wish to be unseemly.” Not when Clarissa was so clearly willing to discover and tell her everything she wanted to know. She took Miss Cuthbert’s arm. “Let us return to the party. I promise to observe every stricture of modest and decent behavior from now on.”
But only for today.
C HAPTER S IX
F rederick Eccleston was much as Clyve described him. Middling tall with a head of bushy brown hair that resisted powdering with impressive tenacity, he was an easy, amiable fellow a little younger than Rhys. When Clyve introduced them, Rhys made a great effort not to say anything at all of his interest in Margaret de Lacey, but Eccleston appeared impervious to any shade of subtlety. He liked to talk, and it took only a question or two to spawn a rambling discourse on everything he knew of the subject.
Clarissa Stacpoole, Rhys learned, was inclined to gossip more than she should. Eccleston was very fond of his fiancée, but freely admitted her weaknesses. “O’ course all women talk,” he explained in his Yorkshire drawl. “Clarissa can chatter them all into the grave. Her mama tried to tell me it was nerves, but I know better. Known her since she was a girl, and she’s been the same. If Clarissa hears something interesting, she has to tell someone.”
“Even if sworn to secrecy?” Rhys asked in amusement.
Eccleston paused, looking surprised. “I don’t know. Never tried asking.”
Rhys told himself to speak cautiously in front of Miss Stacpoole. “I ask because I find it hard to believe she would share confidences from her friends.”
“Now, that’s fair to say.” The other man nodded. “Once she takes up friends with someone, she’s devoted. Say one word against her younger brother and she’ll skewer you through the gut.”
“She appeared quite devoted to you when I met her.”
Eccleston grinned in pride. “Did she? Clarissa’s a good girl. I expect we’ll get on well enough after the wedding.”
That sounded like a rather modest goal, but he soberly wished Eccleston the very happiest of futures. Every man must be allowed his own version of paradise, and if Eccleston wished only an amiable contentment, so be it.
For himself, though, Rhys wanted more. He had quite forgotten his reluctance to pay court to any heiress because Margaret de Lacey was no ordinary heiress. I was happy as I was , she had told him, and he believed her. Her father had been a gentleman, but of much more modest circumstances than those she now enjoyed. Rhys had heard enough gossip about the de Laceys’ sudden good fortune to know she and her brother weren’t being welcomed with open arms by everyone among the nobility. Since he knew first hand how quickly and capriciously society could turn on a person, changing from indulgent to disdainful in the blink of an eye, he realized how awkward her position was: If she kept up her old friendships, her new society would never accept her, but the size of her dowry isolated her from noblewomen who might have become her new friends. Until she married, Miss de Lacey would no doubt find herself rather lonely.
And she wasn’t meant to be alone. She blushed when he commented on her reasons for wearing so fashionable a gown, and he caught the flicker of pain in her eyes when he asked if she didn’t want passion in her life. He meant everything he told Margaret at Lord Feithe’s: He wanted more from her than her money. Far from his original reluctance to meet any heiresses, he had leapt straight to wanting Margaret herself. A sensible, clear-eyed, attractive woman who longed for passion—and in possession of forty thousand pounds. It was beginning to appear Divine Providence itself had directed him to her.
Accordingly he wasted no time the next evening in approaching the lady, once more found with her friend and Mr. Eccleston. “Good evening, Miss Stacpoole, Miss de Lacey. Eccleston.” He bowed to each lady.
“Good evening, Lord Dowling.” Miss Stacpoole looked at him with
But only for today.
C HAPTER S IX
F rederick Eccleston was much as Clyve described him. Middling tall with a head of bushy brown hair that resisted powdering with impressive tenacity, he was an easy, amiable fellow a little younger than Rhys. When Clyve introduced them, Rhys made a great effort not to say anything at all of his interest in Margaret de Lacey, but Eccleston appeared impervious to any shade of subtlety. He liked to talk, and it took only a question or two to spawn a rambling discourse on everything he knew of the subject.
Clarissa Stacpoole, Rhys learned, was inclined to gossip more than she should. Eccleston was very fond of his fiancée, but freely admitted her weaknesses. “O’ course all women talk,” he explained in his Yorkshire drawl. “Clarissa can chatter them all into the grave. Her mama tried to tell me it was nerves, but I know better. Known her since she was a girl, and she’s been the same. If Clarissa hears something interesting, she has to tell someone.”
“Even if sworn to secrecy?” Rhys asked in amusement.
Eccleston paused, looking surprised. “I don’t know. Never tried asking.”
Rhys told himself to speak cautiously in front of Miss Stacpoole. “I ask because I find it hard to believe she would share confidences from her friends.”
“Now, that’s fair to say.” The other man nodded. “Once she takes up friends with someone, she’s devoted. Say one word against her younger brother and she’ll skewer you through the gut.”
“She appeared quite devoted to you when I met her.”
Eccleston grinned in pride. “Did she? Clarissa’s a good girl. I expect we’ll get on well enough after the wedding.”
That sounded like a rather modest goal, but he soberly wished Eccleston the very happiest of futures. Every man must be allowed his own version of paradise, and if Eccleston wished only an amiable contentment, so be it.
For himself, though, Rhys wanted more. He had quite forgotten his reluctance to pay court to any heiress because Margaret de Lacey was no ordinary heiress. I was happy as I was , she had told him, and he believed her. Her father had been a gentleman, but of much more modest circumstances than those she now enjoyed. Rhys had heard enough gossip about the de Laceys’ sudden good fortune to know she and her brother weren’t being welcomed with open arms by everyone among the nobility. Since he knew first hand how quickly and capriciously society could turn on a person, changing from indulgent to disdainful in the blink of an eye, he realized how awkward her position was: If she kept up her old friendships, her new society would never accept her, but the size of her dowry isolated her from noblewomen who might have become her new friends. Until she married, Miss de Lacey would no doubt find herself rather lonely.
And she wasn’t meant to be alone. She blushed when he commented on her reasons for wearing so fashionable a gown, and he caught the flicker of pain in her eyes when he asked if she didn’t want passion in her life. He meant everything he told Margaret at Lord Feithe’s: He wanted more from her than her money. Far from his original reluctance to meet any heiresses, he had leapt straight to wanting Margaret herself. A sensible, clear-eyed, attractive woman who longed for passion—and in possession of forty thousand pounds. It was beginning to appear Divine Providence itself had directed him to her.
Accordingly he wasted no time the next evening in approaching the lady, once more found with her friend and Mr. Eccleston. “Good evening, Miss Stacpoole, Miss de Lacey. Eccleston.” He bowed to each lady.
“Good evening, Lord Dowling.” Miss Stacpoole looked at him with
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