Edmund flinched. "I'm sorry. Truly, I am. I never meant to?—"
"To what? To let me make a fool of myself? Because I did, Edmund. I made a fool of myself in front of a marquess. And then I made a fool of myself all the way home rehearsing what I'd say to you because I was so sure…" She had to stop to swallow a wave of nausea. "And now I'm making a fool of myself here, in your doorway, which I suppose is at least consistent."
To her surprise, and no doubt Edmund's as well, a thin laugh escaped.
She clamped her mouth shut before it could turn into a sob.
She would not embarrass herself further by crying in front of this man. She blinked hard against the tears that stung the back of her eyes.
"I wish you both a very happy life," she said.
At least, she thought that's what came out. It's what she tried to say, but it may have been botched in the delivery.
It didn't matter because she was already turning away, gathering her skirts. The lane back to the carriage had never seemed so long. The earnest, worried face of a young footman nearly undid her.
He opened the carriage door without a word, for which she was grateful. She climbed inside and pressed her palms flat against her knees as the carriage lurched forward.
Her maid Mary was already inside, her face a careful blank that was somehow worse than sympathy. Had her maid heard everything?
Probably. There'd never been secrets between them, and she supposed neither had suspected her little speech she'd rehearsed so often would end in such spectacular failure.
"Well." Clarissa managed a weak smile. "That's that, then."
"Oh, miss." Mary's eyes welled with tears. And for some reason, this helped Clarissa's own sting of tears to dissipate.
She held up a hand. "I am perfectly fine."
This was a lie and they both knew it. But she would be fine, she told herself.
She would.
By the time the carriage reached her father's estate, Clarissa had successfully tamped down the tears. She'd also arrived at a decision.
She was done with love.
Not in the dramatic, hand-to-the-forehead fashion of a romantic heroine. She was done with it practically. Rather like how she'd given up biscuits with tea when her bodice grew too tight, she was ready to give up romance.
She had given love an honest effort. And now…
Well. Lesson learned.
Love was not for Clarissa Whitfield. She would not make this mistake again. From here on out, she would choose with her head. A practical match, that was what she wanted. A kind man who could give her a nice life and, God willing, a house full of children to adore and dote over.
Yes, that was the love she needed. And it was all she wanted.
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Then she went inside to tell her parents she had thrown away a marquess for nothing.
They took it about as well as expected.
2
Kit's meeting with the Dowager Duchess of Ashworth went about as well as expected.
"Absolutely not." She didn't even look up from the tea she was pouring.
Kit leaned forward. "Aunt Philippa?—"
"Come now, Kit," she interrupted. "This is the first you've visited in ages. Must we spend it arguing over money?"
