put a drop of brandy in it,” said Davis.
“More than a drop,” Clara said.
“Yes, my lady.”
Davis hurried out.
Clara took out the note Lord Adderley had sent her.
A love note, filled with beautiful words, the kinds of words sure to melt the heart of a romantic girl.
Of course the words were beautiful. They’d been written by poets: Keats and Lovelace and Marvell and scores of others. Even Shakespeare! He thought she wouldn’t recognize lines from a Shakespeare sonnet! Either he was a complete idiot or he thought she was.
“The latter, most likely,” she muttered. She crumpled the note and threw it across the room. “Liar,” she said. “It was all lies. I knew it. How could I be such a fool?”
Because Mr. Bates had not asked her to dance, and she’d watched him whirl Lady Susan Morris, Lady Bartham’s daughter, about the floor. Lady Susan was petite and dark and pretty, and next to her Clara always felt ungainly and awkward.
Then what?
A moment’s hurt. Then Lord Adderley was at her elbow, with a glass of champagne, and a perfect remark, sure to make her smile.
Irish blarney, Mama would have said.
Maybe that’s what it was. Or maybe it was like the beautiful words he wrote, stolen from gifted writers. False, either way.
Champagne and waltzing and flattery, and Clara had taken the bait.
And now …
What to do?
She rose and walked to the window and looked out. In the garden below, the rain was beating the shrubs and flowers into submission. If she’d been a man—if she’d been Harry—she’d have climbed out and run away, as far as she could go.
But she wasn’t a man, and she had no idea how to run away.
Time, she thought. Her only hope was time. If they could drag out the engagement for months and months, a new scandal would come along, and everybody would forget this one.
Davis entered with the tea. “I put in a few extra drops, but you’ll need to drink it quickly,” she said. “Lady Bartham’s called, and Lady Warford said you’re to come straightaway.”
“Lady Bartham,” Clara said. “That wants more than a few drops. That wants a bottle.”
She swallowed her brandy-laced tea, put on her company face, and went down to the drawing room.
The visit was even worse than anticipated. Lady Bartham was so sympathetically venomous that she left Clara half blind with rage and Mama with a sick headache.
The next morning, Mama announced that she was sick to death of this ghastly engagement and everybody’s insinuations. They would consult the calendar and fix a date for the wedding.
“Yes, of course, Mama,” Clara said. “In the autumn, perhaps. Town won’t be so busy then.”
“Autumn?” Mama cried. “Are you mad? We’ve not a moment to lose. You must be married before the end of the Season—before the Queen’s last Drawing Room at the latest.”
“Mama, that’s only three weeks!”
“It’s sufficient time to arrange a wedding, even a large one—and a small one is out of the question. You know what people will say. And if those wicked French dressmakers Harry took you to can’t finish your bride clothes on time, it is too bad. It is not my fault if my children disobey me at every turn.”
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