Chapter 2
Clarissa hoped her luck wouldn’t fail her as she stepped into Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office. It rarely did, at least not when it counted. Fortune had intervened to show her Jeffrey’s true nature before they’d married. Some might have considered that bad luck, but she chose to see the bright side of it.
Providence had led her to confide her troubles in her new friend Rose, the Duchess of Cranston, who told her all about the discreet services the Widow of Whitehall offered to young ladies in complicated situations.
Miraculously, Papa had agreed when she proposed the idea.
Granted, he didn’t have much choice, given the horrid rumors Jeffrey was spreading out of spite.
Though Papa had insisted that she choose quickly, giving her a mere fortnight to make her choice.
As she looked over her prospective husband, relief swept through her.
The man before her, with his cropped blond hair, eyes the color of fine cognac, and shoulders like Atlas nearly made her heart stop.
He was her knight in shining armor from last year’s musicale at the Carringtons’!
And he was every bit as handsome as she’d remembered.
The only problem was his frown, which she also remembered from the Carringtons’. But hopefully, with a bit of luck and determination, she could fix that. Given the need for haste, she couldn’t afford to wait for perfection.
Putting on her brightest smile, she held out her hand. “Lord Whitcomb, I’m absolutely overjoyed to see that it’s you!”
He turned carmine as he raised her hand to his lips. Sadly, his frown only deepened. “Lady Clarissa. I’m pleased to see you again.”
Pleased. Not enchanted or delighted. She would have her work cut out for her. But she did love a challenge, and the man before her would be such a delicious reward if she could win his heart. No, not if. When. Have faith. You can do this!
The widow had promised her a perfect match and charged Papa an exorbitant fee for it.
And far be it from her to question Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s skills.
Besides, didn’t the romances she read always promise a happy ending?
She noticed such a romance on the edge of the widow’s desk, with a scarlet ribbon marking her place.
Clarissa’s spirits rose. She’d read that very same book and it had a particularly happy ending. Surely, it was a sign of good fortune.
Destiny had brought her Lord Whitcomb, though it might take time for him to realize it too.
She couldn’t get ahead of herself, or she might scare her knight away.
After all, hadn’t Mama said she nearly scared Papa away when they first met?
And yet their love had blossomed so beautifully that no one would ever question that theirs was a love match.
“Don’t mind me, my lord. I’ve always been rather forward. You’ll get used to me, eventually. Everyone does.” Why was her voice so breathy? How embarrassing! Her nerves must have been getting the better of her.
“Er…” Lord Whitcomb was tensing every muscle in his body, poor man. She would have to find a way to relax him. Even Papa had a chink in his armor and she’d found it. Thus, she would find Lord Whitcomb’s, one way or another.
It wasn’t as if she had much choice under the circumstances.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon coughed quietly. “I’ll leave you two alone to get acquainted.” She headed for the door behind her desk. “I’ll leave the door ajar for propriety’s sake, and I’ll be in the next room to make certain everyone behaves. All you have to do is call out if you need me.”
Perfect! Clarissa couldn’t help her grin as the widow disappeared from the room, leaving her alone with him to work her magic.
Or at least try. Papa called her good cheer “uncanny”.
Mama called it “infectious”. She could only hope it wouldn’t fail her with Lord Whitcomb.
“There. Now we can be at ease with one another. You must call me Clarissa, since we’re to be wed. And what should I call you?”
She leaned forward, gazing hopefully into the depths of his gorgeous, golden-brown eyes. His face might have been rigid as stone, but some spark deep within them told her he wasn’t entirely immune to her charms.
Good. It worked. She’d put extra care into her appearance before coming.
After all, it wasn’t every day that a woman met her perfect match.
Her lucky day dress was working its magic.
Her mother said the green of the fabric brought out her eyes, and the cut of the dress made the most of her thin figure.
Her maid had wrangled her wretched flame-red curls into admirable order, showing off her heart-shaped face to its best advantage.
Blinking, Lord Whitcomb leaned back as if she were threatening him with a knife. “I will call you Lady Clarissa, and you will call me, Lord Whitcomb.”
So stiff and formal! She couldn’t help but laugh. He and Papa were peas in a pod. “Very well. Keep your secrets, but I’ll winkle them out of you eventually. If nothing else, I’ll learn your Christian name when we wed. In the meantime, I’ll simply call you ‘darling.’”
His cheeks turned pale. “Please, don’t.”
“Whyever not? Do you prefer ‘dearest?’ Or perhaps ‘sweetheart?’”
He recoiled, blushing up to his ears. “God, no! Please do not call me anything but Lord Whitcomb. I think it’s best if we maintain as much distance as possible under the circumstances. This is not a love match, for heaven’s sake.”
His words reassured her that he wasn’t attempting to flatter her or woo her.
If he had been, whatever he said would have been a lie, and she needed someone honest and trustworthy.
Still, it might have been nice if he had shown some hint of being a romantic at heart.
After all, theirs might be an arranged marriage, but she was not going to let her husband be a stranger to her like so many sad souls in the ton, eternally chained to unfeeling spouses.
So, she shrugged and beamed at him, pretending a confidence she didn’t entirely feel.
“Not yet.” With a bit of luck, it still wasn’t too late for her to have the grand romance her parents had, the kind she read about in books, even if she was in a bit of a predicament because of Jeffrey’s stupid, spiteful lies.
Lord Whitcomb made a strangled noise in his throat, then took a deep breath and let it out through gritted teeth. “Pardon me, my lady. I do not mean to cause offense, but I was given to understand that you were urgently in need of a husband to preserve your reputation.”
“Quite true.” Thanks to that knave Jeffrey’s lies about her virtue. Very few people in her life had managed to make her truly angry. It wasn’t in her nature. But he had pushed her too far. The mere thought of him made her stomach tense.
“And I was told this was strictly a marriage of convenience and that after three months we could part ways, living separate lives.”
It wounded her that he was so distant, even though she had expected it.
“Also true, but only if we so choose. Who’s to say we won’t fall madly in love and decide to spend every moment of the rest of our lives together?
” That was certainly her intended outcome.
Spending the rest of her life in a loveless marriage like her friend, Lady Ashton, was not acceptable.
Lord Ashton had deposited her friend in a crumbling country estate in Kent a week after the wedding and left her there all alone but for the servants ever since.
It had been a year now, and the callous man hadn’t visited once.
That would not be Clarissa’s fate, which was why she’d insisted on three months together.
That would hopefully be plenty of time to inspire Lord Whitcomb to love her for the rest of eternity.
After all, she was nothing if not determined when she set her mind on a thing.
And surely, luck would be with her once again.
“Trust me. We won’t.” He edged even further away.
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon had told her to be patient, that her potential match would likely require time to come around to the idea. Mama said the same and urged her not to be impatient. So what had made him desperate enough to marry her? She had to find out.
Leaning forward, she whispered, “I’m not sure how to ask this delicately, but I’m simply dying to know how you ended up here. Is there some dark secret about your past that Mrs. Dove-Lyon threatened to reveal? Did you gamble away your fortune? Did you cheat at cards?”
“Good God, woman! What kind of knave do you think me? And if you believe me capable of such things, why in heaven’s name would you want me as a husband?”
She sighed. If she wanted him to open up, she supposed she owed him a bit of honesty too.
“Given that everyone in the ton considers me ruined, I’m hardly in a position to judge.
And I do have a weak spot for scoundrels seeking redemption, preferably through the love of a good woman.
Though, I suppose, that did go rather badly wrong with Jeffrey.
He was just a scoundrel through and through.
” There was that knot in the pit of her stomach again.
“Who’s Jeffrey?” Lord Whitcomb looked like he’d eaten a sour grape. Somehow, someday, she was going to coax a smile from this man, and it would be one of the greatest accomplishments of her life.
“Lord Effingham.” The no good, rotten, lying, two-faced bounder.
Lord Whitcomb’s eyes widened, and for a moment, she thought she saw a glimmer of sympathy there. She could work with that.
He shifted in his chair. “Ah. I see. Well. My condolences. You picked a truly horrible scoundrel indeed.”
“You know him, then?” She shouldn’t be surprised.
Everyone did, which made his lies all the more damaging.
Why did he hate her so? What did she ever do to deserve his ruining her reputation and driving all her friends away?
She thought he’d been a romantic hero, but he turned out to be a villain through and through.