“I’m sure Lillian would prefer you to stay here and enjoy yourself. I will be glad to provide any excuse you need to avert her irritation.”
That was exactly what she was afraid of.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, backing away from him.
She bumped into a stout dowager, who promptly dropped her fan. Rolling his eyes, Christian scooped it up and handed it back to the protesting matron. Clarissa seized the opportunity to escape into the crush of guests.
As she wove her way to the door, she chanced a glance back in Christian’s direction. He stood where she had left him, hands on his lean hips, his stern gaze locked on to her across the room. She froze like a rabbit before a fox, and his mobile eyebrows lifted in enquiry. Then he gave her a slow, satisfied curve of the lips.
With that, she turned and fled. But a quiet, inner voice whispered that whatever his game was, Christian would not let her escape so easily the next time.
Christian eyed Clarissa’s barely restrained dash to freedom. She held her slender back ramrod straight, but her shoulders, hitched up around her ears, spoke of how thoroughly he had unnerved her.
Biting back an oath, he started after her. He’d made several unforgivable blunders, any one of which would have given her ample reason to flee. No wonder, because his first sight of her had knocked him back on his heels, and years of repressed desire had come roaring to the surface. What little caution he’d had—and he’d never had much when it came to her—evaporated like morning mist under a blazing Spanish sun.
Clarissa disappeared behind a group of preening dandies, but a moment later he caught a glimpse of her guinea-gold hair, pulled back in a simple chignon. God, she was lovely. So lovely it made his chest ache with a pain he’d spent years trying to banish. He would never have thought it possible, but she was even more beautiful than she’d been eight years ago. Perhaps her suffering and grief had harrowed her body and spirit down totheir perfect, essential elements, for there was no artifice to Clarissa. Everything she was and had ever been could be read in the pure lines of her face, and in the honest clarity of her amber-colored gaze.
He remembered the last time they’d met, on her wedding day. Clarissa had been twenty-three—almost on the shelf, by the standards of theton. But no one who watched her walk down the aisle could think that. For years, dozens of suitors had vied for her hand, attracted by her pale beauty, her kind nature, and her generous fortune. She had refused them all, including the high-borne lords.
But then she met Jeremy Middleton, a scholarly young gentleman from a good but not particularly fashionable military family. In his own quiet way, Jeremy had swept Clarissa off her feet. They were married two months to the day after Lillian introduced them.
A week later, Christian had persuaded his father to purchase his commission in the regulars, not the militia. Having to remain in England while seeing Clarissa in the arms of another man would have driven him mad. Yes, he was five years her junior and had never stood a chance with her, but he’d adored her since he was a stripling. The gap in their ages hadn’t made a damn bit of difference to him. And not the years, the miles, or the other women in his life had ever fully erased her presence in his heart.
He studied her sweetly rounded figure as she made her way through the ballroom, smiling and nodding to acquaintances, but allowing no one to stop her. She thought to escape him. Perhaps if he were a better man, he would let her go.
But fate had intervened in the form of Jeremy Middle-ton’s tragic death and given him another chance. Not that Christian would have wished that tragedy to befall her. He would have gladly spared Clarissa that terrible loss—even given his own life for Middleton’s—if he could have. ButGod and Napoleon’s army had deemed otherwise, and Christian wouldn’t turn away from the opportunity presented to him.
Not that it would be easy. He had obstacles to overcome, starting with their age difference. She would see that as an insurmountable difficulty. But eight years in the army—most of it at war—had taught him patience and determination. It had made him a man, and Clarissa’s equal.
She finally managed to reach the wide, arching doorway. Passing through it, she turned left. Christian was tall enough to peer over the heads of the dancers and see Clarissa hurrying toward the marble staircase leading down to the entrance hall.
Perfect.
If he didn’t miss his guess, she would slip downstairs and cut through his father’s study to the back terrace overlooking the garden. He had escaped more than one boring dinner party by slipping out the same way, often to indulge in a solitary cigar.
Christian made his way through the crowd at a leisurely pace. No need to hurry, now that he was sure where his quarry would seek refuge. In fact, it made sense to give Clarissa time to compose herself. The darling girl needed kind and careful handling, and he had every intention of giving her exactly that.
Or so he thought until a few seconds later, when a tall, dark-headed officer adorned with a major’s chevrons emerged from the cluster of guests near the head of the stairs. The man cut through a knot of chattering women, obviously intent on following Clarissa. Even as far back as he was, Christian could see greedy anticipation on the officer’s blunt-featured countenance.
Blundell.
Expelling a frustrated breath, Christian picked up his pace, moving quickly around the perimeter of the ballroom.The last person Clarissa would want to see was Lord Ever-ard Blundell, a major in the same regiment as Jeremy Middleton. But where Jeremy had perished at Badajoz, Blundell had returned home without a scratch. Not surprising, given he had a politician’s talent for avoiding danger to himself.
Years ago, Everard Blundell had been Clarissa’s most persistent suitor. Her father had exerted tremendous pressure on her to marry him—after all, Blundell was the son of a powerful marquess. But Clarissa had firmly resisted. As a consequence, she had incurred her father’s verbal wrath, and probably a slap or two from him in the process. But she had held her ground, convinced, so Lillian had told him, that Blundell was a bully and a cad. Her assessment, as far as Christian was concerned, was dead-on.
Blundell charged down the stairs in Clarissa’s wake. Christian dodged a large, turbaned matron, determined to catch up with the bastard before he could reach Clarissa, alone and vulnerable, on the terrace.
“Captain Archer, hold fast there,” exclaimed a familiar voice from behind him.
Christian bit back a curse so foul his mother would have swooned if she heard it. He halted and turned to see General Sir Arthur Stanton trundling down the hallway toward him. At any other time he would have enjoyed reporting to the old warhorse, but not tonight. Not when Clarissa might be in trouble.
“Well, my boy, I finally track you down,” said the general, planting himself firmly in Christian’s path. “How go things with the First Foot? How is my old friend General Pakenham? Don’t spare me any details. I have all night, and I want to hear everything.”
