Miss Debenham's Secret: A Husband Hunters Club Book by Sara Bennett Read Free Book Online Page A

was in love with him. She had her pride, after all. It was the only thing she did have.
    “Of course,” she said brightly, falsely.
    He looked uncertain but then he nodded, returning her smile, choosing to believe her. “Good. I am glad, Clarissa.”
    They made the remainder of the journey mostly in silence and Clarissa was hoping that her father might have gone to bed. Morning would be soon enough to face his wrath. But when they turned into Clarissa’s street she could see the light in the downstairs window of her cottage and knew with a sinking heart that of course her father hadn’t gone to bed as she’d hoped. He was waiting for her.
    They had barely pulled up outside when the door was flung open and there he was, dishevelled, wearing his slippers and his dressing gown, though clearly not just out of bed.
    “Clarissa? Where on earth have you been?” He was obviously angry but worried too.
    “Mr. Debenham.” It was Alistair who climbed down and went to meet him, while Clarissa composed herself. “I apologise, I am so sorry. This is all my fault. We went sailing and the boat capsized and then it began to rain. We had to stay at the inn until it cleared.”
    “Sailing?” Her father’s eyes seemed to pop out of his head. “No one told me anything about sailing.”
    Alistair glanced over his shoulder, “Ah no, it . . . it . . .”
    But Clarissa couldn’t let him take the brunt of her punishment any longer. “I’m sorry too, father. We went sailing, as Alistair says, and I didn’t tell you because I knew you would object. The boat turned over, but we are quite safe. It was truly lovely, until . . . well until we capsized.”
    There was no need to further spoil the memories of the day by telling him she hadn’t known they were going sailing—that it had been a surprise. Her father would be angry but he would be angry anyway, and she wanted him not to think badly of Alistair, who would soon be gone from her life forever. What her father thought of her was of no importance, not now, not ever again. Having spent most of her life trying to please him suddenly she realised she no longer cared what he thought.
    “A daughter of mine . . . how could you . . . Don’t you realise what will be said? . . . Go inside. This instant. Wait for me in the parlour. I haven’t finished with you.”
    She hesitated but Alistair nodded and she went, head high, back straight, her face red from the humiliation of her father’s behaviour. He was right, of course; her reputation would be ruined but she didn’t need him to tell her that. Tears stung her eyes and slid down her cheeks.
    Outside she could hear raised voices, mainly her father’s, and after a moment the sound of the horse and carriage leaving. She stood with her back to the parlour, staring out of the window and seeing nothing, until she heard her father’s steps approaching.
    They sounded slow, as if he was as unwilling as she to have this confrontation.
    “Your mother would have known how to handle you,” he said. “She would have done a better job than I have. You wouldn’t have disobeyed her so blatantly.”
    “My mother is dead, as you keep reminding me,” she said, and then wondered at herself. She turned and saw the shock in his eyes. He looked old, grey faced, lined, an old man. Suddenly her heart ached for them both, a father and daughter with nothing in common, not even liking. They were strangers forced together because of their bonds of blood, nothing more.
    “Get to your room,” he said, his voice shaking, as was the finger he pointed toward the door. “We will speak in the morning.”
    Clarissa went, tears running down her cheeks, and reached her room. There she lay on the bed and sobbed. She loved a man who didn’t love her and her future as a teacher was probably going to come to nothing. She was ruined without having had the pleasure she’d longed for.
    She had never felt so alone.
     

 
    CHAPTER ELEVEN
     
    It was ironic, thought