Though Mrs. Lennox had informed her that the duchess was "not a woman to be trifled with," which had left her with an altogether ominous feeling.
The butler admitted her and led her through a foyer. They were approaching the drawing room when Clarissa heard voices. It sounded like…
"—the terms are perfectly reasonable, Aunt Philippa," a low voice said.
Clarissa frowned at the closed doors. It sounded like a negotiation was going on. Perhaps she'd best turn back. But then she heard her name as the man continued.
"I escort Lady Clarissa to a few events, I dance with her, I make it very clear to the ton that the Duke of Ashworth's heir finds her utterly captivating."
A woman's voice said something but she could not make out what. Then the man was going on again, even louder now. "Don't be silly. It'll be a month. Perhaps six weeks. By the end of the Season, no one will remember that wretched nickname."
The butler turned to her as they reached the door. His expression was blank. Too blank. It was a look she knew well from her own parents' household. The kind of look a maid would give when they were pretending they hadn't heard Clarissa being scolded.
Clarissa could only hope her own expression was equally blank, but judging by the heat in her cheeks, she suspected her embarrassment was clear.
"Oh come now, Aunt," that voice called out. "I'm offering to rid this girl of the Cast-Off Clarissa moniker for good. Surely that's enough to make the funds worthwhile…" And then, "Two payments, then… But I won't fail."
In between there'd been murmurs. A woman's voice.
She turned to the butler. "The duchess is expecting me, I believe."
"Yes, my lady." He nodded and went to knock.
It took everything in her not to stop him. She couldn't enter now. Not when she'd just heard some man talking about her like, like?—
Well, like a pig being haggled over at the market.
The butler knocked. No one seemed to hear him over the man's loud voice.
"I understand she's another one of your charity projects, Aunt Philippa. I assure you, I will not allow any entanglements, and— No, I'm simply offering to be the instrument of that help. For a modest?—"
Here the butler, no doubt out of desperation to end this mortifying moment, didn't wait for a response before he opened the door.
So they both heard the duchess interrupt. "There is nothing modest about the sum you've requested."
"Aunt, hear me out?—"
The butler cleared his throat so loudly, Clarissa was certain the cook was startled in the kitchen.
The silence that came from the drawing room was deafening. Clarissa wanted to run.
Every instinct screamed at her to turn and flee. Her face burned. Her hands, hanging at her sides, curled into fists.
She should leave. She should turn around and walk out and?—
"Your Grace?" The butler spoke. "Lady Clarissa Whitfield is here to see you."
There was that silence again.
Clarissa uncurled her fists. She straightened her spine. And then, because she could think of no better alternative—she walked through the drawing room door.
The duchess sat in a chair by the window, and a man leaned against the mantel. The man had dark blonde hair and an easy smile. Frozen now, but still somehow charming.
The man from the coaching inn.
He recognized her at the same moment she recognized him. She saw it happen. The flash of surprise, then confusion, then recognition.
And she hated every second of it.
