Clara doubted that, but the conversation had grown too intimate to permit an outright denial.She tried to withdraw her hand, but he lingered a moment, thumb brushing against the skin of her wrist.The contact sent a ripple through her, soft and unbidden, a sensation she felt deep in her chest.Her breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, she forgot why she had wanted to pull away.
“Thank you,” she said again, meaning it in a way she had not intended.The words felt heavier than expected, laced with gratitude she did not wish to examine too closely.Because in accepting his help so freely, so gently, she was also admitting that perhaps she no longer wanted to keep him at arm’s length.
He donned his gloves, then placed her hand on his elbow.“Think nothing of it.”
They returned to the Exhibition, to her mother’s side, Clara walking with careful poise, though something between them had shifted, subtle but undeniable.Inside, everything felt unsteady, like the shift in the air before a summer storm.She could not name what had altered, only that the weight of the evening now pressed differently on her chest.Lighter in some ways.Heavier in others.
Chapter9
Crispin left the royal exhibition, his time with Clara’s weighing heavy on his mind, and walked straight into the last man he wanted to see.
“Oakford,” someone called out behind him.
He turned.Lord Beresford stood at the corner, cane in hand, lips curled in a half-smile.A man made of polished ambition and too-perfect grooming.A man Clara had once set her cap for.
“Beresford,” Crispin said coolly.
“You seem to have stolen my almost-fiancée.”
Crispin’s brow twitched.“I do apologize.I had no idea you were still collecting hearts.”
Beresford smirked.“Lady Clara is… spirited.But her reputation remains fragile.I hope you know what you are doing.”
“Odd,” Crispin said mildly, “that you would imply her reputation was delicate when you were so eager to abandon her at the first whisper of scandal.”
Beresford stiffened.“That was years ago.”
“And yet she remembers.”Crispin narrowed his gaze at Beresford.
“I would hope you are not dragging her through another scandal,” Beresford said.
Crispin stepped closer.“And I would hope you would remember to whom you are speaking.Lady Clara is under my protection now.Whatever your history, I suggest you tread carefully.”
They stared each other down for a tense beat.Then Beresford tipped his hat and walked on, leaving Crispin simmering.
Only now did he realize how fiercely protective he had become.He thought suddenly of Clara’s quiet bravery at the exhibition, the vulnerability in her voice when she had spoken of her past.It was in those small, honest moments that she had unknowingly drawn him in and made him care more deeply than he had intended to.This had stopped being a performance.Clara mattered, and he had to do something about that.
Truth.The word echoed through him.
Could he do that?Could he be honest with Clara?
And if he did?What then?
Perhaps, Crispin realized, the truth was the first step toward a risk he had avoided for far too long.
Clara sat behind a crescent of ornamental palms in the tearoom, across from Eden.The press of the teacup against her lips brought Oakford’s kiss to mind, and her cheeks warmed.Perhaps she should have retired home after the exhibition.She was not at all in the right state of mind for a polite tea.
Eden cleared her throat.“You look less inclined to flee to a nunnery,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice.
Clara managed a smile.“I fear I would make a rather disappointing nun.”
Eden leaned in.“How are you, truly?”
“Yes, how are you?”Alice slipped into the chair on Clara’s right.
Clara exhaled.“Somewhere between progress and peril.”
Eden grew serious.“I remember when Oakford crossed our path in Harrowsgate.You were visibly shaken when you caught sight of him.”
