Chapter 17
The letter from her mother arrived with the morning post.
Clarissa knew what it was before she opened it. Her mother's handwriting was as familiar as her own. And the Countess of Hawthorn did not waste words.
Clarissa read it at the breakfast table while John ate his toast and pretended not to watch her.
The letter was brief. Her mother had heard about the scandal—of course she had, news traveled between London and the country with astonishing speed when it involved humiliation. Her father had opinions which her mother did not delve into, but which Clarissa could guess.
In short, her mother made clear that Clarissa had been given an opportunity to find a match on her own terms. She had, instead, managed to embroil herself in yet another public embarrassment. Her father's patience had reached its limit. Her mother's too, if her tone was anything to go by.
And then, at the end—the ultimatum. If Clarissa could not secure an acceptable match by the end of the Season, her parents would make the selection for her.
Her mother did not specify who that selection might be.
She set the letter down with a sigh.
"How bad?" John asked.
"They're going to choose for me." She picked at the crumbs left from her meal. "If I don't find someone by the end of the Season."
John set down his toast. "Clarissa—"
"It's not unreasonable." She refolded the letter because it gave her something to do.
"They've been more than patient. Patient for them, that is.
It's truly remarkable, really, when you think— But no.
I see their point. I've had my chance at a Season and nothing to show for it but a nickname and a scandal.
No, that's not right, is it? I suppose it's more like a nickname and two scandals, and—"
"Neither of which were your fault," John interrupted.
She smiled. "That's kind of you to say. But I don't think Father sees it that way."
"Let me write to them." There was a rare edge in John's voice. "I can explain—"
"No," she interrupted.
He blinked. Probably because her tone had been rather abrupt.
She tried to temper it with a smile. "I appreciate the offer.
Truly." She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
"But I need to start handling my own affairs, John.
I've spent far too long letting other people fight my battles.
I asked a marquess to refuse a match for me.
I let a duchess orchestrate my social life.
I let—" She stopped before Kit's name could escape.
"I've relied on everyone but myself. And look where it's gotten me. "
John was quiet for a moment. "Where it's gotten you is in the company of people who care about you."
"And dependent on others for my own future. My own happiness." It wasn't an easy admission, but it was one she couldn't ignore.
After the past few sleepless nights, staring at her bedroom ceiling and sorting through the ways in which her life had gone awry, she was starting to see just how passive she'd been about it all.
"Clarissa," John started.
But Clarissa cut him off. "It's true, John. I must stop trusting others with my life. Just look at what's happened. It's a lesson, really. Edmund left. The arrangement with Kit is over. Not even the duchess can protect me from my own parents—"
She barreled on even when he tried to protest. "And you won't always be here, John.
I don't mean that in a bad way. On the contrary.
You shouldn't be worrying about me. I don't want you to be.
Lucy needs a mother, and you need to find her one, and I refuse to be the reason you spend your time in London managing my disasters instead of looking for a wife—"
"You're not a disaster," he said.
"I am a bit of a disaster." She laughed, and it was surprisingly genuine. But truly, if one couldn't laugh at oneself, one was in dire straits indeed. She took a deep breath. "I am a disaster, but I am going to fix this. On my own."
John studied her. She kept her chin up and her expression firm.
On this she would not budge. And eventually John came to the same realization, because he sank back in his seat with a resigned sigh. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to find a husband." She'd have thought that much was obvious. "Someone decent and kind who wants a family and doesn't mind a wife who talks too much."
The description sounded depressingly like a notice one might post in a shop window. But it was practical, and that was what she needed now. The Season would end before she knew it, and she must have a serious prospect when it did.
"Do you have any idea who you'll choose?" John asked.
His tone was mild, and Clarissa fought another laugh. She feared this one might sound hysterical. But truly, the way he'd asked made it sound as though she were trying to decide on what color ribbon to buy, not what man to spend the rest of her life with.
She took a deep breath and clasped her hands together. Now was not the time for laughter. She had a choice to make.
Oddly enough, that thought made her think of Kit. Or…really it wasn't so odd. Everything made her think of Kit lately. But right now she was thinking of one of their earliest conversations.
“What do you want, Lady Clarissa?” he'd asked.
And what had she said? She'd said, “I want to have a choice. That's what I want. I want to choose.”
Her lips trembled but they curved up in a smile at the bittersweet memory. She wanted to choose, and she would.
It was just that she might not be particularly excited about her choice. But at least it would be her choice.
And even as she was thinking it, a perfectly pleasant, but rather forgettable face filled her mind's eye. "Lord Hartley," she said.
She felt absolutely nothing as she said his name. No excitement, and no racing pulse…but not disgust, either. And that, she supposed, was good enough. Perhaps it was even for the best. After all, she'd had excitement when she'd fought for Edmund. And her heart had raced plenty with Kit.
Too much, really.
Honestly, who wanted to spend the rest of their life battling heart palpitations? It was for the best that she found a man who made her feel…
Well, nothing.
John was eyeing her oddly, so she forced her expression to go neutral.
"Lord Hartley," John echoed.
She nodded. "Yes, he's… He's kind. And respectable. He has a title and is well connected, so Father will approve. And besides… He was interested."
"And is that your criteria?" he asked.
She knew he wasn't mocking her, but she squirmed in her seat all the same. “He was interested” hardly sounded romantic. But she wasn't interested in romance, now was she?
Still, something about the way John was looking at her—not quite with disbelief, but there was a hint of doubt there. Like he thought she was lying to herself.
But she wasn't. She would make this choice with her eyes open. She knew what mattered now, and it had nothing to do with romance or excitement or laughter or feelings.
"Clarissa," John started quietly. "Perhaps you ought to consider your criteria. If he doesn't—"
"My criteria is a man who won't lie to me." She interrupted him rudely, but she couldn't bring herself to apologize. "Someone who won't pretend to be something he's not."
Her chest ached at that. And it wasn't Edmund she was thinking of as she'd said it, much as she wished it was.
"Lord Hartley is exactly who he appears to be," she continued. "And that is worth more to me right now than all the romance in England."
John was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded. "If that's what you want."
"It's what I want." She picked up her mother's letter and tucked it into her pocket. "Lady Hartley sent an invitation last week. A garden party at their estate in Richmond."
The invitation had arrived before the scandal, she reminded herself. Before the whispers and the pitying looks and the world turning upside down. It was possible—likely, even—that Lady Hartley would quietly rescind it now that Clarissa's name was tangled up in fresh gossip.
But she hadn't yet. And an invitation was an invitation.
She caught John's expression. "Don't look at me like that."
His eyes went wide. "Like what?"
She bit back a laugh that tasted far too bitter. "Like you're watching me settle."
His silence was answer enough.
She stood and kissed his cheek. "I'm choosing for myself, not settling. There's a difference."
Even as she said it, she wasn't sure she believed it. But for now, she had a letter to write and a future to arrange, and if neither of those things made her heart race or her belly ache from laughing, well…
That was for the best.