Edward retreated, disappearing through the hedges.
Only then did Clara allow herself to wipe her mouth with the back of her glove.She turned on Crispin, fists balled.“Do not ever do that again.”
He grinned, unrepentant.“You may want to practice your swoon.The next time, there will be a larger audience.”
She shoved him hard, though he barely moved.“Go to the devil.”
“You forget that I am the devil.”He gained, not the least but chastened.
Clara pivoted and stormed ahead, praying the cold would numb her lips before she had to face the world again.
She would not admit it aloud, but for a breathless instant, she had leaned in, drawn by something she refused to name, her better judgment lost to the heat of the moment.Her heart had surged, then recoiled, drowning in a wave of humiliation so fierce it left her breathless.She hated that she had wanted it.
As they neared the house, Crispin matched her stride.“You really ought to thank me, Lady Clara,” he said lightly.“Your technique improves with every rehearsal.”
She bristled.“If you ever touch me again, I will make you regret it.”
He grinned.“I look forward to the attempt.”
She stopped just shy of the steps, whirling on him.“I mean it.I will not be your pawn.You will not ruin me.”
“There is a bit of sport in our subterfuge, but,” His eyes darkened, the humor draining away.“Is that what you believe?That I am out to ruin you?”
“Are you not?”she demanded.“You kissed me in the middle of a ballroom, and now this charade continues, a performance neither of us can seem to end.You kissed me again, just now.”
He looked at her, truly looked, as if seeing her for the first time.“You may find this difficult to believe, but I have no desire to ruin you.”
“History tells me otherwise.Your whispers ruined my first season.Are you back to finish me off now?”
He stepped closer, dropping his voice.“Do not let your pride make an enemy where you could have an ally.We are in this together, like it or not.Our mothers are inside, planning the social event of the decade.If you cannot act the part, we will both pay for it.”
She hated that he was right.Hated it with a ferocity that made her tremble.“Do not overstep again,” she said, jaw clenched.
He held out his arm.“Do remember to smile, darling.Our audience awaits.”
It was not lost on her that he did not agree to keep his lips to himself.Nonetheless, she took his offered arm, hating the way her hand fit so naturally in the crook of his elbow.
Clara was possessed of a will that no man, not even the Devil of Oakford, could bend.She was not a pawn, and he would not win.Not today, not ever.If that meant enduring a few more stolen kisses and a legion of mothers with lace and calendars, so be it.
Chapter4
Crispin did not fear mornings.They arrived with grim inevitability, whether one welcomed or ignored them, and he had long since learned to greet each sunrise as an adversary to be endured, not vanquished.On this particular morning, he nursed his hangover with a coffee as black and bitter as his reputation, and thumbed through the paper as dust motes drifted through the sunlight that pooled over the desk.
His study was a good room for recovering.Stained mahogany panels rose from floor to ceiling, their surfaces crowded with books, maps, and the trophies of a life spent in elegant mischief.A faint, perennial haze of cigar smoke lingered in the air, testifying to late nights and illicit company.
He took another sip of coffee as he trailed his gaze down the columns.There it was.His announcement.A wicked grin pulled at his lips.Now, all of London would know that he and Lady Clara were betrothed.He would wager every drawing room in London would soon be a whirlwind of speculation and gossip centered on him and Clara.
Well and truly satisfied, Crispin lifted his cup and relaxed back against the chair.
He had just begun to enjoy the quiet when a perfunctory rap at the door shattered his peace.It opened precisely one heartbeat later, admitting Parker, his long-suffering valet, whose face bore the stony neutrality only a lifetime of servitude could produce.
“Your morning post, my lord,” Parker intoned, presenting a silver tray as though it contained royal secrets.
Crispin allowed himself a moment’s irritation, then set down the cup and accepted the post.
Three invitations.Two to balls, one for a garden party he would sooner have burned the house down than attend.Two missives from creditors, and a note from a past lover, which he flicked into the fire.The last, a slim, cream-colored envelope, unadorned but for a blob of vivid blue sealing wax, the crest stamped deep into the surface, piqued his interest.Mapleton.
He turned the envelope over in his hands, admiring the violence with which it had been addressed.Lady Clara, he mused, wrote as she lived, with barely restrained aggression.And damn him, but he admired that about her.There was no simpering artifice in her correspondence, only purpose, sharpened like a blade.She was the sort of woman who made a man forget himself.Each letter was a pointed thrust, the penmanship slanted forward as if determined to cross the finish line before her patience did.It was the kind of passion that could upend kingdoms, and he could not decide if it made her maddening or utterly irresistible.
