Clara hesitated, then whispered, “I want revenge.I want him to regret it.I want him to see me.To know what he cost me.To be sorry.”She doubted an apology would change anything, but perhaps it might return a piece of herself she had lost.The girl who had once believed in fairness, in love and happily ever afters.That hope had been buried for years, but still, she longed to unearth it.
“That is not vengeance,” Eden said.“That is longing.”
Clara smiled.“Maybe it is both.”
The words sat between them, soft but undeniable.Half confession, half defiance.
“Perhaps I am a fool,” Clara said.
“You are not a fool.You are simply human.”Eden shook her head.“Allow him a chance to surprise you.”
And as Clara sipped her tea, the knot in her chest loosened.For now, she had Eden, Alice, and a fragile thread of hope.
Sometimes, that was enough.
Chapter10
Clara’s nerves trembled like threads pulled taut, her composure stretched thin by the weight of yesterday’s encounter at the royal exhibition.The memory of Crispin’s kiss—tender, hungry, almost reverent—played on repeat in her mind.It was all she had thought about as she tossed and turned in her bed last night, and the first thing to cross her mind this morning.The rogue had driven her to distraction.
She stood at her dressing table, staring at her reflection.The woman looking back was not the same girl who had once waited in the hedgerow, heart pounding, hope alight.That girl had been naïve.Foolish.Willing to risk everything for the thrill of possibility.And she had paid the price.
Clara touched the delicate pendant resting at her throat, a gift from her grandmother, a talisman of resilience.It had weathered scandal, heartbreak, and years of pretending not to care.
But she did care.
More than she wanted to.
A knock at the door drew her from her thoughts.She half-expected her butler to announce Crispin, but instead, it was her maid bearing a sealed letter.
Her stomach turned as she accepted the missive, then dismissed her maid.Something in the surrounding air reeked of poison sweetly wrapped.
She took a deep breath, then broke the seal with a flick of her nail.
A wise lady knows when to end a performance.Before it ends her.
No name.No signature.Just a veiled threat penned in an elegant, practiced hand.
Clara dropped the note and pressed trembling fingers to her mouth, a wave of nausea rising sharply in her throat.Her knees felt suddenly weak, the air in the room thickening as though pressing against her chest, stealing her breath.The implication was clear, and cruel.The engagement might have quieted the worst of the whispers, but not for those who saw it as a farce.Someone wanted her to know they were watching and waiting for her to misstep.
She swallowed hard.They were only words, yet her heart had stuttered as she read them, not from outrage but recognition.A memory flickered to life, unbidden: her first Season, a glittering night at Lady Tremayne’s ball.She had worn sea-foam silk and new slippers that pinched her toes, and Crispin Hallworth, then only recently titled, had asked her to dance.He’d bowed low with a crooked smile and said something irreverent that made her laugh.It had been the first time anyone had looked at her with curiosity rather than expectation.For the rest of that night, she’d imagined him a different kind of gentleman, one who might truly see her.That illusion had not survived the hedge maze.But its ghost still lingered, and it was that ghost the note seemed to awaken.Because it spoke to the part of her that was no longer pretending.The part that had begun to hope.And that frightened her more than any whisper ever could.
The note weighed heavily on her lap.She wondered what sort of woman could pen such venomous words.Surely, no one who had known genuine longing could be so cruel.
She remained still, the sunlight striping the carpet in pale gold, a silent witness to her unraveling thoughts.The quiet was broken only by the tick of the mantel clock, time pressing forward while she remained suspended between past regret and future uncertainty.
Her thoughts turned not only to the note but to Crispin, the way he looked at her, with unspoken things in his eyes—warmth, vulnerability, perhaps even genuine regret.The truth was, she didn’t know which fear loomed larger, the disgrace of public scandal, or the ache of private heartbreak.
By midmorning, after hours spent battling her thoughts, Clara had dressed carefully and stepped into the waiting carriage.She wasn’t sure what she needed more—distraction, comfort, or confirmation that she had not imagined the change she saw in Crispin.Perhaps a part of her simply wanted the company of women who would not judge her for wavering between her past pain and present uncertainty.
The skies over Hyde Park had turned from silver to pale blue.Clara walked between Eden and Alice, her hands clasped lightly, the hem of her pelisse brushing the gravel path as they moved in step before her.Though the park bustled with carriages and idle promenaders, the moment between the three friends felt oddly suspended, as though carved out from the rhythm of the day.
Eden was radiant in rose-colored wool, her bonnet tipped at a rakish angle.Alice, more subdued, clutched her shawl and glanced warily at passing riders as though they might overhear every word.
“They cannot decide if you have cast a spell over him or if he is orchestrating your downfall,” Alice murmured wryly.“Personally, I think it is both.Very romantic.”
Clara huffed but could not entirely suppress a smile.
“So,” Eden said lightly, “has he proposed marriage yet?Or merely pledged eternal scandal and delight?”
