Excessive. Ridiculous?” James suggested with sarcasm as he and Clarissa took in Kenwood House from the coach window. The treacherous Channel crossing followed by the two days drive from Dover had hardly put him in a good mood. Still, the home was perhaps the single largest estate he’d ever laid eyes on.
Clarissa brushed off his mood with a feminine huff. “I’ll admit it is somewhat overgrown. But if it’s money you’re after, it appears you’ve come to the right place.”
James couldn’t argue with Clarissa’s logic. From the little he knew of Canadian financier Joshua Bennett, the house was only the beginning. A fortune made in banking and trade guaranteed Bennett had enough money to do as he pleased—which, apparently, included living on the largest estate in the whole of England.
He should be thankful for the man’s well-lined pockets. But something within him made James critical of such ostentation.
“I do hope I have my own wing,” Clarissa added sarcastically.
James chuckled. “Making fun of me now?”
“Perhaps,” Clarissa replied, straightening her cravat.
The carriage slowed, rolling to a full stop on the gravel drive, just in front of a monstrous portico supported by Grecian columns. No less than six liveried servants stood at attention, waiting for the two to alight.
“James,” Clarissa murmured as she patted selfconsciously at her hair. “What if …” She paused, then folded her hands in her lap. She was shaking. Slightly, but still, her nerves were jangled.
James took his hat from the seat beside him and donned it, allowing Clarissa a moment to recover. “You’ll finish the painting. I’ve never known you to fail.”
“Hmm?” she replied, turning to look at him. “Oh, no. I’m not concerned in the slightest over my work.” Her hand shifted to touch her short locks again and she looped sections of the black silk about her finger. “No. I’m worried about my role. Do you think I’ll pass for a man?”
James had pondered this very question for most of the carriage ride. Clarissa had quizzed him relentlessly concerning his sex. Everything, from breeches to women had been thoroughly discussed. And while Clarissa was an eager and intelligent student, James couldn’t quite see her as a man.
Still, if bravado was worth anything, Clarissa had a fighting chance. Or so he desperately hoped.
“Well, first things first. Stop fussing about with your hair in that manner,” he instructed.
She pulled her hand back as if she’d been burned. “Is that better?”
James cast a critical eye over her countenance, then smiled. “Much improved. Now, repeat after me: ‘Bloody son of a pockmarked whore.’ ”
“Come now, is it really necessary to use such vulgarity—”
“Say it,” James commanded.
“Son of a bloody pockmarked whore,” Clarissa spat out convincingly.
James thumped her between the shoulder blades,nearly knocking her off the carriage seat. “Close enough. I do believe we just may pull this off.”
She righted herself, frowning fiercely and clearly about to give him a tongue-lashing for the attack on her back. Then understanding dawned and she smiled. “Oh, yes, of course. That’s how you congratulate one another. With physical injury.”
James chuckled low in his throat. “Precisely. Now, are you ready for your debut, St. Michelle?”
“I’ve never been more ready in my life,” she said resolutely, looking out at the servants who stood at attention, ready to receive them.
James followed her gaze. “Truly?”
“Not in the slightest. But there’s hardly any point in telling you I’m terrified. Come, our audience awaits.” She reached for the carriage latch and shoved the door wide.
“Monsieur St. Michelle, welcome to Kenwood House. I am Robert.” The butler swept a low bow, the powder from his wig puffing, drifting, and filling the air where his head had been only a moment before.
Clarissa nodded in approval. “
Merci,
” she replied in
Clarissa brushed off his mood with a feminine huff. “I’ll admit it is somewhat overgrown. But if it’s money you’re after, it appears you’ve come to the right place.”
James couldn’t argue with Clarissa’s logic. From the little he knew of Canadian financier Joshua Bennett, the house was only the beginning. A fortune made in banking and trade guaranteed Bennett had enough money to do as he pleased—which, apparently, included living on the largest estate in the whole of England.
He should be thankful for the man’s well-lined pockets. But something within him made James critical of such ostentation.
“I do hope I have my own wing,” Clarissa added sarcastically.
James chuckled. “Making fun of me now?”
“Perhaps,” Clarissa replied, straightening her cravat.
The carriage slowed, rolling to a full stop on the gravel drive, just in front of a monstrous portico supported by Grecian columns. No less than six liveried servants stood at attention, waiting for the two to alight.
“James,” Clarissa murmured as she patted selfconsciously at her hair. “What if …” She paused, then folded her hands in her lap. She was shaking. Slightly, but still, her nerves were jangled.
James took his hat from the seat beside him and donned it, allowing Clarissa a moment to recover. “You’ll finish the painting. I’ve never known you to fail.”
“Hmm?” she replied, turning to look at him. “Oh, no. I’m not concerned in the slightest over my work.” Her hand shifted to touch her short locks again and she looped sections of the black silk about her finger. “No. I’m worried about my role. Do you think I’ll pass for a man?”
James had pondered this very question for most of the carriage ride. Clarissa had quizzed him relentlessly concerning his sex. Everything, from breeches to women had been thoroughly discussed. And while Clarissa was an eager and intelligent student, James couldn’t quite see her as a man.
Still, if bravado was worth anything, Clarissa had a fighting chance. Or so he desperately hoped.
“Well, first things first. Stop fussing about with your hair in that manner,” he instructed.
She pulled her hand back as if she’d been burned. “Is that better?”
James cast a critical eye over her countenance, then smiled. “Much improved. Now, repeat after me: ‘Bloody son of a pockmarked whore.’ ”
“Come now, is it really necessary to use such vulgarity—”
“Say it,” James commanded.
“Son of a bloody pockmarked whore,” Clarissa spat out convincingly.
James thumped her between the shoulder blades,nearly knocking her off the carriage seat. “Close enough. I do believe we just may pull this off.”
She righted herself, frowning fiercely and clearly about to give him a tongue-lashing for the attack on her back. Then understanding dawned and she smiled. “Oh, yes, of course. That’s how you congratulate one another. With physical injury.”
James chuckled low in his throat. “Precisely. Now, are you ready for your debut, St. Michelle?”
“I’ve never been more ready in my life,” she said resolutely, looking out at the servants who stood at attention, ready to receive them.
James followed her gaze. “Truly?”
“Not in the slightest. But there’s hardly any point in telling you I’m terrified. Come, our audience awaits.” She reached for the carriage latch and shoved the door wide.
“Monsieur St. Michelle, welcome to Kenwood House. I am Robert.” The butler swept a low bow, the powder from his wig puffing, drifting, and filling the air where his head had been only a moment before.
Clarissa nodded in approval. “
Merci,
” she replied in
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