After the past few sleepless nights, staring at her bedroom ceiling and sorting through the ways in which her life had gone awry, she was starting to see just how passive she'd been about it all.
"Clarissa," John started.
But Clarissa cut him off. "It's true, John. I must stop trusting others with my life. Just look at what's happened. It's a lesson, really. Edmund left. The arrangement with Kit is over. Not even the duchess can protect me from my own parents?—"
She barreled on even when he tried to protest. "And you won't always be here, John. I don't mean that in a bad way. On the contrary. You shouldn't be worrying about me. I don't want you to be. Lucy needs a mother, and you need to find her one, and I refuse to be the reason you spend your time in London managing my disasters instead of looking for a wife?—"
"You're not a disaster," he said.
"I am a bit of a disaster." She laughed, and it was surprisingly genuine. But truly, if one couldn't laugh at oneself, one was in dire straits indeed. She took a deep breath. "I am a disaster, but I am going to fix this. On my own."
John studied her. She kept her chin up and her expression firm.
On this she would not budge. And eventually John came to the same realization, because he sank back in his seat with a resigned sigh. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to find a husband." She'd have thought that much was obvious. "Someone decent and kind who wants a family and doesn't mind a wife who talks too much."
The description sounded depressingly like a notice one might post in a shop window. But it was practical, and that was what she needed now. The Season would end before she knew it, and she must have a serious prospect when it did.
"Do you have any idea who you'll choose?" John asked.
His tone was mild, and Clarissa fought another laugh. She feared this one might sound hysterical. But truly, the way he'd asked made it sound as though she were trying to decide on what color ribbon to buy, not what man to spend the rest of her life with.
She took a deep breath and clasped her hands together. Now was not the time for laughter. She had a choice to make.
Oddly enough, that thought made her think of Kit. Or…really it wasn't so odd. Everything made her think of Kit lately. But right now she was thinking of one of their earliest conversations.
“What do you want, Lady Clarissa?” he'd asked.
And what had she said? She'd said, “I want to have a choice. That's what I want. I want to choose.”
Her lips trembled but they curved up in a smile at the bittersweet memory. She wanted to choose, and she would.
It was just that she might not be particularly excited about her choice. But at least it would be her choice.
And even as she was thinking it, a perfectly pleasant, but rather forgettable face filled her mind's eye. "Lord Hartley," she said.
She felt absolutely nothing as she said his name. No excitement, and no racing pulse…but not disgust, either. And that, she supposed, was good enough. Perhaps it was even for the best. After all, she'd had excitement when she'd fought for Edmund. And her heart had raced plenty with Kit.
Too much, really.
Honestly, who wanted to spend the rest of their life battling heart palpitations? It was for the best that she found a man who made her feel…
Well, nothing.
John was eyeing her oddly, so she forced her expression to go neutral.
"Lord Hartley," John echoed.
She nodded. "Yes, he's… He's kind. And respectable. He has a title and is well connected, so Father will approve. And besides… He was interested."
"And is that your criteria?" he asked.
She knew he wasn't mocking her, but she squirmed in her seat all the same. “He was interested” hardly sounded romantic. But she wasn't interested in romance, now was she?
Still, something about the way John was looking at her—not quite with disbelief, but there was a hint of doubt there. Like he thought she was lying to herself.
But she wasn't. She would make this choice with her eyes open. She knew what mattered now, and it had nothing to do with romance or excitement or laughter or feelings.
