She looked away, throat tight, a prickle rising behind her eyes as if the truth he’d spoken had pressed too close to something tender.
They continued on in silence until they reached a bench tucked beneath a blooming cherry tree.Crispin gestured for her to sit, and for once, she did.
“How does this end, Crispin?”she asked, weary lines creasing her brow.
He considered her, expression unreadable.“When the time is right, we dissolve the engagement.Quietly.With dignity.”
“And my future?”
“Secure.Elevated.You will be the woman who turned the Devil of Oakford tame, if only briefly.Men will queue up to court you, driven mad by jealousy and fascination.My mother will go back to badgering me, and yours will be delighted by your many suitors.”
“And what of you?”
“How kind of you to care.”He smiled.“I shall remain a rogue.But one with another story worth repeating.”
She shook her head.“You are impossible.”And yet, infuriating as he was, there was something about his unpredictability that chipped away at her resolve.It was maddening, and worse, oddly compelling.A part of her, however small, wasn’t entirely sure if she wanted him to stop.
He turned serious then, all mischief fading from his eyes.“I never meant to ruin your first season.”
The admission stunned her.For a heartbeat, resentment wavered, and suspicion mingled with something more dangerous, the stirrings of forgiveness.Perhaps there was more to the scoundrel than she had imagined.Could it be that beneath the deplorable surface the reprobate harbored a conscience?
“I was foxed.And bored.And too selfish to see the damage one careless comment could do.I never expected it to spread.”He leaned forward, his gaze holding hers.
“But it did.”
“Yes.And you have hated me ever since.”
“Would you not despise the one who spread falsehoods about you—ones with ruinous consequences?”
“It would seem not.”He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small velvet pouch, then handed it to her.“For here we stand and I am wholly lacking in animosity.”
She opened it slowly.Inside was a ring.A gold band cradled a cluster of diamonds encircling a large ruby.Her hand trembled slightly as she stared at it, awe and dread tightening her chest in a single, breathless beat.The ring was exquisite, but it seemed to whisper of expectations, of a future she had not agreed to.The light caught the facets, throwing sparkles.It was beautiful, yes, but it felt like a shackle, glittering and inescapable.
She held the ring out.“Our engagement is not real,” she said.“I have no need of a ring.”
“No,” he said.“But it looks convincing.My mother expects to see it on your hand tomorrow when she presents you at the ball.
Clara turned the ring over in her palm.She feared that putting it on would somehow cement her fate.
She glanced up sharply, her fingers curling tight around it.The ring smarted in her palm like a promise she never made, brilliant and binding—too heavy with meaning for a lie.“I will not be your pawn.”
The words left her lips with a force that surprised even her, but did she believe them?She wanted to.She had to.Yet some part of her feared she had already surrendered more than she intended.
Clara stood up.
He rose too, gaze locked on hers.“You are not.You are my equal in this scheme.You started this game, and now I am playing my part.This is not vengeance, Clara.Not for me.”
Clara’s breath caught.His words struck with unexpected force, lodging somewhere just beneath her ribs like a truth she’d tried to ignore.She wanted to dismiss them, laugh it off, but the sincerity in his eyes rattled the armor she had so carefully fastened around her heart."
Their gazes held, unspoken truths weaving between them like the breeze through the cherry blossoms.
Finally, Clara turned away.“I need time to think.”
“Take it,” he said.“But play your part as you do.The Season waits for no one.”
“Indeed,” she said, then glanced toward her carriage.“I must go.A seamstress awaits.”
“Until the ball then.”He leaned closer, a scandalous grin tugging at his lips.“Save me a waltz, pet.”
