Lady Hartley's Inheritance

"Oh, for goodness sake!"

Clarissa whirled away from him, humiliated by his flippant attitude. She couldn't abide being patronised. During her description of Northumberland she'd formed the impression that Lord Deverill understood her fierce determination to carry on her father's work. But with one careless aside he'd reminded her that he was just a dandified aristocrat who'd never done an honest day's work in his life. For some reason she was at a loss to explain, she'd spoken to him of things she'd never discussed with another soul and all he could do was mock. She paced the terrace, attempting to rein in her fulminating anger.

"Lady Hartley."

Clarissa turned her head but refused to meet his eye. "What do you want?"

"Why do you dislike me so much? You hardly know me."

"What makes you imagine that I dislike you?" He merely looked at her, his expression impossible to interpret, and eventually the intense silence compelled her to speak. "You just now warned me against speaking my mind whilst in the ton, my lord. In view of that perhaps it's not wise to ask such a question, knowing you'll get an honest answer."

He seemed unmoved by her sarcasm. "That's precisely why I asked."

"Very well." All the derision she'd had to endure over the years because she preferred sheep to people bubbled over and she let fly without pausing to choose her words. "I've known you for less than a week, my lord, but that is sufficient for me to deduce that you are idle, dissipated, scathing and fatuous. You never appear to do anything unless it's likely to reflect upon your own pleasure. With the exception of rescuing Mulligan I can't find that you've done anything with your privileged position in life, other than to please yourself." She stood facing him, hands on hips, slightly out of breath, defying him to deny it.

"I see," he said, the rigid set of his jaw the only indication that he was the slightest bit perturbed by her directness. "And that is your opinion of me?"

"You did ask," she reminded him. "And don't imagine that I didn't see all those…those ridiculous butterflies in there trying to single you out. It seems Mrs. Stokes isn't the only one with whom you are intimately acquainted and you're only turning the others away because you promised your mother that you would attend me. Well, it might surprise you to learn, my lord, that not every woman in attendance this evening is wilting for want of your company. This one certainly isn't and you are free to leave me at any time. Doubtless you are anxious to search out more congenial company."

He remained annoyingly calm, merely raising a brow in apparent amusement. "My, my, Lady Hartley--do I detect a note of jealousy?"
"No, of course not!" But the fight had gone out of her and she turned away from him, shivering.

"Come, Lady Hartley, you're cold. Let's return to the ballroom, if you can tolerate mixing with my indolent friends again, that is. And I believe," he added, cocking his head on one side, "that the music's ceased. That can only mean that supper is being served. No doubt you're hungry?"

"Famished."

Their eyes locked and they burst into a spontaneous laughter that eased the tension between them.