"I wish you both well." Clarissa stood and her smile felt very close to real. A bit sad, perhaps, but genuine. "Thank you for the tea, Your Grace. And for all you've done for me. I'm honored by your attention."
She turned to Kit. "And thank you, Kit. For everything. I mean that. Now, if you'll excuse me…"
She didn't wait for a response. Crossing the room, she opened the door and walked through it.
The butler was in the foyer. He offered her coat and she was oddly reminded of her first visit when he'd so awkwardly pretended not to hear Kit speaking about her like he was haggling over a pig at the market.
A huff of laughter escaped. How had she been so stupid? That very first day she'd known precisely what she was to him. And yet, a few charming smiles and a couple of hearty laughs, and she'd let herself be fooled.
"Your carriage, my lady?" he murmured.
She forced one last smile. "I'll walk, thank you."
Mrs. Lennox had sent a maid to escort her, and the maid was blessedly quiet. She wouldn't mind tagging along while Clarissa walked.
And she'd pretend not to notice if Clarissa cried.
17
The letter from her mother arrived with the morning post.
Clarissa knew what it was before she opened it. Her mother's handwriting was as familiar as her own. And the Countess of Hawthorn did not waste words.
Clarissa read it at the breakfast table while John ate his toast and pretended not to watch her.
The letter was brief. Her mother had heard about the scandal—of course she had, news traveled between London and the country with astonishing speed when it involved humiliation. Her father had opinions which her mother did not delve into, but which Clarissa could guess.
In short, her mother made clear that Clarissa had been given an opportunity to find a match on her own terms. She had, instead, managed to embroil herself in yet another public embarrassment. Her father's patience had reached its limit. Her mother's too, if her tone was anything to go by.
And then, at the end—the ultimatum. If Clarissa could not secure an acceptable match by the end of the Season, her parents would make the selection for her.
Her mother did not specify who that selection might be.
She set the letter down with a sigh.
"How bad?" John asked.
"They're going to choose for me." She picked at the crumbs left from her meal. "If I don't find someone by the end of the Season."
John set down his toast. "Clarissa?—"
"It's not unreasonable." She refolded the letter because it gave her something to do. "They've been more than patient. Patient for them, that is. It's truly remarkable, really, when you think— But no. I see their point. I've had my chance at a Season and nothing to show for it but a nickname and a scandal. No, that's not right, is it? I suppose it's more like a nickname and two scandals, and?—"
"Neither of which were your fault," John interrupted.
She smiled. "That's kind of you to say. But I don't think Father sees it that way."
"Let me write to them." There was a rare edge in John's voice. "I can explain?—"
"No," she interrupted.
He blinked. Probably because her tone had been rather abrupt.
She tried to temper it with a smile. "I appreciate the offer. Truly." She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "But I need to start handling my own affairs, John. I've spent far too long letting other people fight my battles. I asked a marquess to refuse a match for me. I let a duchess orchestrate my social life. I let—" She stopped before Kit's name could escape. "I've relied on everyone but myself. And look where it's gotten me."
John was quiet for a moment. "Where it's gotten you is in the company of people who care about you."
"And dependent on others for my own future. My own happiness." It wasn't an easy admission, but it was one she couldn't ignore.
