“I wanted you to have something that sings only for you.”
Her breath caught again, but this time it was not from surprise.It was from the ache of tenderness blooming in her chest.Once, she had imagined him thoughtless and unfeeling, a man who toyed with hearts like trinkets.Yet this gift, delicate and deeply personal, suggested otherwise.Did he see her now in a way he never had before?And more terrifying still, was she beginning to see him not as the devil of her past, but the man he was trying to become?
Her breath caught, and he saw it.The flicker in her eyes, the ripple of emotion she hadn’t yet voiced.
She turned slightly, drew a calming breath, and let the words rise.Her pulse fluttered beneath her ribs, but she held his gaze.The words tasted bold and uncertain as they left her lips.“Would you like to dance?”
“I would like nothing more.”
They stepped onto the floor as the quartet began to play.Clara’s heart beat in time with the music, a lilting waltz, delicate and yearning, threaded through with notes that seemed to echo her own uncertainty.The violins rose in graceful arcs.Beneath them, the cello hummed like a heartbeat, steady and deep.It was a piece that invited closeness, one that dared vulnerability with each lingering note.In its rhythm, she felt the pull of possibility and the weight of all they had not said.The brush of his hand at her waist sent a thrill through her, one that had nothing to do with scandal and everything to do with longing.This time, he didn’t lead with charm or mischief.There was no practiced smirk, no rakish wink.Only the sincerity of his gaze, steady and searching.
She dared to meet it, and for a moment, the room seemed to blur around them.The music, the flicker of candlelight, the curious eyes—all ceased to exist.
She should have been afraid.The flicker of candlelight danced across Crispin’s features, softening the sharp lines of his jaw and catching in the depths of his eyes.The rustle of her silk skirts brushed softly against his legs, a whisper of intimacy between them.There was a risk in letting herself believe this was real.Risk in allowing her heart to remember the ache of their past, the sting of betrayal.But here, swaying gently in his arms beneath the chandelier’s glow, she felt something else.A fragile, radiant hope.The possibility of something true.
Did he see it too?
Part of her wanted to ask, to beg for reassurance.But another, quieter part, more courageous, held her tongue and simply let herself feel.A simple waltz.Familiar.Measured.
But everything in that moment felt different.
He held her lightly, not possessively.She rested her hand on his shoulder, not out of obligation, but trust.
No hidden meanings.Just them, bare, honest, and quietly, perilously close.
He looked down at her, marveling.
“You are quiet,” she said softly, her gaze lingering on him with a gentle curiosity, as if trying to read the thoughts he wasn’t yet ready to speak aloud.There was a stillness to him tonight, not the tense sort, but something gentler.She caught the flicker of candlelight in his eyes, the way his thumb lightly brushed the back of her hand.For the first time, she wasn’t sure whether the silence between them was caution or comfort.
“I am afraid that if I speak, I will say something foolish and ruin the spell.”
“You already did,” she whispered, a faint tremor in her voice.Her fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder, and a breath hitched in her throat.“But I am still here.”
His heart thudded.
She was still here.
The dance continued.The room faded around her.The candlelight blurring at the edges of her vision.Clara’s chest rose and fell with each step, her breath matching the music’s rhythm.She felt the steady warmth of Crispin’s hand, the reassuring weight of his gaze.She did not analyze or retreat.She simply let herself exist in the moment, suspended between memory and what might come next.And for the first time since their charade began, it no longer felt like a performance.
It felt like a beginning.
They didn’t speak of what came next.But neither looked away.
And neither let go.
Chapter12
The sun had barely crested over the rooftops of Mayfair when scandal arrived.
Clara sat at the breakfast table, teacup poised halfway to her lips.Her free hand clenched beneath the linen-draped table, fingers tightening on her skirts as though to steady the storm gathering inside her.The scent of bergamot rose in gentle curls of steam, twining with Clara’s mounting apprehension.
Her mother swept into the room in a rustle of silk, the sharp clack of her heels punctuating the air.
“Clara.”Lady Shipley’s voice was tight with indignation, her hand brandishing a folded paper as though it were a dueling pistol.“The Mayfair Whisper.Of all the gutter rags to mention our name.”
Clara set her teacup down with care, though her fingers trembled ever so slightly against the porcelain, betraying the tension tightening in her chest.“Our name, or mine?”Clara asked.She held her breath, bracing herself for whatever her mother would say next.
Lady Shipley thrust the paper at her.“Page two.Below the business about Lady Renshaw’s scandalous new footman.”
