Clarissa could not think of a single polite reason to refuse Lord Hartley's invitation to supper.
She rifled through every excuse she could muster, but Lord Hartley was already offering his arm with a kind, expectant smile, and Kit?—
Kit had stepped back. He'd moved away from her.
She blinked in surprise to see that the unguarded look on his face had been replaced by a charming smile. It was so convincing, for a moment she wondered if she'd imagined that intensity. The way he'd lowered his voice and leaned toward her as if he'd been about to say something…
Something what? She peered up at him, wishing she could read his thoughts. Something meaningful, perhaps? Something intimate?
Lord Hartley shifted closer. The silence and his outstretched arm hung in the air.
"Enjoy your supper, Lady Clarissa." Kit gave a little bow, the perfect picture of a gentleman graciously ceding the field.
She wanted to shake him. Instead, she placed her hand on Lord Hartley's arm and let him escort her inside.
Supper was interminable. Oh yes, Lord Hartley was everything a suitor should be. He pulled out her chair. He asked after her family. He told her about his estate in Kent, which sounded perfectly lovely.
When she found herself rambling about Lucy's wildflower collection, Lord Hartley listened with a patient smile. He nodded at the appropriate moments. He said, "How charming," when she'd finished.
His response was delivered with the sort of polite tolerance that reminded her of Edmund, which was unfortunate. But in all, Lord Hartley was perfectly nice.
It was she who was the poor companion. All throughout supper, it was Kit's three words that kept playing in her mind. What if I?—
What had he been about to say? She turned it over and over, examining it from every angle. What if I don't want it to end? What if I want more?
But then again, perhaps she'd read too much into that odd intensity. Perhaps it had been nothing. He might have been on the verge of saying something perfectly mundane. What if I introduce you to Pemberton's mother? What if I fetch you a lemonade?
She smiled at whatever it was Lord Hartley had said that made him laugh so hard, and told herself quite firmly to stop. She was reading more into Kit's words than was actually there. Hadn't she learned this lesson already?
He's being paid. John's voice played in her mind, his tone so gentle it came just short of pitying.
And he'd been right. It was clearly the reminder she'd needed then, and undoubtedly what she needed to tell herself now.
Kit was being paid to be kind. Only a fool would believe the silly fairy tale she herself had concocted.
She straightened in her chair and gave Lord Hartley her full attention. After all, this man was not being paid to smile at her like he was.
After supper, the dancing resumed. Lord Hartley excused himself to speak with his mother, and Clarissa found herself standing at the edge of the ballroom, scanning the crowd for Kit.
She spotted him across the room, laughing with a group of gentlemen. He looked entirely at ease. As if nothing had happened. As if the terrace had been a figment of her imagination.
Perhaps it had been.
She turned away and nearly walked into a cluster of young women.
The whispers hit her unexpectedly. The gossip wasn't aimed at her. Not directly. But she caught the odd phrase.
"—Lord Stratton, of all people. Can you imagine?—"
Kit? Clarissa's steps faltered as she strained to hear more.
"—a woman, apparently. Tucked away somewhere in town?—"
"—with child, I heard. And all the while he's been?—"
A fan snapped shut, and someone giggled. Clarissa kept walking, but her steps had slowed.
"Does Lady Clarissa know?"
