“It’s fine. I know how you feel about me.” He was grumpy Edwin, the fellow whose company no woman could abide for long. The man who knew love was a lie.
He would resent the reputation, except that it was all true.
“It-it’s not you,” she said hastily. “I have no intention of marrying anyone. That’s the other reason I didn’t consider accepting Durand’s proposal.”
“Right.”
She was merely trying to soothe his pride. The damned woman was too softhearted for her own good.
“I’m being honest,” she persisted. “It has nothing to do with you or—”
“I was only trying to get him away from you, devil take it! I didn’t mean anything by it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss.”
She swallowed hard. “Because Durand will run off and tell everyone, and then the two of us will be placed in a difficult—”
“He wouldn’t do that. It wouldn’t suit his plan.”
Clarissa gaped at him. “What plan?”
“To win you. If he tells the world that we’re engaged, he lessens his own chances at getting you back.”
“He has no chance of getting me back.”
“I know, but he clearly doesn’t know that. Or acknowledge it. And he has to realize that ending an engagement publicly would be messy for us; he’ll assume that we’d rather marry than cause a scandal. So it’s better for him to keep it secret, too, in hopes that he can end it privately by winning you. That’s the better strategy.”
“Do you always think in terms of strategies?”
Edwin shrugged. “I’m a chess player. And in life, as in chess, strategy is everything. Durand knows that. So, as long as we give him enough evidence to believe that we’re telling the truth, while at the same time not alerting the rest of the world to it, we’ll be fine.”
“You’re suggesting that we—”
“Pretend to be ‘secretly’ engaged for Durand’s benefit. Yes.”
She blanched. “That won’t work.”
“Why not?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Surely you can be nice to me long enough to convince him. And no one expects me to be nice. All I have to do is be attentive.”
“Oh, Lord, that alone will start people speculating about our new intimacy. And since telling Mama any kind of secret is just asking for trouble, she’ll spin a future for us out of what she witnesses, and will start insinuating that we have an understanding, and next thing I know I’ll be trapped into—”
“For God’s sake,” he bit out, growing annoyed by her obvious loathing for the idea of ever wedding him. “If anyone will lose anything by having our supposed ‘engagement’ found out, it will be me. You said you’d never marry me. So you’d have to jilt me to get out of it.”
She blinked. “Well . . . yes. Exactly.”
“And since I’ve been jilted once already,” he went on irritably, “being jilted again would make it even more difficult for me to find a wife. So if I’m not worried about the consequences if our ‘engagement’ is revealed, I damned well don’t know why you should be.”
“I just don’t . . . see how it would work.”
“Do you have a better suggestion? I’d call the arse out, but that would almost certainly lead people to assume there’s something serious between you and me.”
To his surprise, horror suffused her features. “You are not dueling with that scoundrel. Don’t even think it!”
“I do know how to handle a pistol.” Blast it, did she consider him incapable of winning a duel?
“That’s not the point.”
“Fine. What’s your plan?”
She let out a long sigh. “All right. Let’s say we pretend to be ‘secretly’ engaged around Durand. How are we supposed to convince him that it’s real if we can’t actually behave like an engaged couple?”
“I have no idea. You’re the expert on flitting about society. Perhaps we should make sure he sees us holding hands in private, or even kissing or—”
“You’re such a man,” she cut in. “All of you go right to the physical.”
He eyed her askance. “Shall we have him read our minds instead?”
“Very amusing.” She pursed her lips. “But we can be more subtle. Give the illusion of your being on the verge of making an offer to me. We can flirt, tease, dance—” When he groaned, she added, with an arch glance, “Yes, we must dance as often as is proper without declaring ourselves. That’s a given.”
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
“Stop cursing. Besides, you’re a better dancer than you let on. You’ll be fine.” Her expression softened. “Who knows? You might even learn how to put some poetry into your poussette.”
“Since I don’t know or care what a poussette is, I’m not sure how I could put poetry into it. And I really don’t see how my circling woodenly about a ballroom with you proves anything to anyone.”
“It proves you’re willing to endure a pastime you’re not fond of, just for the chance of touching me and holding me. Besides . . .”