An Unsuitable Match (4 page)

Susan huffed in obvious disgust.

While Clarice was relieved that the situation with Alex was now resolved, matters with David had become far more complicated. He had lied to her this evening, and she didn't understand why.

Or why it had caused her such pain.

The supper room was a cornucopia of edible delicacies. The tables were laden with all manner of pies, cakes and sweet ices. Clarice's eyes grew wide at the sight. With all the courses she had sat through at dinner, she doubted there was room in her stomach for more than the merest of bites.

She picked up a small chicken pie, and stood nibbling on it while Susan piled her own plate high with food.

‘Mama has put me on a strict diet at home. I get soup for supper and very little for the rest of the day,' Susan complained. She took a seat next to Clarice in the far corner of the room.

Clarice vacantly nodded her head. She hadn't actually heard a word Susan had said since they left the main ballroom, but the occasional nod was always safe while she pretended to pay attention to her friend.

He can't actually think anything can come of this, can he? Only a very brave man or a fool would take on my father.

‘He wouldn't, would he?' she muttered.

Susan stood, turned and shoved her plate of half-eaten supper into Clarice's hands.

‘I don't know what has got into you this evening, Clarice, but you are being exceptionally rude. I suppose you think yourself better than me because you received an invitation to the private dinner, but . . .' she leaned in close to Clarice, her face red with anger. ‘Don't think for a moment that your presence at the dinner was anything more than an act of forgiveness. Lord and Lady Strathmore know Alex made a fool of you
and
your father. They are simply trying to smooth things over and hope that everyone forgets that ugly scene at the Bishop's ball. Though I doubt anyone will ever forget the exhibition you made of yourself. Your poor father was so embarrassed.'

‘You don't understand,' Clarice stammered. She knew her friend's short temper well, having witnessed it on a regular basis. But this was the first time she had been on the receiving end of Susan's sharp tongue, and it was far more unpleasant than she had anticipated.

Susan angrily wagged a finger at her.

‘No, you are the one who does not understand how ridiculous you are at times. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if the Radley family were all laughing at your expense. Who knows what they say about you behind your back. I hope that next time we meet, you will have the good sense to remember who your real friends are, as opposed to those who are only using you to achieve their own ends. Good night, Clarice.'

She stormed off, leaving Clarice sitting alone, still holding the plate. She studied an untouched smoked-salmon sandwich for a moment, before picking it up and stuffing it into her mouth.

She yawned and lay her head back against the wall, praying that her father would not want to stay too long at the ball.

What a mess.

Early the following morning, David climbed into his carriage and made the short journey to his new rooms in George Street.

It had been a long night of speeches and toasts. Watching the smiles on Millie and Alex's faces as they waltzed for the first time as a married couple had filled him with a mixture of both joy and jealousy.

‘Good to see you safely returned, sir; I hope the celebrations went well,' his valet, Bailey, remarked as David stepped inside the front entrance of his new home. It was odd to have servants all to himself.

He and Alex had only shared their house in Bird Street for less than a year, but in the days since his move, David had found himself mourning the loss of his old home.

The Duke of Strathmore had thrown his two eldest sons out of Strathmore House the previous summer. ‘You two have taken the term
drunk as a lord
to its fullest extent and it is time you both grew up and found something else to do with your time. You may even consider taking on a wife,' their father said. As he gave this lecture, he was standing over David and Alex as they both lay in an inebriated state on the cold tiles inside the front entrance to Strathmore House.

Within hours the duke had both David and Alex and their possessions packed and their abode adjusted to a tall, elegant townhouse in Bird Street. After the initial complaints over such mistreatment, the Radley brothers soon discovered the delights of having their own house. They could come and go as they pleased and do whatever they wanted without being under their father's watchful eye.

For the first few weeks it was all a great lark. Wild parties, drunken orgies and uninterrupted sleep on the tiles of their
own
front hallway. But boredom and their father's threats to cut them off soon put paid to the frivolity the brothers enjoyed.

‘Yes, thank you; it was a wonderful evening. Though there is something nice about coming home to your own place, however late it might be,' he replied, as Bailey took his coat and gloves.

A short time later he was standing, leaning on the back of a chair, staring at the gilded mirror that hung on the wall between the windows of his bedroom. He gave a dejected sigh.

Last night he had held Clarice's hand within his own. It was the closest he had been in the years since she had become an adult. Though cotton gloves still kept skin from heated skin, to him it had been nothing less than divine.

The reflection that stared back at him reminded him that he shared a father as his siblings, but not a mother. He rubbed his fingers across the dark stubble on his chin. All his brothers and sisters had the fair looks of Lady Caroline Radley, while David had the dark colouring of his long-dead mother.

He closed his eyes, recalling the sheer terror he had felt when he saw Clarice choking on her food. The seconds it took for him to race around the end of the table and come to her aid had passed in a blur. All he could think of at that moment was how much he truly cared for her. That she was about to die and he had never had the chance to tell her to her face that he loved her.

He might have saved her life, but she was still unwilling to defy her father. By the time he'd escorted Clarice back to her father's side, he was back to his usual status with Lord Langham's only daughter.

Nowhere.

He slowly began to unbutton his shirt. He thought using a valet to assist him in undressing to be unmanly and odd. The only people he was comfortable with touching his naked form were himself and his lovers.

In the months since he'd penned his letter of devotion, there had been no-one else in his bed. Clarice now knew how he felt about her, and he was determined to make her his wife. The prospect of a new lover no longer held any appeal. Until he could secure Clarice's hand he would simply have to endure long, lonely nights of sexual frustration.

‘Bollocks,' he muttered.

What would it take for Clarice to be the one touching him with her light, feminine fingers?

‘A bloody miracle is what it would take,' he muttered to himself as he settled beneath the sheets. As he slid slowly into sleep, one thought continued to echo in his mind.

There had to be a way.

It was well past midnight before Clarice also made it home. Her father had spent the evening smoothing over so many cracks with the rest of London society that they ended up staying far later than intended.

Clarice managed to hide for some of that time in the ladies' retiring room and then the Strathmore family library before her father sent a maid to find his elusive daughter.

Only when the Duchess of Strathmore yawned a third time did Clarice manage to persuade her father to take his leave.

‘I do hope you are not too tired from such a late night out, my dear; I know your nerves can become frayed if you over exert yourself,' her father said as he escorted her up the stairs and into the front entrance of Langham House.

‘No, I am fine, thank you; the evening was a delight. I had a most enjoyable time. Dinner was wonderful,' she replied.

Her father didn't need to be told anything else of her evening, or of the falling-out with Lady Susan; his spies no doubt would have apprised him of every detail of Clarice's movements.

‘Clarice?'

‘Yes, Papa?'

‘I saw how closely David Radley watched you during the evening. But I am pleased to see you did as I instructed. For a moment I thought he was going to take his father's place with you during the waltz.'

Clarice shook her head.

‘Good. It would have made the rest of the evening rather difficult if I had been forced to intervene.'

‘May I please retire to bed now? I feel a headache coming on,' she replied.

‘Of course, my dear, good night,' her father replied, and brushed a kiss on her cheek.

As soon as she reached her bedroom, Clarice woke her maid, who was dozing in a fireside chair.

‘Go to bed, Bella, I shall deal with my hair myself. You shouldn't have waited up for me, especially with such a terrible cold as you have. Go and get some rest. Good night.'

She quickly ushered the bleary-eyed maid out of her bedroom and locked the door behind her. Leaning back against the door, she closed her eyes.

The sound of the orchestra flooded back into her mind, but this time she was held safely within David's strong arms as he spun her around the dance floor. Other guests observed how smart a couple they made, how well they were suited.

The words of his letter crept back into her mind:

Your hand held in mine, willingly given in trust and love.

‘Oh, David, all these years and I never saw it,' she whispered.

Throughout the evening he had shadowed her every step. More than once she had sought him out across the crowded room, only to find him staring at her, a hopeful smile on his face.

‘Oh, what am I to do?' she said, toeing off her slippers.

While this evening had removed all doubt that David had written the letter, in its place now stood confusion and concern. If he truly loved her, then why had he allowed Mrs Chaplin to flirt so openly with him? There had been more than a hint of possessiveness in the way she'd touched his body. Clarice was certain he had lied when she asked him about the undersecretary's wife.

She rubbed her tired eyes and tried to forget about the evening's events. Nothing could come of it, and David was a fool if he thought otherwise.

Taking a seat at her dressing table, she began to methodically pull the pins out from her chignon. Each was placed neatly in a small box on her dressing table. As her pale golden hair fell to her shoulders, she sat and stared at herself in the mirror. Her hairstyle was not in the latest of fashions, and neither for that matter were her clothes.

In the three years since her mother's death, Clarice had slowly progressed from wearing high-necked black mourning gowns to dark lavender ones. The last time she had worn white was the morning her mother died. When she was finished removing the pins and brushing out her hair, she stood.

The oversized gown fell back into place.

It was so large on her slender frame that no visible outline of her figure was discernible. No breasts and no hips. Dressed, Clarice was completely invisible. She gave her reflection a nod. Things were exactly as they should be.

With such a dowdy wardrobe she was never asked by any society matrons as to when she was going to be married. The few men who asked her to dance at balls were usually business associates of her father's, or those who owed him money.

She smiled, thinking of how close she had come to dancing with David. The scent of his cologne when he stood close to her had filled her senses with heady delight.

His imaginary presence stole into her room, took hold of her hand and spun her into a dance. She hummed the music of the invisible orchestra to keep in time as she moved with him around the room. Memories of his witty dinner remarks came readily to mind and she laughed out loud.

‘Oh, David, what a naughty man you are,' she murmured to her imaginary dance partner. She batted her eyelids. Mrs Chaplin was not the only one who could capture a man's eye. The solitary thing missing was the powerful but gentle grip of his hand holding hers.

She turned one last time and caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror. She stopped. The laughter died on her lips and she was alone again.

A chill rippled through the room.

She closed her eyes, fighting another, more painful memory as it surfaced yet again. Laughter and love had no place in her life; they were only given to those deserving of such wonderful gifts.

She slipped the oversized gown over her head and draped it on a chair. Returning to the mirror, she considered her reflection. Looking back at her from the glass was a shy young woman, with muslin bindings wrapped tightly around her body. Beneath the bindings her curves were kept hidden.

Kept secret.

Under her dowdy, dull clothing Clarice wore her armour. Her body cocooned within, she remained hidden from the rest of the world. Safe and protected.

She looked down and found the pin that held the bindings together at her cleavage. She opened it, removed it, and then slowly, meticulously, began to unwrap the bindings.

No-one could tell that she possessed feminine curves. No man could be attracted to her; even David's words of desire were for a woman who lived only in his imagination. He did not see the real her. Clarice Langham did not exist.

Long ago she had accepted that being a nobody with few friends was a suitable punishment. David's declaration of devotion now threatened her cloistered, safe world.

She pursed her lips, remembering his life-saving thump on her back. Even her hero of the evening had not felt the thick wad of bindings under her dress. Or if he had, David had masked his surprise well.

As her skin began to appear from under the bindings, she saw the red marks that crisscrossed her body. She traced a gentle finger over the angry lines and bit back tears. Would she ever be free of the shame and the guilt?

Unlocking the top drawer of her dresser, she slipped the bundle of bindings inside a small calico bag. Next to the bag sat several other bundles of new muslin strips. She had donned a fresh coat of armour every day since her mother's death.

Tomorrow, as with every other day, Clarice would hide the small bag in her reticule and once she was far from the house, she would remove the bindings and throw them away. Her secret was her own, too shameful to share.

She locked the drawer once more and removed the key.

David had written a powerful and passionate love letter to her, or so she had foolishly allowed herself to think. After seeing him with Mrs Chaplin, she wondered if the truth was somewhat less pure.

She opened the second drawer and took out a nightgown. Long and unadorned with any kind of ribbon or pattern, it fit the shroud-like manner in which she dressed herself. She turned and started for the bed, but stopped and went back to the chest of drawers.

Unlocking the top drawer once more, she took out a small box. She frowned at it, briefly pondering the fact that her life was like a series of locked boxes. All of which contained her most precious secrets.

She unlocked the box and withdrew two letters.

The first was from a firm of solicitors; she glanced at her name written on the outside of it, before putting it aside. She had read it only once and constantly asked herself why she still kept it.

The second letter was a copy of the love letter David had penned. Before giving the original back to Alex, she had made her own copy. As with the first letter, she questioned her judgement in keeping it. She could recite it by heart.

She opened the love letter and stared at it.

She now understood that David had written the letter on behalf of Alex, using his own love for Clarice as his muse. Alex had intended to send it to Millie, but it had gone to the wrong address and Clarice had received it instead.

Knowing Alex to be of an impetuous nature, it had come as no surprise that he had not bothered to check the details on the front of the sealed letter before posting it.

All of London society had then waited for the announcement of Alex Radley and Clarice Langham's betrothal, only to watch as a very public jilting ended all hope of their future union.

How much more upheaval would those words of devotion create? Alex, having mistakenly sent the letter to Clarice, had nearly lost Millie forever over them; and now they threatened to fracture Clarice's own fragile existence. To expose her to the world.

She had known David as the older brother of her childhood friend, Lucy. The few times she had seen him while she was growing up had been during his visits home from school. While Alex had always been the first one to ruffle Lucy's hair and give Clarice a cheery greeting, David had remained distant and aloof.

When Clarice was twelve, Lucy confided in her that David wasn't her full brother. Later she had questioned her mother about it and the countess had quietly explained the circumstances of David's birth and what the word bastard actually meant. Elizabeth Langham's hands had been shaking as she made Clarice promise never to speak of such matters again.

At the time Clarice couldn't see the reason for her mother's emotional response, but years later, when she unexpectedly received the solicitor's letter, the truth of her own birth finally made her understand.

A burning log split in half and fell in the bedroom fireplace. Clarice stirred from her thoughts and scowled at David's letter.

‘Why now? Why suddenly declare that you love me?'

Her dowry was significant and would enable a natural-born son like David to establish himself in the world. Was his sudden display of charm and interest in her just a ploy to find himself a wealthy wife? If she had been prepared to accept that Alex had chosen her as a wife of convenience, why could she not accept the same for his brother?

She wiped away a tear, but a second one soon followed. Disappointment was a bitter pill to swallow.

Everything made perfect sense. No man in his right mind would find her attractive; no-one would want Clarice for herself. The gods were determined to continue their punishment of her. She looked down at her hands and clasped them tightly together.

‘‘Tis no wonder he would continue with a mistress even if he did marry me. My dowry and an heir is all that he could truly want from me. How could anyone possibly love me, when I killed my own mother?'