The Viscount’s Darling Adventure by Maggie Dallen

4

Deep down panic began to rise up from Clarissa’s midriff, filling her chest and clogging her throat.

As she turned away to face forward, she felt him do the same beside her. She let out a long exhale of relief. See there? He’d let the conversation drop, along with his attention. Surely that meant the Viscount of Ware’s comment about masks was a coincidence.

Or perhaps she’d imagined the reference entirely.

After all, she had spent the better part of the last two weeks reliving the masquerade over and over in her thoughts. Masks were all she could think about. And any time she’d had to spare, she’d used to consider how she might find her mystery hero again.

She sighed as she stared at the soup in front of her.

She’d asked every acquaintance she could think of to list eligible bachelors who might have been in attendance. Searching for some thread that might lead her back to him. And even being able to cross any man off the list she was already acquainted with, the number of potential men was simply too long to systematically eliminate them.

And an Ainsworth had never been added to the ranks of men she might have possibly met. Because it was simply not possible. She’d know the stuck up tilt of their noses anywhere, and her dashing romantic hero from the masquerade had not shown a hint of snobbery.

But that didn’t help her identify the man she’d found that night and then lost again.

Why had she had that ridiculous idea to keep their identities secret?

If she hadn’t, might she be resting on his arm right this very moment? Her lips pressed together as she picked up her spoon.

Perhaps there were certain things in life more important than a grand adventure.

Her sister Tabetha tugged on her skirt under the table. She’d like to ignore the direct appeal and continue to think about that night and her own mistakes. But there was something else more important than excitement. Family.

And she was annoyingly devoted to hers. “What is it?” she asked, turning to look at Tabetha.

“Clarissa,” her sister mumbled, doing her best to talk without moving her lips. “Leave the poor man be.”

Did she tell Tabetha that she had no future in ventriloquy? Her lips had given away every word. “It’s a good thing you're about to become a duchess. You’ve got no future on the stage.”

Lord Ware’s spoon clattered into his bowl. Had she scandalized him with her comment? A little thrill of satisfaction made her smirk, but otherwise, she ignored him.

Tabetha sniffed. “My point stands. There is a time to be direct and a time to just nod and smile and keep your...personality carefully concealed.”

Her brows rose as she stared at her sister. This was the woman who’d pretended to publicly trip just a month ago to divert attention from her duke’s back injury, and now she was preaching sedate decorum? “You’re growing into your new position nicely,” she replied as she dipped her own spoon into her soup and brought some of the broth to her lips.

“And you will as well,” Tabetha replied, giving her sister’s arm a gentle pat. “You’ll meet the right man and everything will fall into place.”

Carefully, she set her spoon down again. Prior to the masquerade, she’d thought herself unlikely to marry, sure she wouldn’t meet a man who liked her for, well...her. She was direct, opinionated, and with a desire to explore and travel, she was ill suited to what most men wished for in a wife.

The masquerade had changed, or at least shifted, her feelings. She’d begun to hope… A frown marked her brow. She’d begun to believe that fate had delivered the perfect man and that she might have a chance to find her...what? Soul mate?

How ridiculous.

But she’d been so sure that they’d be brought back together, which would only prove that they were meant to be.

“Excuse me,” Lord Ware said next to her. She frowned. How she could even for a moment imagine that the man currently seated next to her had been him? Where her masquerade mystery man had delighted in her dreams of travel, Lord Ware struck her as the sort who would turn up his nose at such an idea. Or any idea at all. The man seemed to have only enough imagination to fill a teaspoon.

“Yes, my lord?” she asked, looking up at him while holding in a sigh. She’d been the one to suggest they put their differences aside and directly communicate. She had no choice now but to follow through.

He looked back at her with a thoughtful expression, his dark eyes assessing. No longer so disapproving, his jaw had softened so that it looked masculine rather than severe. Her breath caught and she looked down at her soup once again. “I’d hoped to ask you a question. Since we’re being friendly and dealing with this situation openly.”

“Of course,” she answered as she turned to more fully look at him. She appreciated the sentiment, even if she disliked the interruption. But as she caught his gaze again, she stilled, realizing why she’d just looked away. He was handsome. Exceptionally so. The square jaw was only the beginning. Strong cheekbones, arresting dark eyes and black hair that was cut short in a familiar sort of way.

Her heart skipped a beat.

He leaned toward her slightly. “Have you ever considered what it might be like to travel?”

Dear merciful saints above.

She tried to push out words, but her tongue wouldn’t quite work. It couldn’t be him. Please. Please let it not be him.

Finally she managed to whisper, a choked sound that grated her own ears. “I beg your pardon?”

“Travel?” he asked with a benign smile that was belied by the sharp intensity in his eyes. “Europe, America…” Then he leaned over, his brows rising up for effect. “Africa.”

No, no, no.“No,” she squeaked. Bringing a hand up to her mouth, she covered her lips before any more drivel leaked out. Not only had she just lied, but she was clearly overly emotional for such an innocent question. It was just that with every word, it became more difficult to deny that Lord Ware could be—

“No?” he asked, his brows drew together in confusion as his gaze dipped to her lips, making her breath catch. “I thought for certain—”

“Did I hear you speak of travel?” Lady Harriet’s voice cut into their intimate conversation like a knife.

“Yes.” Lord Ware tore his gaze away from hers to glance over at the older woman sitting across from him. “I was asking Lady Clarissa how she felt about travel.”

“Oh, then you are in for a delightful conversation.” Lady Harriet’s smile widened as she added, “Lady Clarissa loves to talk about travel and adventure, don’t you, dear?”

“Er…” Clarissa could hardly breathe, let alone speak. She was far too aware of the way Lord Ware had turned back to stare at her, his gaze fixed and fierce.

Lady Harriet didn’t seem to notice anything amiss as she directed her next statement to Lord Ware. “Why, earlier this evening the lovely young lady was telling me all about how she’d like to travel the world.” The older woman laughed. “She’d even like to see Africa. Can you imagine?”

His gaze was fixed on Clarissa when he responded in a low murmur that made her shiver. “No. I cannot.”

“Lord Ware,” she managed.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

Oh, this could not be happening.

“L-Lord Ware,” she tried again, still uncertain of what she might say to make this right. Are you the mystery man from the masquerade? Part of her wanted to ask him outright, and another part of her was terrified to hear his answer.

He leaned forward then, most likely to hear what she was about to say. But when he did, she caught a whiff of his scent. Fresh country air and the tiniest hint of horses. Home. Her eyes drifted closed as butterflies danced in her stomach, the sickening beat of their wings making her sway slightly.

“Yes?” he asked, a light hand coming under her elbow. His fingers gently brushed her skin and his brow creased in concern. “Are you all right?”

She gave the table a quick sweep, noting that most of her family stared at them, as did his cousin and another man she didn’t recognize. “I…” she started. She needed something to focus on other than him. His hand was warm and reassuring on her elbow even as her skin began to tingle. “I’m fine.” She swallowed. If she could just think, surely she’d be able to reason out how Lord Ware was not her mystery man.

With a deep gulp of air, she twisted back to look at him again. Mistake. His nose was not up in the air and his eyes were crinkled in concern.

He looked simply wonderful.

“Lady Clarissa?” he asked. “I think perhaps—”

“You know who I am. Don’t you?” Clarissa held her breath. If it wasn’t him, he’d have no idea what she’d just said. What she meant.

“Yes. I believe I do.” His tone was neutral enough, but she saw the slight dip in his shoulders. His lips settling into a decided frown.

He was as disappointed as she was.

“Oh dear,” she whispered, realizing that he still discreetly held her elbow.

Tabetha touched her other arm. “Clarissa?”

Clarissa ignored her sister’s question. Her brain was still too busy spinning over the facts to speak actual words.

The man she’d been fantasizing over for the past fortnight was none other than Lord Ware. Prominent member of the Ainsworth clan.

How could she have gotten this so completely wrong?

She’d thought he’d understood her. Thought that they had more in common than any other person she’d met since coming to London.

But that couldn’t be true.

He was part of the family that had tortured hers when they’d first arrived in London.

His cousin had killed her cousin in a duel. What was worse, they’d blamed it all on her brother, the Earl of Darling, and everyone had believed them.

Her brother had suffered greatly at the hands of the Ainsworth clan, and she, more than any of her sisters, had meant to fight for her brother’s good name. How could she do that if she were completely enamored with one of the enemy?

Mariah, her other sister, sat just across the table and she gave Clarissa a tiny wave. “Clarissa,” she called, not very loud, just enough so that Tabetha and most likely Lord Ware could hear. “You look pale.”

She tried to tell Mariah that she was fine. But her tongue was still swollen in her mouth.

“Do you need me to take you outside?”

Outside?

What a wonderful idea. In fresh air, she might be able to think and breathe. Perhaps she could even sort out the mess jumbled up in her head. “Oh, yes, please.”

“Oh no,” Tabetha said. “You can’t go out now. Everyone will think you and Lord Ware had a falling out. It will only fuel the rumors and make the entire situation worse.”

“No, they won’t,” Lord Ware volunteered, his face growing hard again, his jaw looking so brittle Clarissa feared it might break. “I’ll stand and help her from her chair. I’ll politely bow as she excuses herself to take a brief repose. We’ll go about this in a calm and socially appropriate manner.” Then he gave her a long, pointed stare. “The last thing we need to do is fuel any rumors with our behavior.”

That was very thoughtful and…her thoughts only twisted again. Had he meant to be kind or insulting? “Who are you?” she asked before she could hold back the words. Was he the stuck up Ainsworth or the dashing dance partner?

“I am me, and you—” he paused, his eyes taking in every detail of her face. “Are you.”

Her lips opened and then closed again. Simple words that had a clear meaning. Much as they might have enjoyed one another’s company the last time they’d met, she was the sister of the Earl of Darling, and he was an Ainsworth. Message received.

“An Ainsworth always behaves appropriately. No matter the circumstance.”

Her nerves calmed, even as anger replaced them curling her hands into fists. What was that supposed to mean? “What are you implying—” she started even as her closed hands came down toward the table. How dare he insult her family in such a way? But as her hands dropped, she felt the metal of her spoon, still resting in her bowl. The side of her hand caught the fine metal and as she brought the heel of her hand against the table, the spoon went flying through the air, spinning in a perfect arc, somersaulting over and over as it just missed the chandelier.

She nearly gasped then sighed that it hadn’t clanked metal against metal. Perhaps it would land well clear of the table and no one would be the wiser. But as it started to fall, she held back a groan. She watched, with sick dread, as the utensil descended, heading for the other end until—she gasped—it was propelling exactly toward Charlotte Ainsworth.

Clarissa’s hands covered her mouth, stifling her cry, as the soup drenched spoon smacked the other woman dead between the eyes.

It couldn’t have been a more perfect hit if she’d tried.

She’d imagined that moment a hundred times. Giving one of the Ainsworths what they richly deserved.

But as first shocked cries and excited exclamations bounced off the walls from the fellow partygoers, Clarissa moaned softly.

It was all wrong.

A complete accident when she’d been attempting to rise above the animosity. Or at least conceal it. And then there was Lord Ware. Her worst enemy, her first romantic interlude.

Soup dripped down Charlotte’s face as the woman wailed out a protest, and the person seated next to her attempted to mop her face.

Even from this distance, Clarissa could see a red welt forming.

It was too much.

Her dashing dance partner had been an Ainsworth. And in response, she’d pummeled his cousin with a soup covered spoon.

Pushing back, her chair clattered to the floor.

The room went silent as all eyes turned to her. Even Charlotte ceased her racket as Lord Ware’s friend reached her side to comfort her.

Clarissa felt her insides twisting into knots as she gasped out, “My apologies.” And then she spun and ran.