Crispin almost replied, almost said something true.Instead, he shrugged.“Why bother being kind?The world is more interesting when it is at war.”
Edward shook his head, picked up his drink, and retreated to the window seat.“One day you will mean it, and then we will all be sorry.”
The room went quiet, save for the metronome tick of the mantel clock and the distant music of carriages in the street.Crispin chalked his cue, preparing for the next shot, but for once he missed on purpose, the white ball leaping the rail and thudding to the carpet.
He grinned, shrugged, and looked to Edward, who was gazing into the darkness beyond the window.
“Rematch?”Crispin asked.
Edward nodded.
Crispin reset the table, arranging the balls with deliberate precision.He liked the sound they made, the soft click of strategy in motion—order before chaos, control before the fall.He liked even more the knowledge that, in the grand game of society, every strike set another ball spinning, another rumor circulating, another heart tumbling toward disaster or triumph.
But even as Crispin relished the chaos, a nagging thought took root.
This had started as a jest.An impulsive moment born of mischief more than malice.A moment’s indulgence, nothing more.But the feel of her lips still haunted him, the heat of her against him, lingering like an echo.He never expected her to reveal their identities, and he most certainly did not bet on her announcing an engagement with fire in her eyes and defiance in her voice.Playing along had seemed the only reasonable choice at the time.
But Lady Clara Mapleton was proving far more dangerous than he had anticipated.She was less a complication and more a tempest he had foolishly invited in.
He wandered to the window as Edward lined up his shot, brandy in hand, staring out over the garden now bathed in moonlight.Her presence lingered there in the shadows.Fiery, unpredictable, unlike any woman he had ever known.She had challenged him, kissed him back, then lied, as if daring him to question the truth of it.The memory burned, not with shame, but something sharper and far more compelling.
“She is not what I expected,” Crispin murmured, almost to himself.
Edward raised an eyebrow.“And what did you expect?”
Crispin took another sip of brandy.“A bored debutante with a sharp tongue and no spine.”
“You underestimate her.”
“I am beginning to see that.”
Edward set his cue aside.“You may think you are in control of this farce, but mark my words…the masks fall away, and the stage is turned.She plays her part well, but it is only a matter of time before you find yourself the one performing for her amusement.She will turn the game on you before it is done.”
Crispin gave a faint smile, one that did not quite reach his eyes.“I rather hope she does.”
And as he set his brandy aside and approached the table, something stirred within him.Something that unnerved him more than any scandal ever had.
A dangerous curiosity that threatened to unravel the rules he had always relied on.
Chapter5
Clara was determined not to crumble, though doubt prickled at her resolve, uncertainty heavy on her chest.Her fingers curled against the edge of the table, nails biting into her palm.The aroma of cooling tea mingled with the faint scent of roses from the garden, but neither could soothe the storm churning just beneath her skin.
She sat alone in the breakfast room of her family’s townhouse, stirring a lukewarm cup of tea as the morning sun slanted across the floral wallpaper.Her mother had yet to rise, and the silence in the house felt thick, like a held breath.Her thoughts, however, were anything but still.
Crispin Hallworth was a menace.Since entering her life again, he had disrupted her days, invaded her thoughts, and pulled her into a charade that seemed more dangerous by the hour.And worst of all, he made her feel things she had no business feeling.Not now, not ever.
Since the moment she had uttered the words, "We are engaged," her life had spiraled into a nightmare she could not escape.Her visit to the Hallworth home had been a new low in absurdity—a tea filled with saccharine praise, Lady Oakford’s delighted laughter, and plans for a wedding that would never happen.Clara could still hear the chiming voices discussing flowers, musicians, and gowns, all while she sat stiffly, pretending she was not on the verge of being sick.And a kiss that still burned against her lips despite her furious insistence that she felt nothing.
Sleep had been elusive.Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his smirk.Felt his hand at her waist.Heard the infuriating, silken purr of his voice whispering, "Be a good girl, Clara."
She would sooner swallow a dose of castor oil than be his "good girl."
What the devil did he truly want?Did he intend to trap her into marriage out of spite?Or was this merely another game, an amusement to him but one that upended her entire world?The uncertainty coiled in her chest, whispering possibilities she dared not believe.Least of all the one where he wanted something more than revenge or mischief.
She moved to the desk and retrieved his letter in one fluid motion.She had received it this morning, tucked it into a drawer with the firm intention of forgetting it altogether.Perhaps she should have burned it as she had his first letter.But, despite her better judgment, she had kept it.
With a resigned sigh, she broke the seal.The handwriting was unmistakably his.
