Beresford was, in many ways, the anti-Crispin.Tall, soft-eyed, with caramel hair and manners that mothers of daughters universally approved of.He bowed, caught Clara’s gloved hand, and said something that made her laugh.A real, unguarded laugh, which Crispin found personally offensive.For a moment, he considered simply walking away, letting the whole charade collapse into the arms of her former suitor, and to hell with reputations.
Instead, he watched still uncertain, a rare pause overtaking his usual instinct to act.Hovering at the periphery, observing rather than dominating, was new, and not entirely comfortable.He took a glass of champagne from a passing tray, his fingers curling tighter around the stem than necessary.The bubbles sparkled with the promise of ease, but they offered no refuge from the churning in his chest.For all his practiced detachment, something inside him was fraying.He took a long drink.The bubbles burned down his throat, a poor distraction from the surge of something far more potent.Jealousy, frustration, or both.
Beresford was joined by two more.Lord Pavington, Clara’s old friend and, he suspected, a champion for her virtue, and the Marquess of Blackstone, whose imposing frame made even Crispin feel short.Together, they formed a sort of honor guard around Clara, shielding her from the more predatory elements of the guest list, but also from Crispin himself.
He found this intensely irritating.
He cut through the crowd with efficient ease, pausing only when necessary to exchange remarks, but always with an eye on the bright center of the room where Clara held court.She was in her element, he realized, the focus of a dozen conversations, the recipient of countless well-wishes and not a few envy-laced compliments.She managed it all with effortless poise, never letting slip the anxiety or discomfort that must surely be gnawing at her beneath the sapphire and smiles.
After several minutes, Crispin sidled up to Edward, who was watching the proceedings with the resigned air of a man who knew he had no recourse.
“She is magnificent,” Edward said quietly, nodding toward Clara.
“She is surrounded,” Crispin replied, a touch more sharply than intended.
Edward gave him a sidelong look.“What did you expect?She is the star of the night.”
Crispin finished his champagne and set the empty glass on a tray.“I expected she would not find the company of Beresford quite so diverting.”
Edward’s mouth twitched.“You are jealous.”
“Do not be absurd,” Crispin said, but the denial lacked conviction.
“Why not sweep her onto the dance floor?”
“Because I am a gentleman, and it is not yet our turn,” Crispin replied, but this, too, sounded hollow.
Edward laughed.“How does it feel?”
Crispin did not answer.He was already moving back toward the crowd, weaving through the knots of guests with a predatory focus that startled even himself.
As he watched, Beresford offered his arm to Clara, and she took it before allowing herself to be led to the edge of the dance floor.The quartet shifted into a new dance, and the couples began to arrange themselves in concentric rings, the outermost still thick with spectators.
Crispin peered at them, his jaw set and his hands clenched behind his back.He felt the heat of his own irritation, the foreign jolt of possessiveness that had never before afflicted him.A sharp ache that struck not from desire alone, but from the terrifying realization that he could lose something he had not even meant to want.Women had always been a diversion, a pleasure, a means to an end.Never a contest, never a threat.Never this.
He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it, but the feeling was too real, too immediate.He wanted to storm the dance floor, to lay claim to Clara in front of every soul in the room.He wanted, for the first time, to win not because it was easy, but because the alternative was unthinkable.
The woman captivated him.She was his.For now, not forever, he reminded himself.
Clara spun under Beresford’s arm, her face luminous and unreadable.As the music continued, she caught her breath and retreated gracefully to the edge of the floor.
Let her enjoy the dance, he told himself, though the thought curled bitterly at the edges.Restraint tasted like defeat, and he was not a man who bore defeat easily.
And as the music swelled, and the dancers blurred, Crispin resolved that he would not let Beresford or any man steal a single moment from what was his.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
As the quartet struck the last chords, the couples parted and drifted to the periphery of the floor, all bright chatter and dazed satisfaction.Clara allowed Beresford to escort her to a cluster of chairs near the musicians.She laughed politely at something he whispered, and for a moment Crispin saw her as the rest of the world did.A future countess, perfectly equipped for polite society, never once betraying the simmering resentment that he alone had glimpsed.
He watched them for three deliberate breaths, then crossed the expanse of marble with a confidence that parted the crowd.Crispin reached the pair just as Beresford leaned in, perhaps to issue another compliment or to suggest the refreshment table, and placed a gloved hand at the small of Clara’s back.
The contact was subtle, but she stiffened at once.Crispin felt the ripple of tension in her body and smiled, all teeth and promise.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, not bothering to sound sincere.“But I believe the next dance is mine.”
Beresford had the decency to look sheepish, but he recovered quickly.“Of course, Oakford.Lady Clara, I shall see you later.”He bowed, then retreated, though not without a backward glance at Clara that Crispin would remember, and repay, at his leisure.
