Clara huffed.“Neither, thank heavens.”
“But you are fond of him.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”Eden gave her a sidelong glance.“It is in the way you say his name, as though trying not to smile.”
“I say it with gritted teeth.”
Eden smirked.“Precisely.That’s how affection begins.”
Clara exhaled, letting her eyes drift to the lake.“It would be easier if he were still the man I remembered.The man who made that careless remark then did not look back.”
“But he is not?”Alice asked.
Clara’s voice dropped.“No.That is the problem.”
They walked in silence for a few steps.Then Clara said quietly, “I think I could love him.He captivated me years ago, before the lie.”
Alice blinked.“You never let on.”
“Because it was contained within the span of that one night.”Clara’s throat tightened.“But he never really saw me.”
Eden’s tone softened.“And now?”
Clara hesitated.“Now… he might.I see glimpses of something real in him.Something kinder, steadier.He listens.He remembers things.He makes me feel as though I am not merely enduring this season, but living it.”
They passed a stand of blooming cherry trees, the petals swirling around their skirts like confetti.Clara paused, struck by the sight.A single gust could send the delicate blossoms tumbling to the ground, beautiful, fleeting, and helpless against the wind.She reached out, catching one in her palm.Its fragility mirrored her own hesitancy, lovely, but so easily bruised.
“I am afraid,” she confessed softly.“Afraid of wanting it too much.Of hoping he has changed, only to find he has not.”
Eden looped her arm through Clara’s.“We all take risks for love, darling.Even when we pretend, we do not believe in it.”
“And yet you do not trust him,” Alice said.
“I can not.Not yet.I do not know if what I am seeing is genuine or simply another performance.”Clara looked at her friends.“I do not know if I am being courted or conned.”
Eden nodded slowly.“Sometimes,” she said, “you have to forgive the past to claim your future.”
Clara blinked back the sudden stinging in her eyes.“And if I forgive the past and am hurt again?”
“Then you will survive it,” Eden said simply.“Because you are strong.”
“I do not feel strong.”
“You are,” Alice said.“You have faced worse than a rogue with a charming smile.”Alice hesitated, then added, “Do not protect yourself so well that you shut out everything good.I know it feels safer to expect disappointment, but at some point, the walls you build start to resemble a prison.”
Clara gave a small, sad laugh.“I wish that made me more confident.”
She didn’t voice what lingered on the edge of her thoughts, the fear that hope had taken root again, and that its loss would destroy her more completely than silence ever had.
Sometimes, when sleep eluded her and silence wrapped too tightly around her, she imagined what it might be like if she could believe him.If the man she saw in those quiet, unguarded moments truly existed.If he could love her.
She pictured a modest townhouse where the two of them might steal lazy mornings and private laughter.A drawing room filled not with grandeur, but with comfort—the scent of fresh bread and tea, the soft rustle of pages turning, sunlight warming the room in gentle stripes.A life not ruled by society’s cruel games, but by a partnership forged in something real, quiet, and true.A sanctuary of their own, hidden from prying eyes and gossiping tongues.It was a dangerous dream, delicate and unwelcome.Because once imagined, it became harder to forget.Harder still to abandon.And that, more than anything, revealed how deeply she wanted it to be true.
The note still burned in her reticule later that day when she found herself standing outside the Oakley townhouse.The hours had crept past, heavy with dread and indecision.She had paced the length of her chamber a dozen times before finally sending a brief message requesting a word.Crispin had responded within the hour, suggesting a private walk in his garden.
The carriage ride had felt interminable.Clara had sat stiff-backed on the velvet seat, clutching her gloves in her lap as though they could anchor her nerves while ignoring her chaperone.She had rehearsed what she would say—firm, clear, detached—but the words slipped and scattered like leaves in a breeze, elusive each time she reached for them.What if he dismissed the note?Worse, what if he dismissed her fears?A dozen times, she considered calling off the visit altogether.And yet, here she was.
