The Art of Sinning (29 page)

But it wouldn't be her. Edwin, of all people, would never accept her as she was, especially once he knew the full extent of her youthful mistakes. And she wasn't bending to anyone's demands of what a wife should be—not his, not Mama's, not Warren's. She'd allowed a man to bully her once, and it had shattered her life.

Never again.

Pasting a brilliant smile to her lips, she whirled to face her mother. “Shall we go down?”

“Not yet, my angel. The servant said the gentlemen are already here. So we should keep them waiting. You must never let a man be too sure of you.”

“It's
Edwin,
Mama,” she said tightly. “He's sure of everything and everyone, no matter what I do.” She offered her arm to her mother with her usual coaxing smile. “Come now, I know you're positively dying for a glass of wine. I certainly am.”

“Oh, all right.” Leaning on Clarissa's arm, Mama let herself be led to the door. “But you must promise to give him a compliment first thing. Men like that.”

“Right,” Clarissa said noncommittally.

“And don't contradict him all the time. Men despise fractious women.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And do
not
spout your witticisms incessantly. It's very mannish. Not to mention . . .”

As they made their slow way down the stairs, Clarissa let her mother drone on, only half-listening to the usual recitation of little tricks designed to hook a man and reel him in. Those might have enabled her mere cit of a mother to snag an earl, but they smacked of deception to Clarissa.

If a man couldn't like her as she was, what was the point? Clarissa could barely hide her true opinions from Mama. How was she to do it with a husband?

Not that she ever intended to
have
a husband. At the very thought of taking a man into her bed, her hands grew clammy and her throat closed up.

No. Marriage was not for her.

“. . . and do be sure to save the biggest slice of cake for him,” Mama was saying as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Nonsense. I'm not saving
anything
for Edwin.”

“That's only fair,” drawled Edwin from somewhere in the shadows to the right of the staircase. “I'm not saving anything for you, either.”

Striving to hide her surprise, she halted as he came into the light.

“Edwin!” Mama cried. “My dear boy!” She held out her hand.

Dutifully, he came forward to take it. “You're looking well, Lady Margrave,” he murmured as he bent to brush a kiss over Mama's cheek.

“You're looking rather fine yourself,” Mama chirped as she drew back to survey him.

And Lord, he was, in his tailcoat of dark blue wool and his waistcoat and trousers of plain white poplin. Even his cravat was simply tied, which only accentuated the masculine lines of his jaw and sharp planes of his features, so starkly handsome.

How had he managed to grow only more attractive in a mere three months? And why on earth was she gawking at him? This was
Edwin,
for pity's sake. It would swell his head even more if he knew what she was thinking.

Instead, she teased him. “Don't tell me—you were so impatient for us to come down that you've been pacing the foyer in anticipation.”

The idea was ludicrous, of course.
Impatient
wasn't even in Edwin's vocabulary. If ever a man believed that slow and steady won the race, it was him.

And he clearly recognized the irony, for he flashed her one of his rare smiles. “Actually, I was fetching this from the library. Warren told me he was done with it.” His eyes gleamed in the lamplight as he held out a book. “Of course, if you wish to read it yourself . . .”

“Doubtful,” she said. “If it's a book
you
loaned him, then it's deadly dull.”

“Clarissa,” Mama chided beneath her breath.

But Edwin merely laughed, as she'd hoped he would. She took great pride in the fact that she could sometimes make him laugh. No other woman seemed able to. No other woman dared try.

“Well, it
is
about mechanical engineering, which I would imagine isn't your favorite subject,” he said. “However did you guess?”

“Because I know you so well, Lord Blakeborough.”

He sobered, his gaze turning oddly intense even for him. “Do you? I'm not so sure.”

The words hung in the air for a moment in frozen silence before that was shattered by her cousin's approach.

“I found another book you might enjoy, old boy,” Warren said as he bent to kiss first his aunt, then Clarissa. “It's about automatons.”

As Warren handed him the book, keen interest leapt in Edwin's eyes. “I haven't read this title. Thank you. I'll get it back to you as soon as I'm done.”

“No hurry.” Warren shot Clarissa a veiled glance. “As you well know, I won't need it anytime soon.”

Whatever was that about?

Before she could ponder it, Warren offered Mama his arm. “Come, Aunt, let's get you off your feet while we have our wine before dinner.”

“Thank you, my lad,” she cooed, and let him lead her to the breakfast room. “That is ever so thoughtful of you! But then you always were a dear. Why, I remember when . . .”

As Mama prattled on, Edwin was left to come behind with Clarissa. “So,” he murmured, “exactly what were you refusing to save for me?”

It took her a moment to remember that he'd overheard her earlier. “The biggest slice of cake.”

“I don't like cake.”

“I know. That's why I'm not wasting it on you. You won't appreciate it, and you'd probably eat it just to be polite.”

He slanted a serious glance at her. “Perhaps I'd give it to you, instead.”

“I doubt that, but we'll never know, shall we?” she said lightly. “I'm saving it for myself, regardless.”

“So I heard.”

“Because you were eavesdropping.” Mischief seized her. “How rude of you.”

They passed into the breakfast room, and he shrugged. “If you don't want people hearing your pronouncements, you shouldn't talk as loud as a dockworker.”

Mama paused while settling onto the settee. “A dockworker! For shame, Edwin—what a thing to say to a lady! Have you no pretty compliments to offer?”

When he stood blatantly unrepentant, Clarissa said, “If Edwin knew how to compliment ladies, Mama, he would be too popular in society to settle for having dinner with the mere likes of
us.
”

“There's no settling involved, I assure you,” he said irritably.

She was still congratulating herself on getting beneath his cool reserve again when Warren stepped in. “Play nice now, cousin. We need him.”

“For what?” Clarissa asked.

Instead of answering, her guardian gestured to the settee. “You'd better sit down. I've got something to tell you and your mother.”

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