Her fingers tightened on the earl’s arm as they stopped to say their formal goodbyes. Impossible to believe that she was now this notorious, handsome man’s wife. That he was her husband. That they were well and truly…
Married.
There. She’d thought it, a small word for such a frightening state. Clara experienced none of the joy that a new bride must ordinarily feel. Instead, she felt the heavy weight of the band he had slid upon her finger as though it were a manacle. She had bound herself to a stranger. The vows they’d spoken had not seemed as impermanent as she’d expected them to, and there was no denying the fact that she was now, in the eyes of God and man, the Countess of Ravenscroft.
The wedding breakfast had been a truly somber affair. Her father had worn an expression akin to a man attending the funeral of a loved one. Her stepmother had been dreadfully ill, sitting at the table ashen-faced, pushing about her food with her fork without actually eating a morsel of it. Lord and Lady Thornton, the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, Mr. and Mrs. Levi Storm, and Lady Bo were in attendance as well, in an assortment of London friends and family. They’d all done an admirable job of feigning ignorance and promoting a false sense of cheer.
And now here she stood, Lady Ravenscroft in name but most assuredly never deed, about to say goodbye to the life she’d known for the last five years. She hadn’t accounted for this moment and its bittersweet finality, for the oddity of being trundled into a carriage with the earl as though they were setting off into a life together.
“You will treat her well,” her father said to the earl now, his tone one of threatening menace.
“Of course I will,” Ravenscroft assured him, his charm easy and practiced. But he sent Clara a look that she couldn’t quite read. It was searching. Questioning, almost. Heated. “My wife will want for nothing.”
Clara flushed, not liking the way his stare made her feel or the glint of desire she recognized there. Lady Bella, still looking wan, spared her by pulling her aside and hugging her. “Be happy, darling Clara. That is my fondest wish for you.”
“Thank you.” She returned her stepmother’s hug with true feeling.
Lady Thornton stepped in next. “He has a good heart,” she told her,sotto voce. “Don’t be fooled into thinking otherwise.”
But Clara wasn’t interested in the earl’s heart. She wasn’t interested in him. In fact, she scarcely intended to spend a fortnight with him before booking her passage back to America. She was sure the dissolution of their brief marriage could occur with a solicitor working on her behalf.
“Of course,” she said weakly, feeling as ill as Lady Bella looked. She’d never counted herself a liar, and standing before so many people she cared for and respected, engaging in an outright falsehood, shamed her.
Bo embraced her then, throwing her arms around Clara and hugging her as though it was the last embrace they’d ever share. And perhaps it would be, Clara had to admit, if neither of them crossed the Atlantic in the coming years. She returned her friend’s enthusiastic clasp.
“You must tell me everything,” her friend whispered into her ear. “Everything.”
Clara shook her head. There wouldn’t be anything to tell. “I will see you soon, dear friend,” she said simply. She’d do whatever she must to see Bo before she left. Bo was the very best friend—indeed the only friend—Clara had ever made in England.
Ravenscroft held out his arm for her again, watching her solemnly. His glorious dark hair was hidden beneath a hat, and he was every inch the dashing rake from head to toe. He was so beautiful to look upon that she nearly lost her breath for a moment. It was as if the whirlwind of fashionable London around them stopped, and all she could see was him. The notorious Earl of Ravenscroft. Seducer. Hedonist. Her husband.
“My lady,” he said softly. “We should take our leave now.”
Yes, she supposed they should. Her final embrace was for her father, who hugged her wordlessly. She breathed deeply of his beloved, familiar scent. Clara didn’t care that it wasn’t done to show emotion or to embrace those she cared for on the street. She was her own woman now, and this was just the beginning of being who she was, of following her own rules, of living her life unapologetically.
“Father, I love you.” She admired him. She disagreed with him. But he was a good man. Imperfect, butgood.
“And I love you, my girl.” He leveled another glare at Ravenscroft, who watched their exchange with interest. “Never forget, Ravenscroft.”
“Not bloody likely, old boy,” the earl drawled before raising an imperious brow. “Lady Ravenscroft?”
Lady Ravenscroft.The title sank into her conscience like a stone. Clara half expected to turn and find another, some august, lovely lady who would do him justice. Someone who wanted to be his countess, a born-in-the-purple aristocrat who didn’t intend to flee him at the first opportunity.
I am not she, Clara wanted to say.
But instead, she took his arm and allowed him to lead her to the brougham. She stepped up and inside the vehicle, settling herself on the squab and trying to quell her nerves. She noted the carriage’s fine, Morocco leather. Ivory damask lined the interior. This was not the same, tired conveyance he’d traveled in before, a clear sign that his fortunes had changed.
The two hundred thousand pounds he’s asked for.
Her father’s angry words echoed in her mind, a sharp reprimand. The earl was not a man who ought to be trusted. They had much to discuss. Ravenscroft entered the carriage and settled himself at her side, crowding her with his large body. The door slammed closed.
Suddenly, the brougham felt very small. His cologne teased her senses. Her gaze settled on his muscled thigh, brushing against her skirts. A reckless urge to touch him struck her. He was her husband. She could press her palm to him, absorb his heat through the fabric of his trousers. Such a foreign notion, the liberty to do as she wished. But no, she would not touch him. She had no desire to touch him. It must be the newness of her status that prompted her wayward compulsions.
Clara turned to the window. The gathering of well-wishers still stood in a half-circle, watching their departure with grim expressions. She waved one last time as the brougham lurched into motion. It was done. She’d gained her freedom.
“‘O mistress mine where are you roaming’?”
The soft, low words skittered over her skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake. She looked away from the family and friends growing smaller and farther away with each clop of the horses’ hooves. The earl watched her, his eyes probing, his expression unreadable as he removed his gloves. She hadn’t expected him to recite Shakespeare, but then he seemed to have an innate skill for surprising her.
