“It may be a few more weeks before they return. Sorry.”
“Well, it can’t be helped. At least my aunt will be there to help persuade her.”
Edwin suppressed a snort. Lady Margrave, Clarissa’s mother, was a flighty female who rarely offered sound advice, so Clarissa rarely heeded her. He doubted that this time would be any different.
Warren surveyed the reading room. “You know, this place turned out quite cozy. It’s not as sophisticated a setting as some clubs, but it’s comfortable. You and Keane ought to be pleased with yourselves. Between Keane’s artistic eye and your mechanical ingenuity, the place doesn’t even look like a tavern anymore.”
“We had plenty of help with the practical aspects of décor from Yvette and her mother-in-law.”
“That explains the female touches,” Warren said, “which are refreshing. I mean, the dark woods and leather give it a nice masculine feel, but there’s something to be said for decent draperies, too. The ones at White’s are funereal.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
Warren’s gaze snapped back to him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be around to help. And that I have to run off again.” He rose. “So, are you coming or not?”
The casual words were belied by Warren’s tight expression.
They both knew that Edwin hadn’t yet agreed to the plan. And why hadn’t he? Because the thought of spending weeks in Clarissa’s company put him on edge as nothing else could.
But it didn’t matter. Warren was his friend and wouldn’t hesitate to help if the shoe was on the other foot. So neither would Edwin.
He stood. “I’m coming.”
As soon as the door to Clarissa’s bedchamber closed behind the servant who’d left a message for her mother, the aging widow turned to her daughter in a panic. “I cannot believe your cousin did this!” She leaned heavily on her cane. “Warren knows better than to invite an eligible bachelor for dinner with no warning. What was he thinking?”
Clarissa raised an eyebrow at her mother’s reflection in the looking glass. “He was thinking that it’s just Edwin, whom we’ve known for ages. And who has come to dine before.”
“I don’t know if pigeon pie is quite suitable enough for guests,” Mama said, as if Clarissa hadn’t spoken. “Oh, dear, and we are fresh out of Madeira! Edwin loves his Madeira, you know.”
“Mama—”
“And the pickled onions were entirely too sour the last time we ate them. I was hoping to use them up tonight, but if Edwin is coming—”
“Mama, calm down! It’s not as if we’re expecting the Tsar of Russia.” She smiled into the mirror. “Although Edwin would make a fine tsar. All he’d have to do is be his usual autocratic and dictatorial self.”
Thankfully, that observation broke her mother out of her fretting. “And he would look quite the part, too, wouldn’t he? All that black hair and that chiseled jaw.”
And broad shoulders and regal bearing and slate-gray eyes as coldly beautiful as a Russian night spangled with stars.
Clarissa scowled at herself. She must be addled to be thinking of Edwin so poetically. Though he was sinfully handsome. In a sort of standoffish way. And she hadn’t seen him in ages. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that.
“Why, I can almost imagine him in an ermine cape and one of those tall, furry hats,” Mama said.
Clarissa laughed. “Edwin would only wear such a pretentious thing to a coronation, and then only because he had to.”
His manner of dress was always correct, but terribly sober.
Unlike hers. She examined her gown in the mirror and smiled. Edwin would probably look sternly upon this confection of lace and lavender bows. Secretly it wasn’t her favorite, either—a bit too fussy for her taste—but she’d expected to be dining only with Warren and Mama, and had just thrown on the first thing she’d found in her closet.
Oh, well. No time to change, and besides, she would never change her gown for him. Let Edwin give her one of his ruthlessly critical glances; she would not be cowed.
Indeed, it was merely force of habit that had her pinching her cheeks until they glowed nicely pink. It was not because she wanted to look pretty for Edwin. No, indeed.
“You know, my girl,” Mama said, “if you were a bit nicer to that man, you could probably have him wrapped about your finger in a matter of weeks.”
“Oh, I doubt that. Edwin is far too inflexible to be wrapped about anything. More’s the pity.” Clarissa would dearly love to see the woman who could manage that.
But it wouldn’t be her. Edwin, of all people, would never accept her as she was, especially once he knew the full extent of her youthful mistakes. And her narrow escape from the obsessive attentions of Count Durand a few months ago had only made her more determined to avoid bending to any man’s demands of what a wife should be.