Since the damage to her hand, she had lost something – confidence, poise, self-belief? She didn’t know, but in this glittering masquerade of perfection, she now felt slightly lost and inadequate…a long way from her previously confident and bold self.
She remembered the first time she had felt like this. It had been during her first formal dinner after the accident, and in truth, her hand had looked even worse than now. The milk-faced, young girl opposite had stared at it in horror; the dashing, handsome viscount next to her had drawn away as though it ’twas catching; the lecherous, old Lord at her other side had squeezed it painfully under the table. She had started wearing gloves at all times.
“Stop it, you self-pitying dullard,” she whispered to herself, thinking of the fate that must have befallen Doctor Mainwaring.
A pat on the arm and she shrieked, only to turn and see her chaperone and distant great aunt – Agnes Cosworth.
“It’s alright dearie, your cousin and Sir Matthew have gone to the card room. Probably be there all night, so no need to hide anymore.” She dragged Clara out from behind her lush, green habitat. Aunt Agnes was dressed as Hebe, who apparently embodied youth and grace. Aunt Agnes was in her fifties or thereabouts, (“never tell them your age, I pretend I’m forty with the young bucks,” she’d said), and always wore a serious number of feathers. Clara loved her dearly.
“Oh aunt, I cannot believe Ralph wants me to make a match with the man,” Clara fumed.
“I believe he feels guilty about your hand. Wants to see you well-settled. Harmless, but weak-willed your cousin Ralph. Now, Sir Matthew, I cannot like. Pretty face, but always got a sneer on it.” Clara could only agree. “The man has managed to inveigle an invite for the week – so be on your guard. He’s the type that takes what he wants.”
Clara thought of the Earl of Rookdean – was there a difference? She remembered that he had at least stopped kissing her when she’d requested it.
Watching the dancers glide over the floor, Clara caught the eye of the man himself. He was partnered with a pretty, slim, dark-haired girl with a snake on her head, but his focus was on her – direct and burning.
Had he realised it was her in the garden? Clara gave him a fierce look - damn scoundrel! How dare he play with women in such a way. He frowned at her glaring face and looked away; her heart slowed.
Maybe he wasn’t even interested in finding the woman he had kissed passionately in the sunken garden? But Clara knew that she would have to be careful – the earl could ruin her with the crook of a finger.
ΦΦΦ
