Clara shook her head, unable to hide her smile.“And all this time I thought it was some tale of wicked seduction.”
“Most tales are, eventually,” he said, more quietly.“But the truth is almost always duller.”
She studied him.“You do not seem dull to me.”
He turned his face toward her, and for a moment, all the masks dropped.He looked tired.Not in body, but in the way of someone who had lived with too many versions of himself, each less true than the last, a parade of masks worn so long, even he no longer recognized what lay beneath.
“Thank you,” he said.“And I daresay you are a revelation, too.”
They sat for a long while.
Neither felt a need to fill the silence.The garden hummed with bees while sunlight drifted in and out of the hedges, and for the first time in weeks, Clara felt no urge to run.Not from herself and not from him.
At length, Crispin stood and offered her his arm.“Shall we return to civilization?Or shall we run away and become outlaws in the forest?”
She took the offered arm, the gesture feeling less like a trap and more like an invitation.“Let us at least collect the tea first.”
“As you wish,” he said, and guided her back toward the noise and the world that awaited them.
They walked on in silence, their steps falling into easy rhythm, unforced, unspoken, and far too natural for comfort so much so, that when they reached the fringe of the garden party, Clara forgot where she ended and he began.His scent clung to her glove, her skin still tingled from his touch, and something inside her trembled with the terrifying ease of it all.
Clara slipped her hand free of Crispin’s arm.He lingered beside her, hands folded behind his back.
“Will you join me for a walk tomorrow?”he asked.“There is a mechanical exhibition at the Royal Society.I promise no one will throw water at you.”
She almost said yes, but caution intervened.“If my mother allows it.”
He grinned, as if he had already won.“She will.I am your betrothed, after all.”
Clara laughed, shook her head, and joined the throng near the tea tables.As she poured herself a cup, she caught sight of Lady Stratmore across the lawn, her expression unreadable save for the faintest hint of a knowing smile.Clara blushed and looked away, heart racing for reasons she dared not name.
Crispin drifted back into the crowd, easily absorbed by his friends and admirers.But when Clara glanced up, she caught him watching her from beneath a sweep of dark hair.He winked, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks all over again.
Something had shifted, she knew.The line between what she believed and what she wanted had blurred beyond recognition, and she could not say which direction she was more afraid to take.Dare she reach toward a future that might expose her heart, or retreat back to the safety of solitude, where nothing could be broken because nothing had been risked, an empty sort of safety she had once mistaken for strength.
Chapter8
The Grand Royal Exhibition unfolded before them, a glittering labyrinth of marvels, imported, invented, or conjured for the delight of England’s elite.Even by the standards of a society addicted to spectacle, it was calculated to dazzle.From the avenue outside, one glimpsed the golden glow of a hundred thousand gas jets and heard the babble of aristocrats, artists, and all those who had bought, begged, or blackmailed their way inside.Within the glass-roofed palace, anticipation shimmered.
Crispin escorted Clara through the first archway, his smile pitched perfectly between adoring fiancé and feral predator.Clara, for her part, held herself with the practiced elegance of a woman immune to judgment.Beneath the stillness of her posture, her fingers curled ever so slightly against her gloves, the only sign of the tension coiled tight beneath her calm exterior.If she felt the press of a thousand curious glances, it did not show.She was exquisite as ever, draped in silver-grey muslin, her hair pinned high with blue gemstones that caught the light and flung it back in dazzling fragments.
As they entered, recognition rippled through the crowd.Eyes tracked their every step.Fans fluttered.Names were whispered behind gloved hands.Crispin relished such attention.
“Your public awaits,” he murmured.
Clara lifted her chin ever so slightly, the faintest arch of her brow signaling her readiness to meet the performance head-on.A part of her bristled at the charade, and yet another part, one she barely admitted to herself, thrilled at the way he made it feel like a private joke shared only between them.
She did not glance his way, but the corner of her mouth twitched.“I suppose we should give them a performance, then.”
He leaned in, his voice brushing her ear.“If you want to shock them, I will happily toss you over my shoulder and run for the nearest exit.”
She arched an eyebrow.“And hand Lady Marsh her third scandal this week?I think not.”
He laughed, drawing glances from those nearby.The sound caught Clara off guard, warmer and more genuine than she had expected.Something in her chest loosened, and though she kept her expression serene, a curious flutter stirred beneath her ribs.
Clara ignored them all as Crispin guided her smoothly past a mountain of orchids and a set of statues so anatomically detailed that even he looked away.
They stopped at a steam engine polished to a high gleam, hulking, magnificent.Pistons hissed.Metal churned.Clara paused.Her gaze sharpened, and she leaned forward, drawn in despite herself.
