“A tragic oversight, I assure you.”
They danced in silence for a few bars.The music filled the space between their words, thick with everything they left unsaid.Clara’s pulse fluttered at the base of her throat, each step a deliberate act of control against the current of emotion threatening to break through.Then, as the waltz slowed, Crispin pulled her incrementally closer, violating the accepted inch of distance.His fingers flexed at her waist, and he felt her intake of breath, quick and involuntary.
“You are trembling,” he said, the admission laced with concern and something far more fragile—longing, perhaps, or fear that he was beginning to care.
“It is only the cold,” she said, chin lifted.
He leaned in until his lips brushed her ear.“I think it is something else entirely.”
She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, gathering the fragments of her composure, then opened them with a calm that would have frozen a lesser man.“You are mistaken, Lord Oakford.I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”
The music drew to a close.Applause washed over them, but Crispin did not hear it.He saw only Clara, pulse thundering, lips parted, eyes aflame.
He kept hold of her arm a fraction longer than was proper, using the pretext of the crowded floor to draw her toward the edge of the ballroom.She allowed herself to be guided, though the look she gave him suggested she knew precisely what he was about and dared him to continue.
“I believe we have given them something to talk about,” she said, allowing a rare note of mischief into her voice.
He smiled, savoring the sensation of victory tinged with defeat.“That was always the plan, was it not?”
She glanced up at him, her gaze softening just enough to be dangerous.“Perhaps.”
They passed through an anteroom heavy with the scent of lilies and spilled champagne.Crispin steered her deftly through a knot of gossiping dowagers and out onto the terrace, where the air was cool and clean, cut with the smell of wet stone and distant smoke from the city’s chimneys.
Clara walked to the balustrade and braced herself against the stone, staring out at the latticework of rooftops that sloped away toward the Thames.The moon was a thin sickle, but bright enough to silver the terrace tiles and render her profile in stark relief—the straight, stubborn nose, the unyielding line of her mouth, the hair wound high and gleaming like sun gold.
Crispin leaned beside her, folding his arms over his chest.The quiet here was a stark contrast to the noise of the ballroom.It had depth, a sense that every word would echo and hang in the air.
After a time, he said, “You are surprisingly good at this, you know.”
She did not turn.“At what?”
“Deception.Survival.Keeping a roomful of vultures at bay.I rather admire your tenacity.”
Clara’s lips curved, but her gaze stayed fixed on the horizon.“I have had years of practice.My entire reputation depends on not faltering.I suppose I should thank you for providing the crucible.”
He accepted the barb with a smile.“It is a rare woman who can take a public disaster and transform it into a triumph.”
She shrugged, and for the first time her posture seemed to relax, just slightly.“Necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention.”
They lapsed into silence again.The sounds of the ball filtered through the open French doors.Laughter, the pop of a cork, the pluck of a harp as the musicians set up for the next dance.
“I detest parties,” Clara said at last, so quietly that Crispin had to lean closer to hear.
“Then why are you always at the center of them?”he asked, genuinely curious.
“Because it is where they expect to find me,” she replied.“It is easier to endure the scrutiny than to give them reason to invent new rumors.At least this way, I control the narrative.”
She turned to face him, arms crossed in a way that mirrored his own.“Does it amuse you, watching me perform?Is that your true motivation?You live for the game?”
He considered her words.“No,” he said, surprising himself with his own honesty.“This started as a game.But it no longer feels like one.Not entirely.”
Clara’s heart beat faster.
“We cannot keep this up forever,” she whispered.
“No,” he said.“But for tonight, let them think what they will.Let them envy me.Because tonight, you are mine.”
The words echoed in her chest, stirring something reckless and quiet.Perhaps it was easier not to protest.Easier to let the lie sit between them like a shared secret.She tilted her head, searching his face for a trace of irony, but his expression was unreadable, save for the flicker of something in his eyes that made her breath catch.
