“‘I shall vow my’ . . . er . . . ‘my’— Lady Clarissa,” Lord Prudhomme interrupted himself. “Pray, move the candle closer ifyou please. I am having trouble deciphering this word.”
Clarissa blinked away her ennui and squinted toward her suitor. Prudhomme was a dark blob in her vision with a round, pinkblur of a face topped by a silvery cloud of hair.
“The candle, girl,” he said impatiently, all signs of the charming suitor momentarily replaced with irritation.
Clarissa squinted at the candle on the table beside her, picked it up, and leaned dutifully forward.
“Much better,” Prudhomme said with satisfaction. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. ‘I shall vow my undying . . .’” He paused againand his nose twitched. “Do you smell something burning?”
Clarissa sniffed delicately at the air. She opened her mouth to say yes, actually she did, but before the words left her mouthPrudhomme released a shriek. Pulling back with surprise at the sound, she watched in amazement as the man suddenly leapedto his feet and began to hop madly about, his blurry arms flying and appearing to thrash at his head. Clarissa didn’t understandwhat was happening until the white blur that was his wig was suddenly removed and beat furiously against his leg. She blinkedat the pink blob that was his head, then at his actions, and realized she must have held the candle too close—she’d set hiswig aflame.
“Oh, dear.” Clarissa set the candle down, not releasing it until she knew it was safely on the table surface. Her vision blurredand her sense of distance beggared, she nearly knocked the little man over as she leaped up to help him.
“Get away from me!” Prudhomme yelled, shoving her backward.
Clarissa fell back in her chair and stared at him in blind amazement, then glanced sharply toward the door as a rustling announcedthe arrival of someone.
Several someones, she amended, squinting at the array of colors and shapes standing just inside the door. It looked as if every servantin the house had heard Prudhomme’s shrieks and come running. No doubt her stepmother was there as well, Clarissa thought,and heaved a small sigh at the subsequent shocked silence. She couldn’t see well enough to know if those by the door werestaring at her with pity or accusation, but she didn’t need eyesight to guess at Prudhomme’s expression. His rage was a livingthing. It reached out to her across the few feet separating them, and then he exploded with verbal vitriol.
He was so angry, most of what Prudhomme said ran together into one mostly incomprehensible rant. Clarissa managed to decipherbits here and there—“clumsy idiot,” “bloody disaster,” and “danger to society” amongst them—but then, in the midst of hisrant, she saw his dark arm rise and descend toward her. Clarissa froze, afraid he might be lashing out, but she wasn’t atall sure. It was so hard to tell without her spectacles.
By the time his fist got close enough that Clarissa could see that he was indeed attempting to strike her, it was too lateto avoid the blow. Fortunately, the others had apparently suspected he was winding up, and had moved closer while he spoke.Several of them descended on the man midswing, preventing the blow. There was a blurry blending and shifting of color beforeher as they struggled. Clarissa heard Prudhomme’s curses and a grunt from one of the shapes, whom she suspected was Ffoulkes,the butler. Then there was much cursing as the kaleidoscope blur of bodies began to shift toward the door.
“Fie! Shame on you, Lord Prudhomme,” Clarissa’s stepmother cried, her voice clearly distressed as her lilac blur followedthe mass of other colors to the door, then she added anxiously, “I hope once you calm down you shall see your way clear toforgiving Clarissa. I am sure she did not mean to set your wig on fire.”
Clarissa sank back in her chair with a sigh of disgust. She couldn’t believe that her stepmother would still hope to makea match with the man. She’d set his wig on fire, for heaven’s sake! And he’d tried to hit her! Though Clarissa should haveknown better than to think that would put Lydia off making a match. What did her stepmother care if she ended up married toan abusive mate?
“Clarissa!”
Sitting up abruptly, she turned to peer warily around as the lilac blur that was Lydia reentered the room and slammed thedoor behind her.
“How could you?”
“I did not do it on purpose, Lydia,” Clarissa said at once. “And it would never have happened at all if you would just letme wear my spectacles. Surely being graceful, even with spectacles, will get me more suitors than—”
“Never!” Lydia snapped. “How many times have I to tell you that girls with spectacles simply do not find husbands? I knowof what I speak. It is better to be a little clumsy than bespectacled.”
“I set his wig on fire!” Clarissa cried with disbelief. “That is more than a little clumsy, and really, this is beyond ridiculousnow. ’Tis becoming dangerous. He could have been badly burned.”
“Yes. He could have. Thank the good Lord he was not,” Lydia said, sounding suddenly calm. Clarissa nearly moaned aloud. Shehad quickly come to learn that when her stepmother went calm, it did not bode well for her.
About the Author
LYNSAY SANDS is the nationally bestselling author of the Argeneau/Rogue Hunter vampire series, as well as numerous historicals and anthologies.She’s been writing since grade school and considers herself incredibly lucky to be able to make a career out of it. Her hopeis that readers can get away from their everyday stress through her stories, and if there are
