His eyes had shone more softly upon her in that moment than ever before. The way they shone now.
This time when his silvery gaze drifted down, it was to fix on her mouth. Her mouth. Oh, heavens. A sensation startled to life in her stomach that she had never thought to feel for Edwin. Unsettling. Provocative.
Absolutely unacceptable.
“So,” she said, to break the spell, “have you determined which woman you might wish to court?”
His face closed up. “Not yet.”
“You have no one in mind? Not a single person?”
“Well, when you put it that way . . . I suppose Lady Horatia Wise is a possibility.”
“Admiral Nelson’s goddaughter? She’s a pillar of ice. You wouldn’t want her, to be sure. She’d freeze you right out of your bed.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Miss Trevor, then.”
“A pillar of rock. Stubborn as a mule, or so I’m told. The two of you would butt heads until your heads fell off, and then where would you be? Besides, no one had ever heard of her until she came into society with her aunt, which I find highly suspicious.”
The words earned her another rare smile. “So whom do you propose? Lady Anne? Lady Maribella?”
“Horrors! Lady Anne wears ridiculous hats. And Lady Maribella has the silliest laugh I’ve ever heard. It would drive you mad in under a month.”
He cocked his head. “What happened to your playing matchmaker? You’re doing rather the opposite of that.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She could hardly admit that the idea of his actually marrying someone—anyone—seemed wrong somehow. He was meant to be always a bachelor. As she intended to be always a spinster.
The waltz ended and he led her from the floor, allowing her to survey the eligible women in the room.
“Let me see,” she said. “What about Lady Jane Walker? She lost her mother recently and might be eager to get away from the memories her house probably provokes.”
“I was engaged to a Jane. I hardly want another.”
“Then Lady Beatrice. She’s very pretty.”
“And thus will expect plenty of pretty compliments. Which, as you know, I’m not good at.”
“Miss Lamont?”
“Too French. I don’t really understand Frenchwomen. Or Frenchmen, for that matter.” Instead of taking her back to where her mother and the major stood, he made a sharp turn toward the refreshments room. “Speaking of Frenchmen, have you seen any sign of Durand?”
“No. And Major Wilkins said he wasn’t in attendance.”
“Thank God.”
She eyed him closely. “Since that’s the case, it’s fine if you want to go home. I know how much you hate these things.”
“I’m not leaving without you and your mother, and it’s early yet for you.” He met her gaze. “But if you don’t mind, I may escape to the card room for a bit.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” She glanced back over her shoulder to where the major was obviously anticipating her return to Mama’s side. “And I will escape to the retiring room.”
They parted ways then. Fortunately, by the time she emerged from powdering her nose and sweetening her breath, Major Wilkins was “showing a good leg” with someone else.
The next hour passed uneventfully. She danced a reel, two quadrilles, and another waltz, then paused to down some champagne. Not seeing her mother about, she decided to head toward the floor again and wait for someone to ask her for the next set. The champagne made her lightheaded, and she was enjoying just watching the dancers when a footman came to her side.
“Pardon me, milady,” he said, “but I was asked to inform you that your mother has fallen ill and is lying down in the drawing room.”
Oh, dear. Mama’s spurious fits of illness generally only came on when she wanted to get out of doing something. So she might actually be sick this time.
Clarissa picked up her reticule from where she’d left it on a table and hurried to the drawing room, prepared to administer the requisite smelling salts. But when she burst through the door, she saw no one there.
Had Mama already recovered and returned to the ballroom? Or had she been so ill that their hostess had moved her to a more comfortable room?
Only after the door clicked shut behind her did the truth dawn on her.
“Good evening, Lady Clarissa.”
A chill swept down her spine. She would recognize that faintly accented voice anywhere. God rot him and his sly ways.
Steeling herself, she turned to fix Count Geraud Durand with her iciest look. “Resorting to deceit now, sir? Surely that’s beneath you.”
His handsome features fell. “How else am I to see you alone? My trick wouldn’t have worked if your guards had learned I was in attendance.”
“My guards?”
“Your friends and family watch you like a hawk.” A fierce light shone in his blue eyes as he approached her. But something calculating glimmered in them, too, that had always given her pause. Always made her wary.