“I do not like Lord Beresford,” she said.“He is insipid and relentless and abandoned me once.”
“You laughed at his joke.”
“I was being polite.”Her mouth twisted.“Unlike some.”
He felt a surge of satisfaction at her admission.“I suppose I will have to make you laugh, then.”
“I doubt you could.”
He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.“You underestimate me, Clara.”
She held his gaze, unflinching.“I am quite certain I do not.”
He reached out and, with exaggerated delicacy, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.Her breath hitched, a flicker of something wild and unspoken rising in her chest before she could suppress it.
She froze, surprise flashing in her gaze, and the air between them charged like the moment before a lightning strike.
“Are you going to kiss me again?”she asked.Her heart thudded once, hard, the weight of hope and indignation colliding in her chest.She hated that she wanted him to.Hated it almost as much as she wanted to see what he would do next.
He leaned forward, considered her, this woman who had upended his plans.Who made him reckless and cautious in equal measure.He wanted to kiss her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.Instead, he stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender.
“No kissing, pet,” he said, voice soft as velvet.“That was your demand, was it not?”
Anger flared in her eyes, turning them impossibly blue.“You are insufferable.”
“Perhaps,” he said.“But you seem to enjoy my particular brand of conduct.”
“I assure you, I do not.”
She turned on her heel and swept past him, skirts flaring.At the doorway, she glanced back, moonlight gilding her hair.
“I hope you enjoy your party, my lord.”Her voice was smooth.Her eyes unreadable.
And then she was gone.
Crispin stood there, the night air sharp against his skin, the thrum of the city a dull echo to the chaos within him.
Behind him, the laughter and music pulsed from the ballroom.He should have felt triumphant, or at least smug, but instead he found himself grinning and unbalanced.
He could not remember the last time he had wanted something beyond reach.Desire had always obeyed him.But now, it tugged like a leash he hadn’t fastened himself.The very idea that someone could tempt him into surrendering control, into wanting something he could not command, was as thrilling as it was terrifying.He didn’t know whether he should be delighted or afraid.But he knew beyond doubt that he would kiss her again.Improperly, without regard for consequence, and with all of London to bear witness.
For now, he contented himself with the memory of her, the taste of near-miss in the air, and the certainty that they were far from done.
Chapter7
The morning after the engagement ball dawned golden and still, as though the heavens themselves had decided to bless Clara with a reprieve.Sunlight streamed through the windows of her bedroom, casting lace-like shadows across her coverlet.She sat before her vanity, her thoughts spiraling around the previous evening.
The ball had been a triumph, if measured by attention alone.Gentlemen had vied for her time.And Crispin, confound him, had been both attentive and entirely too charming.All of which left her unsettled, and a bit confused.
She needed space to breathe.A chance to make sense of the chaos and her own treacherous heart.Alas, it was not to be granted.
She and her mother had received an invitation from Lady Stratmore for a garden party.
With a sigh, she rose from her vanity.She donned her day dress, its fabric whispering against her skin as she met her mother in the entrance hall.The carriage ride to Lady Stratmore’s estate was silent, Clara’s thoughts louder than the clopping of the horses’ hooves.As they passed through the grand iron gates of the estate, she steeled herself for the day ahead.
Lady Stratmore’s estate bloomed in exuberant chaos, peonies and foxglove crowding the paths, fountains arcing, and debutantes circling like birds of prey.The air hung thick with the caw of feminine ambition.Clara despised garden parties, which were, in her estimation, little more than balls in the grass, lacking both polish and propriety.They were all pretense and perspiration, gloved hands wilting in the heat, false laughter echoing beneath parasols, and empty compliments.She had survived the initial greetings and the parade of lemon-water toasts, but now her cheeks burned from the last hour’s forced smiles.A sigh escaped her, and she glanced toward the hedgerows, their shifting shadows promising a quiet escape.
Clara slipped away under the pretense of examining the latest shipment of Dutch tulips, but once beyond the sight line of the tea pavilion, she turned left instead of right and entered the old rose garden.Here, high brick walls shielded her from the wind and, more importantly, the scrutiny of her mother, her mother’s friends, and the army of well-wishers lurking at every intersection.The roses sprawled in decadent abundance—blood red, cream, and apricot—lush and untamed, as if they had never heard of restraint.Their heady scent wrapped around her, stirring a strange ache of nostalgia and longing she could not name.Clara inhaled deeply and, for one fragile moment, was herself again.
