Category:

Paid attention to her, not her fortune.

That thought prompted the next on her list. 6) No fortune hunters. That was crucial. Papa had married Mama for her money, and the minute they were married he stopped being charming and attentive—and later, once he realized her fortune came with strings and trustees and was not wholly his to spend as he liked, he had become downright nasty.

Clarissa had inherited that same fortune. Grandfather Iverley had set it up that way—from mother to child, with only a limited amount going to the husband—and her trustees would control it until she married.

What happened after that? Would it be the same for her as it was for Mama? She had no idea. She made a mental note to find out exactly what the terms of her inheritance were. She wouldn't deceive any potential husband. And if the conditions put off someone then it would show they cared more about the money than her.

Thinking of Papa, she made a seventh notation: 7) No rakes. It really should have gone under Fidelity, but rakes were the kind of men who were habitually unfaithful, and she doubted one could change.

Was that all? She regarded her list critically.

There was one quality missing, the most important one. But it wasn't something you could put on a shopping list like this. Nevertheless it was what she wanted in a husband, so she wrote it down: 8) Love.

Then she crossed it off. 

It wasn't possible to make love happen. And as long as she could remember, Mama had told her that her life would be easier if she never expected love, that women like them—plain and plump and dull, and of undistinguished birth—weren't the kind of women that a gentleman could love.

Papa, too, had said the same—repeatedly—and though Clarissa tried hard not to believe him, a small niggling voice deep inside her kept popping up to remind her: Plain as a stick. Ugly and useless. If it wasn't for the money...

She stared out through the gray blur of the windows, feeling blue. She knew how that ended: If it wasn't for the money...no man would want her. And Mama had agreed.

A spurt of anger made her straighten her back. Mama and Papa were wrong. Everybody deserved to have the chance to be loved and though she could not make it happen, she would not deny herself even the possibility. She picked up the pen again and wrote it down in big black letters. And now number eight read: 8) Love.

*  *  *

Horatio, Lord Randall, known to his friends as Race, ran a finger around his stock, which suddenly felt so tight about his neck it was near to strangling him.

It was ridiculous.

He was merely doing a favor for a friend. Leo was, after all, Miss Studley's guardian, and Leo was Race's closest friend. He'd been best man at Leo's wedding.

"It needn't be a hardship," Leo had assured him. "I know Clarissa's devilish shy and not much of a conversationalist—not your type at all—but you can't deny, the girl can ride. Just take her out on the heath from time to time—you know how she loves a good gallop, and her chaperone doesn't ride."

Race had promised. It wouldn't be a chore to take Clarissa Studley riding—far from it. Besides, she was an excellent horsewoman.

"And I know how much you dislike society events," Leo had continued, "so I won't expect anything of you there. I've told her chaperone, Mrs. Price-Jones, to be especially vigilant for any lurking fortune hunters. I'll deal with them when I return from my honeymoon. Clarissa's fortune makes her a target and according to her sister, she's too softhearted for her own good. I wouldn't put it past some plausible rogue to persuade her into an elopement. So if there are any problems, I've told Mrs. Price-Jones she can call on you for assistance in my place. I hope that's all right."

Of course Race had agreed, and so now here he was, on the front step of Leo's aunt's home, where Clarissa lived, facing Lady Scattergood's butler.

"I'm sorry, Lord Randall, but Lady Scattergood is not at home." The ancient butler delivered the message in a sonorous, faintly smug voice.

Race frowned. "Dash it all, Treadwell, Lady Scattergood is always at home." The old lady had been housebound for several years, and on the rare occasions she ventured out of her home it was inside a covered palanquin with all the curtains drawn—the very palanquin he could see sitting in the hall, unoccupied.

The butler repeated without a blink, "My lady is not at home."