Page 3 of The Guardian’s Favor

She tried to smile at the maid she’d known since birth, but even the sight of Eda could not comfort her this day.

“I did not expect to be home so soon.” Her back straightened, and she asked, “Is my father in residence?”

Eda’s frown confirmed it. The thought that her father might be away from Theffield Castle had been her only solace on the journey back home.

“He is,” Eda said, her eyes conveying sorrow, and maybe regret. They were the same emotions she felt for the maid, a woman who had served Theffield faithfully and whose only rewards were the constant demands of a cruel and obstinate master.

“Shall I have your old chamber prepared?” Eda asked as she peered around Clarissa’s shoulder. “Are you here alone?”

She’d returned to Theffield without her husband. That simple answer would infuriate her father, the full truth even more so. And though Clarissa trusted Eda as much as she trusted anyone, she would not confide in her until privacy could be ensured.

“Aye,” she said simply, hoping her voice sounded more confident than she felt. “Lord Stanley bade me visit out of respect for my father. He would have accompanied me but was called to court just before I left.”

As expected, Eda did not question her or accuse her of any falsehoods. Instead, she set in motion the flurry of activity that would be expected upon the arrival of the earl’s daughter. Ushered into the hall, Clarissa soon found herself sitting at the head table in front of a goblet of wine and a plate of food, this despite the fact that the midday meal had long since ended. The servants had given her the kind of greeting one might expect from family, and she allowed herself a small smile. It felt good to forget, if only for a moment, this would be anything but a welcome homecoming.

Her father would question her story, of course. He would be disappointed that she’d dared venture beyond her husband’s castle walls without the man. But with any luck, he would have no recourse with her errant husband so far south, in London.

According to her, at least.

Clarissa glanced down at her hands, which she’d shoved beneath the table. Willing them to stop shaking, she thought of how much older she felt than when she’d left Theffield nearly two years ago. At twenty and three, she was by no means an old woman. But that did not stop her from feeling like one at times. She’d lived more than one lifetime, it seemed. One as a young, idealistic and hopeful girl who saw herself as the heroine of some great tale, pitted against her father, the villain. And then there was her second lifetime, the hell in which she currently lived. The father she’d hoped to defeat had been replaced with a husband who was equally as bad, or perhaps worse. His only redeeming quality was that he had agreed to set her aside, the blessing that had forced her back home.

“My lady, would you like more wine?”

Had she drunk the first goblet already? Indeed, and eaten her fill as well. Clarissa took a deep, steadying breath, asking the question she did not really want answered.

“Nay, thank you. But if you will,” she asked the servant, “do you know precisely when my father will return?”

Clarissa did not have to look up for her answer. As always, his presence made itself known by the reaction of those around her. She knew the signs well. Shoulders tensed. Eyes averted. All, including her, held their breath as the Earl of Theffield entered the hall.

It was not only his height and rigid countenance that made the earl an imposing figure. His cold hazel eyes, flat and emotionless, were the feature most noticed first.

“I cannot say I am glad to see you daughter,” he said, each step toward her more menacing than the last. “I’m told you are here without Lord Stanley?”

She watched him approach, waiting. If she spoke too soon, Clarissa would appear to be acting defensively. Too late, she risked incurring his ire for disrespecting the great Earl of Theffield.

She repeated the lie she’d told Eda. “Lord Stanley bade me come to visit, out of respect for you, Father. He would have accompanied me but was called to court just before I left.”

Years of dealing with her father had taught her not to offer more information than was necessary for fear it would be used against her.

“Why?” he demanded quietly.

Servants scattered, and she did not blame them for making themselves scarce. Clarissa only wished she could leave with them. She would never have returned if she’d had anywhere else to go.

“Why did he demand I come or why—”

“Do not”—his voice lowered—“question me.”

She lowered her eyes, hoping the gesture would soften his tone. How quickly she had forgotten his dislike of questions. Her father asked, she answered. That was the way it had always been.

“He believed you would wish to see me,” she lied. “And I know not his purpose for his journey to London.”

She continued to peer down at her hands, willing him to believe her. If he did not . . . if he sent her back . . .

“I do not want you here.”

Looking up, Clarissa nearly apologized for her presence. It would have been the smart thing to do, but she could not bring herself to do it. So much had transpired since her marriage, the young woman who’d left Theffield Castle at twenty and one was not the same one who sat here now.

“Of course,” she said instead, hoping her tone was appropriately deferential.