully. But William had died of a fever without issue, his widow had remarried, and now it fell to Beau to carry on. He had never wished for the duty. He had taken up a commission in the regiment and found joy there. He had resigned his commission and taken up a life of gaming and women and found joy there. He was now called upon to resign his life of decadence and assume the role of Lord of Montwyn. He only hoped he could find some small measure of joy in it.

Meeting Clarissa had given him hope. He had to marry and to marry a certain type of woman, of certain family and certain position, and such women were generally of the same type: quiet, demure, and biddable. Certainly there were benefits to having such a woman in a man's life, but the drawbacks gleamed more brightly. He did not want to share his life with a woman of little more spirit and fire than a babe. He suspected that such a woman would drown a man with her constant need for guidance and direction. And, for all that it was unfashionable, he wanted a wife with whom he could converse.

Clarissa had a tongue in her head and the brain to wield it in a most entertaining manner.

He did not think he would ever grow bored with Clarissa.

He was certain Clarissa was the ideal choice.

He was equally certain, most of the time, that Clarissa saw him in the same light.

Of what could she complain? He was well propertied, well titled, well fixed, and… he did not want her to want him for those reasons. Blast, but he would have her wanting him for himself and not what he brought to the union, though it went against all logic for him to wish it. Should he even want a woman who would throw all sense aside to listen to her heart? No, and yet he did.

And no matter what Russell said, he was certain that she wanted him for those things that could not be listed on a clerk's ledger. That is, he was certain most of the time.

All good intentions aside, he had not been able to leave Clarissa and her brothers behind him on his ride. Still, it had been good to get out into the air. He felt better for it.

Until he saw Dalton waiting for him at the stable as he returned his mount.

"I hate to say it, since I consider you a friend," Dalton said with a huge grin, "but you seem to be something of a fool, Beau."

Beau dismounted and handed the horse off to the groom.

"In the name of that friendship, I will refrain from calling you out," Beau said with the barest hint of a smile.

Dalton bowed. "Thank you, Lord Montwyn. But you have been fool enough to let it be known that you were in the possession of an Irish estate, and that has put you firmly on her list."

"List?" Beau said as he walked out, Dalton matching his stride.

"Oh, yes, let me inform you of the method that my darling sister is implementing in her quest to obtain for herself the ideal husband."

"You mock her, yet it shows sense," Beau said. Perhaps his personal attributes were mentioned on the list.

"Oh, good sense, I will agree," Dalton said, laughing. "At the top of her list is the necessity for her future husband to be the lord of an Irish estate. The second requirement, which naturally follows and which you can hardly debate the wisdom of, is an annual income of not less than thirty thousand pounds a year, for how can an Irish estate be maintained for less?"

"In addition to a home or two in England," Beau added calmly. "She shows a rare inclination for management. You must give my compliments to your sister."

Dalton merely smiled and kept walking, swinging his stick most irritatingly.

She wanted him; that matched with Lindley's impression. But for his Irish lands? He would not believe it. He had seen her eyes when she looked at him and watched the thrumming of her blood in the slender stem of her throat; she wanted him. Let her tell her brothers that it was his Irish lands that compelled her to him, if it suited her, but he knew the spark of female interest when it landed in his lap, so to speak. She had him on her shopping list of possible husbands for more flattering reasons than property and income.

"Our Clarissa," Dalton said, "is a very clever, very levelheaded girl. No limp sentiment for her. I will deliver your compliments to my sister, Lord Montwyn."

Dalton bowed and left Beau at Grosvenor Place and Piccadilly. Beau did not return the bow; he walked on, more determined than ever to prove, at least to himself, how very wrong Clarissa was if she thought to have him for his property alone.

Another evening's entertainment to be readied for. In truth, she found she was looking forward to it. She was more than certain that Beau would be there, and the knowledge made her preparations all the more enjoyable. Tonight she would wear the pale green gown with light pink and wine red embroidered blossoms strewn about the neckline; the ruby necklace from her mother would do well with it.

Albert requested entry as she was choosing her gloves and fan; she kept her manner light, though she could feel her heart sink within her chest.

"Good evening, Clarissa," Albert said, choosing to remain standing though Clarissa had offered him a chair. "I don't mean to interrupt, but have you met anyone who might be suitable?"

Uncharitable thoughts and hard words rose in her mind, but she subdued them. Instead she tossed him her list with a carelessness she did not feel. Let her list speak for her. He would see how far he had pushed her. He would see to what lengths she had been driven in the name of familial duty and feminine submission.

She regally pulled on a glove as she awaited his declamations of sorrow, regret, and guilt.

"I commend you, Clarissa," Albert said. She turned to face him. His face was radiant with joy and pride. "You display a level of intelligence about the whole matter of choosing a spouse that I find wholly admirable. If more young women were of your caliber, Britain would have more productive marriages. In fact, I can think of a few names you may have overlooked in ignorance. You will allow me to add them?" Clarissa nodded dumbly. "Lord Chister has a lovely park in Tipperary as well as a small manor in France, now under dispute, of course, but that may right itself and must be considered, don't you think?"

"Naturally," Clarissa managed stiffly. "A manor in France would be delightful."

"And then there is old Lord Baring, who is of an age to need a nurse more than a wife, but one cannot ignore the fact that he is in possession of the finest estate in Kildare. I can see you now in his yellow salon… a striking portrait, if I do say. You are a clever girl to keep your head about you so well when so many girls flit off with the first pretty man with curling hair who happens to bow before them. Well, I won't detain you, seeing that you have the matter so well in hand. Given your abilities, I should not be surprised by a Christmas wedding, I tell you. Well done, Clarissa!"

He strode to the door of her chamber, and she could hardly find the words to bid him good night.

"You are satisfied, then?" she managed to say.

Albert turned at the door and considered her. She looked as forlorn as a pup in the rain, though he knew she was unaware of it. "More than satisfied-proud, if you must know. You are being remarkably reasonable about the whole business. Most gratifying. Shows the makings of a splendid wife." And he turned and left.

Once in the privacy of the hall, Albert gave in to the laugh he had been swallowing for the past ten minutes. Gad, that should do it. She'd drop the whole notion of the list now that she had been commended for it.

He hadn't missed the significance of Montwyn's name appearing with the rest. Oh, yes, the man had an Irish estate, but he was also well titled and of a firm and unyielding temperament: perfect for his young sister. That was a match well made; he could hardly have done better himself for her.

Resuming his characteristic stoic demeanor, Albert retired to his study to await the eventual-one could almost say inevitable-arrival of Lord Montwyn. One truth he had spoken: he anticipated a Christmas wedding. To be sure, Montwyn, from all that he had heard of the man, was not one to dally.

Chapter Five

The dinner was sumptuous, the company pleasing, the house spectacular, and Clarissa was trying very hard to appear to be enjoying herself. It did not help that the man seated to her right was Lord Baring, who was not only the possessor of the finest estate in Kildare, but of a very poorly designed set of false teeth. He was making quite a mess of his capon. She was trying desperately not to hear him wetly gumming the small bones of the bird in his mouth. Most unappetizing, even if his estate was glorious.

Matters were not helped in that Beau was seated halfway down and across the table next to a very pretty blond woman, Lady Elena Montaine, who appeared from this distance to be absolutely captivated by every utterance of Lord Montwyn. And Lord Montwyn appeared most gratified by her blatant attentions.

Clarissa felt the beginnings of a headache behind her right eye.

Small wonder.

Each of her brothers in residence had felt it imperative to impart special instruction, counsel, and advice into her ear before she left for the evening. Lindley had urged her not to be a lackwit and let Montwyn slip by her. Dalton had stopped her to point out that Montwyn's Irish lands were very fine and that she wasn't the only young woman out for her first season who would enjoy an estate in Ireland, or Montwyn himself, for that matter. Russell had been considerably gentler when he had reminded her that Montwyn was well known as a guest at some of the more questionable house parties, in season and out; something he well knew, as he was often at the same parties. Perry, her most devoted brother, had warned her not to allow Montwyn to get so firm a hold on her attentions that all other possible suitors would bolt before the game had been played out. Though each bit of advice was as different as her brothers were different, the common thread was Montwyn himself.

Had the field narrowed so drastically and so soon, then?

Had it really all come down to Henry Wakefield?

Past the slippery sound of Lord Baring's crunching, she watched Beau. His dark hair was thick and shining, his brow noble and high, his eyes intelligent; he was a most handsome man. Tall, broad in the shoulder, trim in the waist, and powerful. He was a most powerful man. He was magnificent, and, of course, he had those very necessary Irish lands.

Lady Elena, rapt at his side, laughed sweetly at something he said, and Beau smiled his response to her.

Awareness surged through her as completely as a shiver. She wanted that smile to be for her. She wanted those eyes to look only at her. She wanted his attention and his conversation and his regard.

And as she was filled with wanting, Beau looked away from his dinner companion and stared straight into her eyes. Unerringly, he pinned her with a look. Unreservedly, she returned it.

Feminine awareness took hold and set its roots deep within her for the first time in her life. She understood his look, understood the wanting behind it, the power that drove it, the determination to fulfill its demands. Such a look, a look of hunger for her and recognition that it was she and she alone who could meet his need, filled her with a sense of joy and power such as she had never known. She held his look, wanting it. Wanting the desire she saw glimmering just beneath the surface, understanding that she aroused him. Glorying in the knowledge.

And then the look was broken. It was just a glance, really, nothing more, yet she had read all that in the short moment it took for a brief meeting of their eyes.

She had read something of his heart in that glance.

The list could be burned. Montwyn was her choice. The only thing left to do was let him know of his good fortune.

Their after-dinner entertainment was supplied by Lady Elena of the sweet smile. She played the pianoforte and she played it very well. She would make someone a very pretty wife. But not Montwyn. Montwyn was to be hers.

She could not see him from her position on the couch, but she knew that he was somewhere behind her. Where behind her? Looking fondly at Lady Elena, imagining her playing the pianoforte in Montwyn Hall?

Clarissa turned her head as casually as she could manage in order to look into the dim corners of the capacious room. She did not have to look so far as that, for Beau stood just behind her and met her eyes as she turned. Green eyes sparkled into deepest brown; she did not look away, but took in the sight of him, knowing that he had been looking at her and not at Elena.

The glance, growing into a stare of awareness, did not break. She could feel the power of him through his eyes. She could see him smile in self-satisfaction.

Oh, yes, that was what it was. She had ten older brothers; she knew the look well.

Clarissa turned away and fanned herself gracefully, pretending to listen to the crescendo of Elena's piece. Beau grew more confident by the hour, and such confidence, since it was directed at her, did not sit well. It was stupid to delay the inevitable when it would only gratify his arrogance. She would not be coy or flirtatious with the man she had chosen to marry. To what purpose to pretend hesitation or uncertainty? She had made her selection-all that was left was to pay the bill.

Elena concluded to a round of warm applause at her skill and her general prettiness. Beau left his position at Clarissa's back and went around to the pianoforte, bowing low over Lady Elena's hand and murmuring words that only she could hear-and that caused a most delicate blush to rise in her cheeks. Clarissa watched all with a cold eye and a trim smile of amusement. Let him play at seduction; he was already hers. She was certain he knew that as well as she, for she would never have chosen a man of low intelligence or dull sensitivity.

After escorting Elena back to her seat, Beau approached Clarissa. She rose so as to meet him standing. She had known he would return to her; it was inevitable.

His eyes searched hers again, and again she held his gaze. She was not insensible to him-hardly that, for he made the blood grow thick in her bosom and her legs felt as soft as pudding-but she would not be the timid miss for him; he would not want that, and she did not want it for herself. Let them meet as equals in this matrimonial excursion, and let them both willingly and openly pay the price of union.

"You've made your selection," she said softly, her bosom heating as she said the words. "Why encourage her to think otherwise?"

"Have I?" he whispered, staring down at her.

He was such a tall man, so broad, with such bearing; it came to her mind that she should be the slightest bit in awe of him. She rejected the thought as illogical.

"You would like to play out the farce?" she asked. "When we both know the finale?"

"Are you as bold as you seem?" he said, almost in an undertone for his own ears.

"Is it boldness you see in me?" Clarissa asked, wanting him to see more.

"Assuredly," he said.

"Not astuteness? Not discernment?"

He took her arm in answer, and they left the light and noise of the salon behind them. Lord Wingate and his sister were being encouraged in a duet. Beau closed the door behind them and led her into the wide central hallway. It was well lit, with the noise of the party and the bustle of servants surrounding them, yet the quiet and seclusion, the intensity of his presence, made all seem intimate and clandestine. She felt, somehow, that it was intentional on his part-that he was testing the degree of her temerity. She did not care. He was her best choice, and, without undue pride, she determined that she was his.

"Because you are an astute shopper?" he asked, his eyes intent upon her face. "Able to choose the finest lace at the most reasonable price?" He moved closer to her, just a step, but she felt her breath catch and moved away from him.

"I am a good shopper. Your vanity must compel you to agree. And there are worse attributes in a wife."

"And what woman, maid or matron, shops without a list?" he said abruptly, hoping to catch her in an embarrassment.

"Not I, surely," she said, chin up and eyes clear as fine wine.

Yet she, impossible woman, would not be pricked by so small a thing as shame. She did not bleed from the wound his words had attempted. She was bold, no matter her claims to be discerning. What woman on the marriage mart would be so obvious, so blatant, so without feminine guile in her matrimonial pursuits? Was it a game she played to catch his interest, for she surely had, or was she truly as bold as she appeared?

He pressed closer to her, his hand upon her arm, and forced her to promenade the hallway with him; he would not compromise her, for he did not want her by that route, and he would not give her the chance to catch him with that old ruse. No, all would be proper, if a bit irregular.

"What was the body of your list? How was it compiled?" he asked.

"By priorities, my lord, how else?" she said, and then smiled. "Surely Dalton told you as much."

He smiled down at her, amused and engaged. She was astute. And a beauty. If he had bothered to compile a list, certainly it would have featured those two attributes. Rather call them necessities.

"I was informed only of a list in the making," he quibbled. "I am… honored?… to have been included."

"You are not sincere, but I am," she said, her hand light upon his arm. She did not tremble. He was impressed. "You are on my list of possible husbands. If the truth be told, I am quite certain that you are on many similar lists throughout London. I'm sure your dining companion who plays the pianoforte so sweetly will add your name to her list before she retires."

Her boldness went too far, straying into vulgarity. "You show only boldness and no discernment in making such a remark," he said with tight anger.

"You are right. I apologize," she said quickly enough. "But it is the truth."

It may well have been the truth, but he was both appalled… and flattered. She could read it in him, he knew.

"The truth is delightful, is it not?" she said, laughing lightly.

He had never found being laughed at to be even remotely tolerable. Until now.

He wanted to tell her that she was the rarity, the delight. He didn't know there could be such a woman as Clarissa Walingford seemed to be. But perhaps she only seemed to be.

"Shall we test it?" he challenged. "A conversation of truth, only truth, with none of the layered shadings of practiced civility? Do you dare it, Clarissa?"

"Truth need not be uncivil," she said, her manner quietly cautious. He silently applauded her: bold but not reckless.

"Then a civil truth. Shall we try?" He grinned, pressing his hand over hers as it lay upon his arm.

Clarissa smiled up at him, her expression playful, and said, "Yes. I would enjoy it."

"The first truth. And a truth most civil," he teased. But he wanted more than careful, polite truths from her. He wanted to see into her heart. "How real is your list?"

"Quite real. I held it in my hand but hours ago," she said.

"And my name was on it, held between your hands?"

He did not touch her hand, but his eyes went there, and she clenched her hand upon his arm to keep him away from the vulnerability of her palm.

"Yes," she said softly, averting her eyes. He was so overwhelming at this proximity. It was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain her composure.

"Why am I on your list?" he asked.

She could only look at him, feeling his nearness and his strength, feeling that she should take care and protect herself, but she could not. She stood, immobilized by his touch and by the impossible nature of his question. Why was he on her list? She would not tell him that he was handsome. She would not tell him that he amused her. She would not tell him that he drew her in when all of London seemed closed to her Irish heart. She would not tell, for she would not allow those words into her thoughts. She could only want him for what he could give her, not for what he could inspire in her. That was all she would allow herself.

"What is it about me that has made me so profoundly eligible?" he said.

Ah, he wanted compliments, as all men did. That, also, she would not do. A man never appreciated the giver of the compliment, but only the compliment itself, hugging the words to his chest as he strolled off in self-congratulation. She had not needed ten brothers to teach her that basic truth.

"You have a wonderful… estate in Ireland," she said casually.

It was not what he had expected to hear. It was not what he wanted to hear. He was titled, well regarded, fit, and not unpleasant to look upon. All for naught if his Irish lands were forfeit? Impossible. No truth could have so much folly in it. She wanted him; he knew that for a truth.

" Dalton mentioned as much to me. I assumed in jest," he said, turning her for the walk back down the hall. It was much quieter here, which did not suit him at present, as it made the sound of his shattering vanity ring more loudly in his ears.

"It is no jest."

"I can see that it is not. Why Ireland?" he asked. He had been wondering. It was a strange prerequisite for a betrothal.

" Ireland is home," she said in all simplicity. "I want to go home."

" Ireland is home? When were you last there?"

"Ten years or so. I miss it very much."

"I would say that you could hardly remember it."

"Then you would be wrong. I remember it well," she said, her voice firm and strangely resolute.

He doubted the truth of that statement. She must have been a young girl when she had left, not above ten years. But he could see that she believed her words. As it was to be a discussion of civil truths, he would not argue the point with her.

"Why do you want to marry me?" she asked into his silence.

"Have I said I do?" he replied, just a bit flustered. What sort of woman asked such a question?

"Is this not to be a conversation of truths?" she asked, her words biting into his manhood. "Were the truths all to be my own?"

"I blush," he said almost comically. "You shame me." He grinned and granted her a brief bow. "Very well. I do want to marry you. Have I just proposed?"

"If you need to ask me, then no, you have not. I would not be so unfair."

But he would not call it unfair to achieve union with such a woman. She was enchanting, completely out of his experience, delightful. He was more than ready to ask her for her hand.

He was not to have the chance that evening. Perry and Jane, obviously concerned over her lengthy absence and not put at ease at finding them in such relative seclusion, interrupted their conversation. It would not be resumed that night; he was to have no such liberties with Lady Clarissa again. His eyes followed her throughout the remainder of the evening; he could not even think to play at his amusement with Lady Elena. In all the room there was only Clarissa.

They had not finished their conversation, not yet. Tomorrow… tomorrow he would call upon her. The thought was a fever in his blood that he welcomed as warmly as a brother.

"Has he proposed yet?" Jane whispered as they donned their cloaks.

"Tomorrow," Clarissa said softly, with a smile of pure anticipation. "He will tomorrow."

At the hour of three, which was when Beau felt it appropriate to make his appearance at the Walingford town house, everyone in the house, including the pastry chef, knew he was there to propose marriage. Her brothers were especially jubilant; after all, Clarissa might have an imperfect understanding of politics, but she understood the way a man's mind worked well enough. With ten tutors it was hardly likely that she'd be less than proficient at it. They were damned proud of her, too. Montwyn was a good match for them. She'd done well. For privacy, it was agreed that they be allowed to stroll the garden together. Clarissa looked fetching in a lilac pelisse with a matching bonnet. Dalton, watching from a third-floor window, could only smile. Montwyn had been spoken for. One could only wonder if he realized it yet.

However, the more interesting question was whether Clarissa understood that Montwyn would never let her plop herself down in Ireland without him.

The garden was barren of leaves, but the privet hedge provided structure, as did the stone bench on the back wall. It was a pretty garden, the bricks laid in a herringbone pattern around a sundial that amply demonstrated how cloudy a day it was. Fortunately there had been no rain for a week. It was a pleasant place to linger, even in December. And they had all the privacy they could wish.

"Shall we continue?" Beau asked, looking larger than usual in his greatcoat and hat.

"You like truth very well, it seems," she said, smiling at him.

"I do." He nodded with a smile. "I may well have contracted a daily need for it."

Clarissa held her tongue. She would not put the words in his mouth to spit back out at her. He would do this on his own.

"Do you play coy now?" he asked.

"No," she said pleasantly. "Let us return to my question of last evening. Why do you want to marry me?"

"Why?" he blustered, clearly taken aback. It was most amusing. "Why does any man want to marry?"

"For heirs?" she said. "Any woman could do that for you."

He really was blushing now, but she would not relent. She would not bind herself to a man because he found her amusing or entertaining. Let there be more to their union than that, even if she dwelled in Ireland alone. But with this man, would she be left alone?

"You are the most confounded woman," he grumbled.

"I suppose I am, and it's best you know it now. Perhaps if you ask me to marry you, our conversation will progress more smoothly," she suggested, giving up her earlier transigence.

He turned to face her, stopping them on the path. Her feet were cold. It didn't matter. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, the most masculine, the most marvelous. His eyes, so green in the gray world of winter, demanded something of her. Pity, she supposed. He looked a man beset and just a bit bewildered. A man on the brink of matrimony would have such a look; Lindley had looked so when he had offered for Miss Brookdale. It must be the way of men to have to be hounded to the altar. She felt completely calm. She knew what she wanted. She only waited for him to say it.

"Let me ask you instead why you so clearly want to marry me," he said, adjusting his hat when it was already set perfectly upon his head. When she paused, he crowed, "You see? It is not so simple a question to answer. No one should be put in such a position. I withdraw-"

"No," she interrupted him. "I want to answer you. This is more in the matter of a practical arrangement, and I believe we should be truthful about both our purpose and our expectations."

"Come now. I expect no such answer. This borders on incivility-"

"I disagree. Let us be honest with each other at the very least; even if this is to be our last conversation."

At his silence, she only smiled. He had not liked hearing that gently voiced threat.

"I have come to the point in my life when marriage is expected," she said, her voice grave. "I have a duty to my family to marry well. Your title and your income make you quite desirable."

"High on your list, you might say," he interjected curtly. He looked irritated. It didn't alarm her, as it didn't signify; men were so easily irritated.

"I do say," she said brightly. "You are my first choice, most especially because of the desirability of your Irish estate. You are in a county I particularly admire, and all agree that your house is outstanding."

"To hell with all that!" he roared, obviously pushed beyond his endurance for honest communication.

Oh, he was definitely angry. And he had used foul language. If he thought to shock her into silence or submission he had calculated poorly; she had ten brothers, three of them in the army.

"My lord? I am not accustomed to such speech," she said tartly. "Can you not refrain? This is a point I had not considered; is such intemperance a permanent feature of your character?"

Apparently it was.

Beau, his face a mask of barely controlled frustration, pulled her into his arms. He was not gentle. She was not afraid. She felt lost against the size of him-lost and then found.

"There is more to me than my estate, Clarissa, and more between us than titles," he said in a growl, his mouth bare inches above hers. "That is a truth you shall not deny."

He kissed her then, and, bold as she was, she welcomed it. It was a hard kiss, an angry kiss, a kiss of threat and promise. She felt only the promise.

His mouth was hot and heavy upon hers, yet she did not turn from it, for there was passion, too, and she was hungry for his passion. She knew the truth of his desire for her in his kiss. She could not-would not-turn from that.

Dalton, appearing at the entrance to the garden, ended it.

Beau lifted his head from hers, his eyes green points of fire in a face chilled by winter. She felt burned, and shivered.

"I'm afraid I'll have to insist that you marry her now, Beau," Dalton said, cheerily enough, all things considered. "You certainly have fixed yourself." He almost laughed.

"I had already asked your sister to marry me," Beau said, pulling Clarissa to his side and holding her there. "This was her answer."

"Ahhh." Dalton grinned.

He didn't believe a word of it.

The marriage took place on Friday of that week, a small affair of family only. Still, they filled the salon. Chadwick and Braden, both in the army, were unable to attend. Leighton was busy in Ireland and couldn't make the crossing in time, and Alston and Harden were touring the continent, trying to avoid trouble, they wrote. So only Albert, Lindley, Jane, Dalton, Russell, and Perry attended the ceremony from her side. All wore smiles. On Beau's side was his paternal grandmother, Lady Claire, a delightful woman with the same green eyes as her grandson.

Beau still looked a trifle angry, which puzzled Clarissa completely. Oh, well, that would pass. He had the wife of his choosing. She had done her duty to her family and married well without a whimper of complaint. At least not in the last week.

During the wedding breakfast, she sat quietly congratulating herself as the conversation flowed around her. Beau was oddly quiet as well; perhaps he was equally self-congratulatory. They had made a good match, each of them, and deserved a small moment of victory. Before the breakfast was quite over-she had hardly finished her tea-Beau announced to the room that they would be leaving immediately on their wedding trip. It seemed a bit precipitous to her, but she was not of a mind to cause any commotion over it. She was eager to see Montwyn Hall.

Naturally Jane would accompany her.

Naturally Albert had to stop her as she was entering the coach to congratulate her once more on her excellent judgment. And again, as it had the last ten times he had offered such words of praise, the compliment rankled. It should not. She had made the best match of the season. She was on her way to Ireland even now, for that was the final destination of their bridal itinerary. Ireland. She would be in Ireland again. Home. Once she was settled, Beau would return to England. Which was where he belonged, being English. She would remain in Ireland, alone.

The thought brought less pleasure than it had even a week ago. Alone was such a lonely-sounding word. Would he really leave her alone? Pish, she would have Jane… and Ireland. She would not be alone.

But she would not have Beau.

Did he honestly mean to leave her alone?

At present, he did not. Beau had her bundled into the coach with Jane snug against her side before she had quite finished her farewells. Beau sat across from them, warm in his greatcoat, solemn and silent.

And so he remained throughout the day; even Jane with her pleasant and hopeful nature could not stand against such a wall of silence.

Clarissa had no energy to make the effort. All her thoughts were of Ireland; the man who had made it possible, her husband, she barred from her thoughts. Though it was a most difficult thing to do with him sitting just across from her, his knees brushing against her skirts, his green eyes studying her. Still, she persevered. It was to be only the first of many barriers she would set between them, because, ultimately, she would bar him from her life. She had married well, done credit to her family, acquired access to an Irish estate, and, once she'd produced a child or two, giving him his heir, their paths would hardly cross again.

Just what was required to produce an heir she did not dwell upon.

And so the journey was spent in silence, a silence as heavy and cold as winter itself.

They arrived at Montwyn Hall just at dusk. It was impressive. Most impressive.

Manicured woods, bare now, limbs reaching toward the growing darkness, lined the gravel drive, which swept in a graceful arc to the front of the hall. The hall itself consisted of a massive central building surrounded by four pavilions linked by quadrant colonnades, all perfectly symmetrical, perfectly grand.

Jane looked suitably impressed. Clarissa could not have been more pleased.

"So you're happy with your bargain?" Beau asked as the coach stopped in front of the portico. It was the first sentence he'd spoken to her all day.

He sounded insulted, yet why should he be? Why should he not be flattered and pleased that the legacy she had married into was grand? She was expected to marry well. Should she be derided because she had? Obviously not. Her only recourse was to ignore him, since he was being so contrary.

But he was very difficult to ignore.

He knew that well enough.

Beau was perfectly aware that Clarissa was doing all in her power to ignore him, as if he were an unnecessary accessory to "her" Irish lands. She had been clear in her purpose from the start and equally vocal. What cause had he to complain now?

What cause? Because he had believed her to have some kindred feeling for him. Because he had wanted her with the first look. Because her odd honesty had beguiled him as surely as her beauty.

Beguiled but not blinded. He was no fool; he would not have pursued her if he had not felt some shimmer of attraction in her. She wanted him, and for more than his title and lands. She had to want him. No woman could be so cold and… practical. It was only left for him to prove it to her. He was not a pair of gloves purchased for her convenience. He was her husband. If she did not understand the difference, she soon would.

The house was entered through the marble hall, and he could hear her intake of breath; it was breathtaking. Corinthian columns of pink Nottinghamshire alabaster made up the colonnade. The ceiling was frescoed and lit by circular skylights. The floor was buff marble inlaid with curls and circles of white marble. It was most impressive entry.

"A most beautiful hall, Lord Montwyn," Jane offered.

Beau nodded at the compliment, graciously accepting it from her.

"Shall we have a tour?" Clarissa said, her priorities clear, as always.

"Not tonight," Beau answered. "Moresby has prepared a light supper for us. We shall dine and then retire for the evening. It has been a long and tiring day; I am certain a good night's rest must head our list of priorities."

Clarissa swallowed her argument and smiled her acquiescence. Most reasonable of her, especially as he had not given her any choice but compliance. Moresby, the head butler, was introduced to them, and he led the way to the dining room, where they ate sparingly. It had been a long day, and Jane, if not Clarissa, was most fatigued.

"I do think I could look at the ground floor," Clarissa said as the plates were being cleared. "What was beyond the marble hall?"

"The salon," Beau answered, rising from his chair, "and you shall see it tomorrow. Good night, Lady Jane," he said. "Moresby will conduct you to your chamber. Have a most restful night."

Jane left without a murmur of protest or even any hesitancy of step.

"That was most rude of you," Clarissa said as they proceeded up the stairs. "Jane would have enjoyed a tour of Montwyn Hall very much. You gave not a thought to her pleasure."

"I do believe that Jane is more attuned to my pleasure than my own wife," he said. "Should we not hasten to the bedchamber and conclude our transaction?"

"I believe I quote your sentiments when I remark that you are delving into the vulgar in your attempts at truth telling," she said.

"Perhaps the fault, if there is one, is that I lack your practice at speaking a civil truth. Perhaps I can phrase it better." He pondered, leading her on down a wide hallway ornately littered with oil paintings and mahogany chairs. "Ah, let's try this." He smiled. "I want to sample the goods I have paid for. Better?"

"I should have paid more attention to your outburst in the garden. You are intemperate," she said stiffly. Her stomach dropped into the cradle of her hips to wiggle there in a most distracting manner.

Beau merely smiled and opened the door for her. The chamber beyond was sumptuous, large, and well lit by fire and candle. The room was done in green, buff, and gold, the furniture Chippendale, the hangings silk. The bedcover had been turned down. All was ready for his "sampling."

"Perhaps," he said, closing the door behind them. "I would have said eager, but the best word may be curious."

"Curious?"

"To see if your boldness was a ploy. I often wondered if you were as bold as you seemed. It appears I am soon to have my answer."

"I understand the transactions of the marketplace as well as you," she said coldly. "Let a servant attend me. I will present myself to you shortly, and then the bargain we have struck will be well and truly sealed."

"No servants," he said. "Just us. And this bargain, this union, is already sealed, Clarissa. All has been signed, our words have been spoken, our families have borne witness; we are wed, and not intemperately. We knew what we were about, did we not? Did you not know that when you shopped for an Irish estate, a husband came with it? Surely a great bargain for such an astute shopper as you."

She stood speechless as he began to disrobe. He moved quickly. He showed no embarrassment at the revelation of his skin. She dared show none, though it was not embarrassment she felt but fear. Now came the moment when the bill must be paid. An heir must be conceived. She would have to couple with this man, this husband of hers, until her duty had been accomplished.

If he had looked powerful in cravat and coat, he was a hundred times more so bared to the waist. Muscle gleamed in the firelight, rippling with each movement of his body, proclaiming his raw masculinity loudly to her eyes. Her heart jumped into her throat to almost suffocate her. He stared at her; his eyes were intense and discerning, reading in her what she most wanted to hide.

She wanted him.

Yet wanting to touch and be touched by the man before her could have no part in a rational mind; it was all blind desire and need. Such a response shamed her. She wanted him and… she thought she might love him.

She could not love him. She could not want him. She could not need him. Because she would leave him when she went home to Ireland. She would leave and he would stay; his duty would require it. Her heart would call her to Ireland; she would not leave it again.

"Come, Clarissa," he said, clad only in his tight buckskin breeches. "I will not hurt you and I will not provoke you further."

Not provoke? He truly had no skill at speaking honestly. He was broad and hard, his muscles sculpted by flawless skin. His chest was lightly furred with black hair, and his eyes shone green as spring growth.

"Thank you," she said, turning her back on him. "Is there no one to assist me? No screen-"

"I will assist you, if you have need, and there is no need for a screen. Delay is not to your advantage, my dear. With a bold stroke, the matter is behind us."

"I wish you had used a different expression," she said with an uncomfortable laugh.

"I apologize," he said, grinning. "Do not rebuke me for my lack of skill in truthful communication; I will learn.

Now, if you had been a different sort of woman, I would have resorted to my old ways of sparkling civility and polished pretense."

"Really?" she asked, sitting to remove her shoes. "And what would you have said?"

He knelt at her feet and removed her shoes for her, his hands on her feet and ankles, his position submissive, his manner valorous. "I would have told you that since I first beheld you, with your vibrant hair curling around your face, I was captivated. I needed no brothers to commend you to me; my own eyes would have borne the task lightly."

Her shoes were removed. With a gentle and subtle hand, he inched his way up to the top of her stocking. Her limbs shook and she could not stop her trembling. His eyes held hers, green as the darkest yew branches. She could not look away and could not find a reason to want to.

"I would have told you that, having seen you, I was halfway to offering for you. Hair as red as embers, eyes as deep and lustrous as a doe's, skin as flawless as satin; what man would not want such a woman for his own?"

His fingertips touched her thigh, his skin cool next to her heat, and very gently he slipped her stocking down to her ankle. Over her foot he slipped it, his fingers caressing her arch and the delicate back of her ankle. She shivered and looked down into her lap.

"But what you speak is pretense, is it not? We have agreed upon that," she said, not looking at him.

With bolder hands, he reached up and carefully slid down the other stocking. She felt strangely nude, yet she was fully covered.

He touched her face with the tips of his fingers, tracing her. "You taught me that truth need not be uncivil. I teach you now that civility need not be pretense."

He raised her to her feet and stepped behind her, loosening her gown. He did it without an overt air of seduction, yet it was seductive simply because it was Beau. Just knowing he was in the room made her heart pound erratically. To know that he was disrobing her… she felt light-headed, and her vision blurred.

"And when I spoke to you," he continued, slipping her dress down to her feet, leaving her in her tissue-thin undergarments, "when I first understood that you had a tongue in your head-"

"Of course I have a tongue," she interrupted, crossing her arms over her breasts and moving away from him. "What did you expect?"

"I can see that you have not been shopping for a bride, lady, or you would not ask," he said with a chuckle.

"Not lately," she said, turning to him again, her smile soft. He had not taunted her for her retreat from him, and for that she was grateful. He had every right to see her, to touch her; the deal had been struck. "I have been rather busy shopping for a husband. Tell me, what is the market in brides like this season?"

"Grim, lady," he said, sitting on a chair by the fire to pull off his Hessians. "Silent and still when it is known you are looking for a bride. The women are demure and submissive, showing their best qualities first, I suppose, and then, when the dance has been shared and the turn in the garden has been taken, the truth comes out."

"Truth is always good," she said, kneeling before him to help with his boots. She would be logical and not fearful. The marriage must be consummated.

"Not in my experience," he said. "For the truth is… they have nothing to say. Demure silence is their only recourse when nothing intelligible comes forth."

"Perhaps they are overawed by you," she said, succeeding with one boot.

"Undereducated and lacking spirit, rather," he argued, succeeding with his second boot.

He should have looked rather harmless sitting in a chair in his stockinged feet. He did not. Beau Wakefield was not the least bit harmless, sitting or standing, naked or clothed. Naked… they were almost naked.

Clarissa shot to her feet and stood by the fire, logic deserting her.

"You, my wife," he said, rising to stand near her, "never lacked for spirit."

"I may disappoint you," she said on a whisper. His mouth was just above hers, his body massive and pulsing with heat. He would kiss her, she knew, and it would be a kiss nothing like their winter garden kiss. There was no anger in Beau now, only desire.

She was more comfortable with his anger.

"You will never disappoint me," he said softly as his mouth took hers.

He was gentle when she had expected raw passion. She was grateful, for bold he might call her, but she was afraid. His arms wrapped around her and held her tenderly, warmly, welcoming her into his embrace. She sighed away her tension and her fear as his kiss lifted her up to meet his desire.

With ease, he held her in his arms, kissing her face, her throat, her mouth, murmuring words she could not understand beyond his intent; he wished to soothe her, to arouse her. He was succeeding.

And with that thought, she realized that she wanted him to succeed. His success would be hers. She wanted his arousal; had she not realized that before? She wanted him to want her, and he did, and in wanting her, he fed her own desire for him. For she did desire him.

Bold as she was, she let him know it.

"I want you," she said against his throat, her arms wrapping themselves around him, her mouth hot against his skin.

He could feel her nipples pushing against the thin lawn of her undergarment, feel the tension of fear leave her to be replaced by the tense demands of passion. She wanted him. The words settled upon him like golden netting. She wanted him for more than his Irish lands, and her decision to wed him had been grounded in more than hard practicality. In his heart he had known it. But how sweet the words.

"Good," he said to her, laying her upon the bed and lying atop her. She was soft and firm and willing; praise God for a willing virgin on the bridal bed. But he had not expected less from Clarissa. Fear and timidity would never rule her.

He cupped her through her gown and she spread her legs wide for him, moaning her willingness. She was already wet, but he would not rush her. Her skin was white as cream and as smooth, her eyes dark and full in the flickering light, her mouth open and panting.

"Bare yourself to me, Clarissa," he commanded, sitting back from her.

For a moment she paused, and then she smiled. "If you'll do me the same courtesy, my lord."

With quick hands they slid off their remaining clothing. Naked on the bed, they studied each other. He was darkness to her fire and light, and they wished only to combine and consume each other.

"Beautiful," he said softly. His eyes scoured her and she shivered in response. He reached for her, pulling her to him by the back of her exposed and slender neck, and then urged her down at the foot of the bed.

"Do it quickly," she whispered.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, looking into her eyes.

"Don't hurt me," she said, "but do it now. I cannot bear the waiting."

No, that would little suit her. Bold action was her way.

Hands on her breasts, he touched her, arousing her, pleasuring her, thinking only of bringing her to such need that his taking of her would be a release and not a fear-filled memory to cloud their future together. His mouth moved everywhere upon her. Her skin was hot and soft, her limbs twitching with flares of passion as they surged through her. She was a most willing bride, trusting him to protect her and please her. He would. He would do nothing less.

He spread her and she sighed. When he touched her, she groaned and pulled him to her breast. His mouth found her nipple and he teased her to the next level of desire.

"Please. Hurry," she said in a moan, thrashing beneath him.

"A truth I was most anxious to hear," he murmured against her skin. "It will be uncomfortable at first," he said. "I will do all I can to keep you from pain."

"Yes. Do it," she said breathlessly.

She was wet and ready, and he slid just the bare tip of himself into her.

"Oh." She grunted, her limbs tightening against him.

He kissed her mouth, his tongue gliding over hers, learning the inside of her. With his finger he pressed into her, widening her slightly. She was very tight. He did not know how to keep her from the pain of lost virginity.

She pulled her mouth from his. "It's going to hurt, isn't it?"

Her brown eyes were full of fear and trust. He did not know what to tell her that would ease her.

"Tell me the truth," she said.

"Yes," he said.

"Then do not hesitate," she begged. "Let me get beyond it. Help me to be past it."

Yes, he understood her. And he marveled. She was a remarkable woman, as bold and astute as she had appeared. He could only do as she asked, though it pained him more than it would her; he did not want to hurt her, yet delaying the pain she knew was to come was a torture of its own.

Staring down into her eyes, he thrust. She cried out and closed her eyes, thinking it accomplished. He was only halfway there. Waiting for her to soften around him, he thrust again. Home. She choked out a smothered scream and then instantly was still. He looked down at her, at her tense and expectant face, at her eyes pressed shut, and felt her soften around him still more.

Home at last.

"'Tis done, Clarissa. The worst is done," he said, kissing her mouth softly.

"Good," she said. "Is it over now?"

Beau smiled. "No, not yet."

"Oh." She frowned slightly.

"It gets better," he said, poised above her, holding himself still.

"Oh," she said, trying to look hopeful.

Beau smiled and slowly withdrew. He ignored her look of relief and pumped back into her. Again. She was soft and wet. Again.

"Oh!" Clarissa said, her hands clenching against his back.

Beau grinned in male satisfaction and bit her throat gently.

He reached down and fingered, her pleased to hear her gasp at the contact, more pleased when she groaned and strained against his hand.

Again he withdrew, and again he plunged into her, harder now.

She met him, her hips lifting.

Again.

And again.

He wrapped her legs around his hips, opening her further, plunging deeper. He kissed her, stealing her breath, breathing her scent and her cries until he merged with her completely.

His hands roamed her breasts as he thrust into her, holding back his release until desire consumed her.

"Hurry. Harder," she cried, panting. "More."

He gave her more.

With a scream, she shattered and he fell against her, breaking, feeling her release, pulsing against her spasms of fulfilled desire.

Slowly she put her arms around his neck, and her breathing slowed. With a sigh of surprised contentment, she kissed his cheek. It was the sweetest kiss in all his life.

"Thank you," she said into his ear, and then she softly bit him on the lobe.

He chuckled and said, "Did I manage to drive all thoughts of Ireland from you tonight?"

"Stop talking," she said dreamily, still managing to scold. "You'll ruin it."

He laughed and slid out of her and then nestled her into his arms. They lay in a tangled and easy embrace, content. He ran his fingers through her hair, red even in the dim light of the curtained bed.

"We'll go soon." He knew no explanation would be necessary. There was only one place she wanted to go, and all the world knew of it.

"Good," she said. "But I want to see Montwyn Hall first. All of it."

"You shall. Let's spend Christmas Day here-we'll invite your brothers if you like-and then we'll go to Dantry House, which I think should please you, for the turning of the year. It will be a rough crossing, but as eager as you are, I don't think you'll mind it."

"Mind? I would fly there if I could," she said.

"Not necessary. We'll sail, thank you," he said lightly.

"Thank you again," she whispered, squeezing his hand.

"You are most welcome," he replied. "Consider it a Christmas gift. I shall be giving you the first item on your of husbands: a fine Irish estate."

"It's a home you've given me," she said, "and nothing less."

"I think you'll love it," he said softly, feeling her begin to fall asleep in his arms.

"I know I shall," she murmured on a sigh, slipping into sleep, thoughts of Ireland accompanying her into the darkness.

Her skirts were dirty, her shoes muddy, her bonnet hanging down her back held only by the ribbons at her throat. She could feel them pressing against her throat.

She was not supposed to be here. Her father had forbidden it. But she was with Perry. It was all right if she was with Perry.

The smell of burning was strong, and she wanted to press a hand to her nose to keep out the smell.

The sound of gunshots ripped against her ears, and she had to press her hands there to deaden the retort.

Sobs came at her through the air, but she could not see for all the smoke.

She was high in a tree. Perry had pushed her into the tree and he stood at the bottom, crying. Crying surrounded her from all sides.

A cold wind swept by her, making a path through the smoke, and she could see.

She did not want to see, but she did not know how to keep from seeing.

She should not be here.

Red cloth, soldiers' coats, fire, and smoke. Redcoats and fire. A man, an Irishman, his head coated in pitch, was lit on fire by a British soldier. Pitchcapped. He ran, screaming, tearing at his skull. His only salvation was to tear off his own scalp. He tried. He screamed.

She watched.

Where was Perry?

Redcoats came toward her, shouting. One soldier saw her.

Perry was beneath her, pulling at her foot, shouting at her. Shouting something.

She should not be here.

The soldier who'd spotted her shot the Irishman who had been lit like a torch. He fell. He stopped screaming.

The soldier ran toward her. He did not shout. He was quiet. She could not move, even with Perry's pulling.

She should not be here.

The soldier grabbed her and lifted her in his arms. He pulled Perry behind him and then they ran to a stone wall that contained a field. The field was empty. The stones held nothing.

Nothing.

Only the sound of crying.

She awoke with a cry that strangled itself before it was fully born. Beau jerked upright beside her and reached for her. In the firelight, she looked into his eyes, the dream still as real as her last heartbeat.

And when she looked into his eyes, so green and so full of concern, she recognized him.

He was the one.

"You," she squeezed out past lungs still choked by remembered smoke and fire.

"What is it? You were crying," Beau said, folding her into his arms.

"You!" she repeated, jerking away from his touch. "You're the one."

He was the one. The monster from her nightly torture. He'd haunted her for ten years, and now she shared his bed. It could not be.

"Clarissa," he said slowly, not touching her. "Have a sip of wine. Calm yourself."

"It was you; don't deny it. I recognize you now," she said, the tears starting to press at the backs of her eyes. "You were there. You were in the regiment."

"Yes, with Lindley," he said.

"Lindley wasn't there!" she shouted. He would not make Lindley a part of this. Lindley had no part in it. Only she.

"Where, Clarissa?" he asked.

Where? Where her dreams took her almost nightly. Where it had happened. "Wexford," she murmured. It was like saying the name of a demon in the dark of hell.

At the name, his eyes went carefully blank. He knew what had happened in Wexford.

"I was there. I saw you," she accused, sounding like the eight-year-old girl she had been and was again, every night, in the darkness alone. Logic had no place in this memory; all was pure emotion, catching her up and tossing her about like a storm wind, her only companion the terror she had known and still knew. Every night.

"You," he said, his face a mask. "You were the girl. And the boy… that was Perry? Yes, it would have been," he said carefully, all emotion bled from his voice.

"I saw you! You killed him. You murdered him."

"No!" he said, grabbing her by the arms. She jerked away from his touch, but he would not let her go. Just like before. He would not let her go. "He was dead already. Do you think he wanted to die like that? Burned and mutilated? I showed him mercy; that was all."

"You killed him," she said, her voice as hard as stone. "You wore the coat. You're one of them."

"Who?"

"The English! The English did it."

"Clarissa, you're English."

"No! I'm not! I'm Irish! I'm not like that. I can't be like that."

Beau jerked back the blankets and dragged a resisting Clarissa out of bed. He put her in one chair by the fire and seated himself in another. Naked, they faced each other, the glow of the fire lighting only half their faces, leaving the other side in deep shadow. But for the first time he saw all of her. And understood everything.

Ireland was home because she had to be Irish. Because she could not bear to be English. The English pitchcapped. The English murdered. The English set ablaze the houses of the innocent. She could not be part of that, and so she renounced her culture and her race, seeking an innocence she did not feel.

But the Irish were not innocent, not as she thought.

Wexford had been a nightmare of careless cruelty.

But what of Enniscorthy, where Irish Catholics had burned Irish Protestants by the hundreds? None had been innocent in the events that led to the union of Ireland with England.

What could a girl of eight know of that? A woman sat before him, her face set and angry, but in her Irish heart she was a child still. A child scarred by what she had seen; a woman tortured by memory.

Yet he had faith in the ultimate strength of Clarissa and her practical mind; Clarissa would not be ruled by the tyranny of raw emotion, not willingly. He had only to convince her to let go the pain of memory and grasp the cool peace of reason.

"Clarissa, you did nothing wrong. The man who set the pitchcap was wrong. He was drummed out; I reported him myself. I did nothing wrong when I shot that man. I do not know if he was innocent of wrongdoing or guilty, but I know that I shortened his suffering, and I am not sorry." When she would have spoken, in protest and argument, he was certain, he continued. "What of what I, an English officer, did for you? I was trying to save you. I saw a small girl and her equally small brother in a place where no child should be. I took you away. I kept you safe. I did not know you. I did not know that one day I would see you again as the woman you are."

He stopped and studied her face, delicate and stubborn and pulled into a frown. He had known it from the start: she was soft femininity and strong determination rolled together. He had known he loved her at her first volley of smiling insults. There was no one like her.

"I did not know that I would one day love you."

"I don't believe you," she said coldly.

"Which part?" he asked, smiling.

"Any of it. All of it," she said. "You are just trying to soothe me."

"Yes, I am trying to soothe you, but that does not mean that I am not being truthful. How much truth is there in you, Clarissa? You are English, whether you want to be or not. And Lindley was a soldier and Perry is about to buy his commission. Of what are they guilty? Some Irish murder other Irish and some Irish never kill anyone. It is not nationality that determines a man's acts, but the man himself."

"But you killed someone," she whispered.

"And you watched," he said. "I am sorry for that. I was sorry then. But would I shoot him again? Yes. It is an uncomfortable truth, but it is the truth, and I believe that you want nothing less."

Did she? Some truths were very ugly, very painful. What sort of truth did she want? Only the truths that pleased her or served her? She would not be that sort of woman.

But this truth was very hard; it challenged all that she had believed for a lifetime. Yet if what she had believed was half lie and half childish terror, what was gained by clinging to it?

Yet what she felt in her heart was not so simple as that. Choosing a husband by cold logic was one thing; choosing a memory was quite another. And how much logic had there truly been in her choosing of Beau? She loved him, Englishman though he was.

"I do not think I can do this," she whispered.

"I know you can," Beau said, his voice warm with confidence.

"This pain is not so easily dismissed," she said, looking at the fire. "I think I may, after all, disappoint you."

"Never," he said. "Never."

And when she looked into his eyes, he smiled his belief.

"It will take time to forge a new memory and lay aside the horror of that day, but you will succeed. You are a woman ruled by reason and not emotion. Does any other woman compile a list?" He smiled gently. "We will attack this together and we will win."

They looked at each other, hope beginning to reign over her features, confidence riding his.

"Do you believe me now?" he asked, reaching out his hand to hers. "Any and all of what I declare?"

His hands were large and strong, the fingers long and graceful. Those hands had carried her to safety when she was a child. They would not drop her now.

"I'm not certain," she said, slowly taking his hand, feeling the hard warmth of him. "You did, did you not, say you loved me?"

"I did." He nodded.

"Were you sincere or were you just hoping to calm me?"

"Clarissa, when a man tells a woman he loves her, he is not hoping to calm her."

He loved her. Was it as simple as that?

He loved her. There was nothing simple about it.

"When did you know?" she asked.

Beau collapsed in his chair with a groan and tugged her over until she sat on his lap. "Now is not the time for conversation, truthful or otherwise."

"But I only want to know-"

"And I want to know if you love me, my dear, or in this conversation of truths to which you are so addicted, are the truths to be all my own? I believe I have quoted you accurately? And I not only want to know if you do love me, but when you first realized it and what it is about me, exactly, that you find so admirable, beyond my Irish estate, that is." He grinned, awaiting her response.

Tell him she loved him this early in the marriage? Hardly wise. His arrogance would be insufferable if he knew he had won her heart so easily. There was time enough to confess her love… perhaps in a year? Or two?

She grinned in return before saying softly against his ear, "You are so right. This is not the time for conversation."

"Really?" he asked, running his hand up her thigh to her hip. "Convince me."