Chapter 1
He was going to laugh. Clarissa's smile grew wider as she waited for it.
Any moment now, Edmund would laugh. And then she would laugh. And then they'd both laugh together at the absurdity of what he'd just said.
Clarissa waited.
But the Reverend Mr. Edmund Poole did not laugh.
He stood in the doorway of the vicarage with his hands clasped in front of him and his gaze fixed on a point somewhere near her left shoulder.
And he did not laugh.
"I'm sorry, I—I must have misheard you." She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "For a moment there, I thought you said you were engaged."
Edmund's throat moved as he swallowed.
Clarissa's smile held. No. No, no. She was surely mistaken. Or perhaps he was mistaken. Or perhaps…
Perhaps Edmund did not know what the word engaged meant. He always had suffered from a poor vocabulary. Or perhaps…perhaps…
She swallowed hard. Her cheeks were beginning to ache, and the silence continued to stretch.
And her mind was running out of viable reasons to explain why her beloved—the man she'd fought to marry—had just informed her he was already engaged.
She shook her head again, so at a loss, she couldn't think of a single word to say. And for Clarissa, that was saying something. More often than not, she had too much to say, and the trouble was getting it all out with some semblance of clarity.
But now…
"I don't—" She swallowed hard. She hated the way he was looking at her. There was so much regret in his eyes. So much resignation.
But I won. She wanted to say that but couldn't. She'd already given her well-rehearsed speech. He'd stood there and listened patiently, like he always did when she went off on a story in which he knew the end would not come quickly.
He'd nodded calmly as she'd babbled about how she'd fought a marquess for him.
Well, all right, perhaps it hadn't been so much of a fight as a plea.
But she had pleaded for Lord Blackwood to put an end to the engagement her parents had so desperately wanted.
She had looked the most terrifying gentleman in London in the eye and asked him to step aside.
And he had.
She'd done it. This morning she'd been so excited to tell Edmund she'd won. And now—
"I don't understand," she said. To her amazement, her smile was still in place. Apparently, it had frozen right along with her lungs and her chest.
"Clarissa," he started. And then he stopped as if weighing his words. But just the way he said her name so carefully…
That told her everything his words had not yet confirmed.
"No," she said. "No, that's—Edmund. I spoke to the marquess. I told you I would and I did. There's no obstacle. There's nothing standing between us. I wrote you a letter, did you not receive my—"
"I received it."
Clarissa blinked. He'd interrupted her, and that was startling. He never interrupted. He was far too patient for his own good in that way.
"Then you know," she continued. "You know what I did. So when you say engaged, you surely don't mean—" She stopped.
He was so quiet. Normally she liked his calm, quiet demeanor, but right now it took everything in her not to reach out and shake him.
"To whom?" she asked.
He told her.
Clarissa had never met the woman, but she knew of her. She was the daughter of a local family. Edmund's mother was fond of them. A sensible match, he said. A practical one.
She had a small income and an even temperament. She would make a fine vicar's wife.
He said all of this to her left shoulder.
"When? When did you get engaged?" Her voice sounded odd. Too thin and far too bright. Did he notice? He didn't seem to notice. Though he did have the decency to look pained.
"Three weeks ago," he said. "Perhaps a bit longer."
Clarissa had been in London three weeks ago. She had been summoning every scrap of courage she possessed to approach a scarred, glowering marquess and beg him to refuse an arranged match. For Edmund.
She had stammered through it. But she had done it, because she'd thought a love match of her own choosing was worth fighting for. And she'd believed—foolishly, it now seemed—that Edmund was fighting too.
But he had not been fighting. Her stomach sank, and there seemed to be no end to the sinking.
He hadn't been fighting, because… He had been proposing to someone else.
"Your mother introduced us," Edmund said. "She thought we'd suit."
Clarissa stared at him. Edmund said this as if it explained everything, and…
And maybe it did. Edmund had never been strong in the face of her parents. An earl and his wife were understandably intimidating. Perhaps even more so for a man like Edmund, whose living rested in their hands. And yet…
And yet, she'd confronted a marquess. A terrifying, powerful one at that. A man who was renowned for his foul temper and—
"I didn't think you'd succeed, Clarissa." Edmund's voice was meek. So apologetic, it made her want to scream.
Or weep.
But she did neither. She stood there with that frozen smile on her face like a fool.
He held his hands out, palms up. "He's a marquess, after all. I never imagined he'd actually—"
"You didn't think I'd succeed." She repeated it slowly, testing each word. "So you…made other arrangements. In case I failed."
An unattractive red crept up his neck. "It wasn't like that."
But it was exactly like that. He hadn't even waited to hear the outcome. He'd looked at the obstacle and decided it was too large for a girl like Clarissa to overcome.
He hadn't believed she could do it. The realization made her stumble back a step. Had he always thought so little of her?
But then again, she hadn't really expected she could end her engagement either, had she? She'd walked into that ballroom feeling like a sheep on its way to slaughter.
She gave her head another shake as if that might clear it and help her to see reason.
All it did was jar loose one thought. Edmund might be the only person she'd ever met who had less faith in her than she had in herself.
The thought almost made her laugh. Almost. It shouldn't hurt as much as it did. But then again, he was one of so few who truly knew her. And not even he had faith in her.
"You are…a remarkable woman, Clarissa."
"No. Don't." She backed away another step. "Please don't."
Edmund flinched. "I'm sorry. Truly, I am. I never meant to—"
"To what? To let me make a fool of myself?
Because I did, Edmund. I made a fool of myself in front of a marquess.
And then I made a fool of myself all the way home rehearsing what I'd say to you because I was so sure…
" She had to stop to swallow a wave of nausea.
"And now I'm making a fool of myself here, in your doorway, which I suppose is at least consistent. "
To her surprise, and no doubt Edmund's as well, a thin laugh escaped.
She clamped her mouth shut before it could turn into a sob.
She would not embarrass herself further by crying in front of this man. She blinked hard against the tears that stung the back of her eyes.
"I wish you both a very happy life," she said.
At least, she thought that's what came out. It's what she tried to say, but it may have been botched in the delivery.
It didn't matter because she was already turning away, gathering her skirts. The lane back to the carriage had never seemed so long. The earnest, worried face of a young footman nearly undid her.
He opened the carriage door without a word, for which she was grateful. She climbed inside and pressed her palms flat against her knees as the carriage lurched forward.
Her maid Mary was already inside, her face a careful blank that was somehow worse than sympathy. Had her maid heard everything?
Probably. There'd never been secrets between them, and she supposed neither had suspected her little speech she'd rehearsed so often would end in such spectacular failure.
"Well." Clarissa managed a weak smile. "That's that, then."
"Oh, miss." Mary's eyes welled with tears. And for some reason, this helped Clarissa's own sting of tears to dissipate.
She held up a hand. "I am perfectly fine."
This was a lie and they both knew it. But she would be fine, she told herself.
She would.
By the time the carriage reached her father's estate, Clarissa had successfully tamped down the tears. She'd also arrived at a decision.
She was done with love.
Not in the dramatic, hand-to-the-forehead fashion of a romantic heroine. She was done with it practically. Rather like how she'd given up biscuits with tea when her bodice grew too tight, she was ready to give up romance.
She had given love an honest effort. And now…
Well. Lesson learned.
Love was not for Clarissa Whitfield. She would not make this mistake again. From here on out, she would choose with her head. A practical match, that was what she wanted. A kind man who could give her a nice life and, God willing, a house full of children to adore and dote over.
Yes, that was the love she needed. And it was all she wanted.
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Then she went inside to tell her parents she had thrown away a marquess for nothing.
They took it about as well as expected.