Chapter 20
The harpist was talented. Clarissa was certain of this, because Lord Hartley had said so twice. And Lord Hartley was not the sort of man to exaggerate.
In fact, Clarissa had discovered that Lord Hartley was not the sort of man to do anything with excess. He spoke in measured tones. He laughed at appropriate volumes. And he complimented her new gown with painfully mundane cliches.
The harpist launched into a new piece. Something melancholy and lovely. Clarissa's mind drifted. She thought about princesses and talking horses and a prince who'd been written out of the story.
She was in the midst of crafting a horrific new villain for the princess to encounter next when Lord Hartley leaned toward her. "Isn't this piece lovely?"
"Very," she agreed.
"I believe it's Handel," he whispered.
"Ah." She nodded as if this information held some significance for her.
She needed the retiring room. Not because she had any physical need, but because if she sat here for another minute smiling placidly at a harpist, she felt certain she would scream.
And screaming mid-Handel was typically frowned upon in good society. She didn't need a book on etiquette to know that.
"Will you excuse me?" she murmured to Lord Hartley.
The corridor outside the music room was blessedly cool and quiet. She pressed her back against the wall and took three deep breaths. She could do this. Lord Hartley was kind and steady and he would make a perfectly adequate husband. Their life together would be fine. Perfectly fine.
A rustle of silk announced she was no longer alone. Lady Arabella emerged from the retiring room, adjusting her gloves. She stopped when she saw Clarissa.
For a moment, neither spoke. Arabella's expression was strange, with none of the usual cool amusement or sharp-edged poise. There was something unsettled there. And for a moment the look in her eyes was almost…wary.
"Lady Clarissa." The other woman's voice was its usual silk. But she didn't smile.
Clarissa dipped her chin. "Lady Arabella."
A silence stretched. Arabella's gloved fingers fidgeted with her bracelet. When she made no move to continue walking, Clarissa stiffened.
She waited for Lady Arabella to speak. But her continued silence had Clarissa wavering between wariness and concern. Lady Arabella looked like she wanted to say something. Her hesitation was oddly terrifying.
"Are you…well?" Clarissa finally asked.
Arabella's lips pursed slightly as if Clarissa's question annoyed her. "The music room is rather stuffy this evening. If I were you, I might consider taking some air." The pretty brunette met her surprised gaze evenly. "Or perhaps head home early this evening."
Clarissa's eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"
Was this woman really asking her to leave? This wasn't even Lady Arabella's home. Who was she to ask her to leave?
Clarissa straightened, her chin coming up. "I'm quite comfortable inside, thank you."
Arabella looked at her then, and there was the usual hauteur, yes. But underneath that, something almost desperate. But it was gone in the blink of an eye.
Arabella lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "Suit yourself."
And then she was gone, silk skirts whispering around the corner.
Clarissa stared after her. Lady Arabella was strange, she decided.
Strange and rude and inexplicable. But Clarissa had more important things to worry about.
She entered the retiring room, where she took her time smoothing her skirts and fixing her hair. A short time later, she reentered the drawing room.
And she knew something was wrong the moment she walked through the door.
The music had paused. It seemed the harpist was taking a break between pieces. And in the gap, the room should have been filled with polite conversation. Instead, there was an excited quality to the murmuring that made her skin prickle.
She stepped inside. Heads turned toward her with expressions she knew too well. She'd seen them at the Hartington ball, and at the Wooster ball. But those looks had been pitying.
These were not pitying.
A woman near the entrance leaned toward her companion and whispered something without bothering to hide her stare. The companion's eyebrows rose and her lip curled.
Clarissa kept walking, smile in place and chin up. She made for the seats where Lord Hartley and his mother were sitting.
Lord Hartley saw her coming and his expression grew pained at her approach. He glanced at his mother, who leaned in and murmured something in his ear.
By the time Clarissa reached them, Lord Hartley had turned his back to her.
"Lord Hartley," she said. "I do hope I haven't missed—"
"Lady Clarissa." Lady Hartley's voice was sharp and a little too loud. "I'm afraid my son has developed a headache. We'll be leaving shortly."
Clarissa looked at Lord Hartley. His jaw was set and his ears were red, and—he wouldn't turn to look at her.
"I see," she said. "I'm sorry to hear that. I hope you feel better soon."
His mother placed a proprietary hand on his arm and turned her body so that she was also facing away from Clarissa.
It was a dismissal.
A humiliating one, at that. A wave of nausea swelled as she realized she was currently alone, for all intents and purposes.
Alone in the middle of a crowded room. And she was the center of attention. She headed toward the door, and the whispers found her as she moved through the room.
"—paid, apparently. The duchess was paying him—"
"—knew the whole time. She was part of it—"
"—All of it was arranged. How desperate—"
"—and we felt sorry for her. Can you imagine—"
Each fragment hit like a stone. She kept walking, but the whispers were everywhere, circling her, closing in.
A cluster of women near the refreshment table fell silent as she approached, then erupted in whispers the moment she passed. A gentleman she'd danced with at the Wooster ball looked at her and shook his head.
She heard enough to piece it together. They knew. Somehow every member of good society knew that Kit had been paid to fawn over her. And the looks cast her way were filled with enough venom to make her flinch.
Cast-Off Clarissa was a woman the ton pitied. A fool, perhaps, but an innocent one. This new version was a schemer. A woman who'd conspired to trick them all.
She'd told Kit once that if gossip could destroy, perhaps gossip could rebuild. She hadn't considered the third option—that gossip could destroy twice.
For a moment, the room seemed to spin, and the path to the door felt far too narrow.
She was trapped.
"Lady Clarissa." The voice was close and achingly familiar. She closed her eyes to fight the sudden onset of tears.
"Look at me," Kit said.
She opened her eyes and found herself staring up at Kit. His hair was disheveled, as though he'd run, and his cravat was slightly askew. And his eyes…
Oh dear. His eyes were blazing with a fury that was very clearly not directed at her.
"We're leaving," he said.
"Kit—"
"Now, Clarissa. I've got you."
She wanted to argue, but her lip trembled and she didn't trust herself to speak. He leaned down, his voice gruff and urgent. "Take my arm and smile as if I've just said something devastatingly witty."
A huff of surprise slipped out as he took her hand and placed it on his arm. His brows arched in a prompting look and to her surprise, her lips curled up.
She had no doubt it was a hideous attempt at a smile. Probably more like a grimace, really. But Kit nodded. "That'll do. Now keep your eyes on me, alright? No one else exists, do you understand?"
As he spoke, he was leading her through the crowd. And she did as he told her. She kept her gaze fixed on his as he talked and guided her gently but firmly toward the door.
She was shaking, and the room was staring. But Kit's hand was warm and steady on her arm. So she kept her chin up, and her lips curled, and let him lead her from the room.
Kit's pace was unhurried, and his expression was pleasant. The performance of a lifetime, really.
He really had missed his calling in the theater.
They reached the foyer. The door. Then the night air hit her, and she could finally breathe.
He didn't let go of her until they were around the corner, out of sight of the windows. Only then did he release her arm and step back.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"No." There was no point in lying. "They know you were paid. They know I knew." She looked at him. "Who told them?"
She hadn't meant it to sound so accusatory, but she didn't feel much guilt when he flinched either.
"It wasn't me," he said.
Some part of her knew that. But it was still good to hear. "Then who?"
His jaw was tight. "Someone who wants to hurt my aunt."
"And they mistook me for your aunt?" Her laugh sounded awful. More like a sob, really.
He reached for her, but she stepped back.
"Don't," she said.
"Clarissa. Please let me explain—"
"There's nothing to explain." She took a breath and steadied herself. "It's done now. There's nothing to say."
He tried again, but she shut him down with an upheld hand. "Please, Kit."
Not now. Not when I'm so close to tears I can barely stand.
Because the consequences of this new rumor were already starting to hit her. "This was my last chance, Kit. My parents are going to choose for me now, and—" She stopped before the tears burst out. "I need to go home. Just…help me go home."
His expression was filled with reluctance, but he left her just long enough to call for a carriage. He helped her in and shut the door.
And when she peeked out the window, she saw him standing there—watching her go.