The Scandalous Proposal Of Lord Bennett. Raven McAllan

on the Aubusson carpet. ‘Bloody Ferdy stood on my gown.’ She twisted to try and see if anything was amiss. Without lifting her skirts to her thighs it was impossible.

      Lord Bennett muttered something under his breath. ‘Stand still, woman – you’ll do yourself an injury. Let me look.’

      ‘You’ll see my ankles.’

      He snorted. ‘I’d need to see a lot more than an ankle, well turned or not, to ravish you here and now. This room is not conducive to seduction, believe me.’

      Well, you would know that, wouldn’t you? Clarissa thought snippily. No doubt he knew all the best places for such things.

      ‘Hold on, where abouts? Just here?’ Ben knelt on the floor at her feet and checked her gown wasn’t ripped. ‘Although I must add, this ankle could perhaps persuade me differently.’ He winked at her.

      She chuckled. His cheerful attitude banished her bad temper instantly. ‘In your dreams.’

      ‘You are quite right, my dear. Frequently.’ His tone was so serious she jumped.

       Really?

      He stroked her ankle. ‘Careful. If you put your foot down it won’t just be your flounce in tatters. My wrist will have joined it. Then you’d need to kiss it better.’

      In this mood it was all too easy to remember his good points, and his lips on hers.

      Clarissa thought she’d stopped breathing as his fingers grazed her skin. A flash of heat danced over the area. Goosebumps hit her and her mouth went dry. He touched me. She shivered. Was this what the pamphlets meant about desire? It was so much more than those lukewarm feelings she’d experienced when he kissed her all those years ago. Much more.

      ‘It seems …’ He got no further, and she never did find out what seemed what.

      ‘Argh. Unhand her you, you villain. What do you think you are doing?’ The biggest gossip of the ton sailed into the room and shrieked loud enough to alert the majority of guests at the ball that something was more than amiss. Several other dowagers and two or three debs and their partners followed her and stood and stared at the scene in front of them.

      Clarissa shut her eyes. What now? Lord Bennett still knelt at her feet, in the manner of a supplicant … or a cobbler. What on earth made her think of that at such a time? Was it imagine the ridiculous or scream? Probably.

      ‘What on earth …’ The dowager produced smelling salts and held them under her own nose. She then proceeded to tell them, and the rest of the guests who now crowded through the doorway in the manner of the cows in Hyde Park gathering to be milked, how disgraceful Clarissa’s behaviour was.

      None, Clarissa noticed, came close enough to her to give her support.

      ‘Standing there like a hussy, and letting this, this hell hound, no good, young rake touch her ankles.’ The woman’s shrill voice rose so high, Clarissa wouldn’t have been surprised to see the glass globe around the lamp shatter. ‘What next, eh? Disgraceful. Someone find Lady Jersey. Her vouchers to Almacks must be rescinded at once.’

      That had been the only positive highlight of it all. Clarissa hated Almacks with a vengeance. Although the way the dowager worded her demand, it sounded to Clarissa as if it were Lady Jersey’s vouchers that were to be withdrawn. That would be difficult. She was one of the patronesses.

      Lord Bennett had straightened up and let the hem of Clarissa’s pale lemon gown drop past her ankles once more. He placed his arm around Clarissa’s waist and nipped her through her dress. Even through layers of silk and petticoats the pressure of his hand warmed her skin, as he put his mouth close to her ear. ‘Bear up, we will survive. I have you.’

      He does? I wonder how? She didn’t have long to wait to find out.

      ‘Madam.’

      Clarissa had never heard such ice in his tone. Lord Theodore Bennett, one of the recognised leaders of the ton – albeit a rogue – was renowned for his easy-going geniality. This proper gentleman made the dowager stop speaking mid word, and her mouth hung open in surprise. It struck Clarissa that the woman looked like a fish. A fish in hideous puce silk and lace.

      ‘If you insist on speaking about my affianced in such a way I will be forced to take drastic action.’ He didn’t say what. However, he did nip Clarissa’s thigh to stop her denying his words.

       Affianced? Since when?

      She was getting a bit annoyed with all this nipping. Did he think her totally without sense? Very likely after my stupidity in not leaving the minute Ferdy waylaid me. But affianced?

      ‘Lady Clarissa has just given me the honour of agreeing to be my wife. Be assured you will not be a guest at our nuptials.’

       I have?

      The woman, who had gone white, then red, stammered and rushed out. Clarissa was afraid it was now she herself who did the fish impression. But thankfully not one in puce silk.

       Is he deluded? Nuptials? Surely I couldn’t have missed something like that?

      Lord Bennett had somehow whisked Clarissa through the throng of sensation seekers turned well-wishers and taken her to find her father before she had time to ask him what on earth he was doing.

      Of course, with so many witnesses to the fiasco, it was no wonder that less than fifteen minutes after they had found her papa, and Lord Bennett had requested a private word, Clarissa and her ‘fiancé’ were being congratulated on their good sense.

      ‘Even if you did jump the gun and announce it before even asking me.’ Her father’s eyes had twinkled and Clarissa realised he was truly pleased at the news.

      Her heart sank.

      He was the only one. Lord Bennett looked like he was going to his execution, and Clarissa knew she was. Phillip, her brother, was nowhere to be seen, and she knew without asking he wouldn’t get involved. She was on her own. Nasty spiders crawled over her skin, and her stomach lurched. Could there be anything worse than marriage to a man who never noticed you? One you sadly wished did. One you knew could turn your insides to mawkishness. A man who had, according to gossip, several mistresses? Each one worldly wise and fashionable, neither of which label, to her secret satisfaction, could be attributed to her. Clarissa was happier away from the hustle and bustle of the capital and the petty rules and regulations of the ton. She preferred the simpler life of the country, and she didn’t include house parties in that description.

      She ignored the tiny voice that added that, by all accounts, he had satisfied each and every one of those he had chosen to share his talents with. Clarissa was honest enough to accept that she didn’t share, and that the situation would be intolerable. He didn’t want her, whereas she … Yes, she wanted him. But not on the wed, bed, heir and spare, separate rooms, separate lives, take a mistress again, wife take a lover terms that permeated the ton. Heaven knows he might not even dispatch his mistress in the interim. How could any wife survive knowing one of the women around her enjoyed her husband’s body more often that she? Especially when she knew which woman.

       I do not share …

      ‘Papa, I don’t have to marry him. It’s all a bit sudden.’ That was, in her mind, the understatement of the year. Her father would have none of it. After all, as he reminded Clarissa ad nauseam, he had despaired of her ever agreeing to be a wife.

      Her affianced left them to talk alone together for a few moments. He informed Clarissa he would return and escort her to the ballroom, where he would then officially introduce his fiancée to the gathered assembly. She assumed he had really departed so he could warn whichever of his mistresses he needed to of his change in status, and assure them that their lives wouldn’t change. Even though his behaviour was the norm for gentlemen of the ton, Clarissa didn’t approve. She suspected most women, if forced to tell the truth, would agree. No way would she be second best.