Her breath trembled against her palms.She tried to suppress the flutter in her chest, but her heart beat too fast, as if it too had betrayed her resolve.A wave of shame and longing crested and crashed within her, and behind her closed eyelids, she saw his face—the way he looked at her, the way he had looked at her, years ago and just yesterday.The memory pierced her like sunlight through stained glass—beautiful, fractured, impossible to hold.How could she feel this way?How could she not?
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft rustle of thread and the quiet turn of a page.
“And do you trust him?”Eden asked finally.
Clara dropped her hands.“No.Not entirely.”
“But you want to,” Alice said gently.
That truth lay between them, painful and gleaming.
Clara gave a noncommittal shrug, the corner of her mouth tilting up.
“Then perhaps the question is not whether you can trust him,” Alice said, “but whether you can trust yourself.”
Clara looked up, startled by the sharpness of that truth.And despite herself, she felt it burrow deeper than she cared to admit.
At half-past five, a note arrived, written in Crispin’s bold hand: Come to the terrace at seven.We need to speak.The words were simple.The implications were not.
Clara stood in front of her dressing mirror, unsure if she was preparing for battle or surrender.Her breath fogged on the glass as she studied her reflection, one trembling hand hovering over the velvet ribbon at her throat.The silk of her gown whispered against her skin, cool and smooth, yet it did little to soothe the tightness blooming in her chest with each shallow breath.The sensation, though soft, only underscored the tension coiling beneath her composure.A thousand thoughts circled.Was this courage or folly?Did she go because she hoped he would confess something real… or because she feared he never would?The reflection staring back at her didn’t hold the answers, only the storm of emotion she could no longer contain.
Her fingers brushed the ribbon at her throat, hesitating as though untying it might unravel not just fabric but her final strand of resolve.The cool satin teased her fingertips, a stark contrast to the heat curling low in her belly—a heat born of confusion, desire, and a yearning to know how this ended.What if he asked her to continue the charade?What if he didn’t?What if he saw more than she was ready to show?
Before long, Clara stood on the terrace, Crispin a few paces away.
“It would seem the tables have turned on us,” Crispin said.
“What do you propose?That we announce we were merely amusing ourselves at the expense of the ton?I most certainly will not find a suitor now.”
“No.”His voice was low.“I propose we leave.Just for a little while.My family estate in Kent is quiet.No whispers, no masquerade.Just… us.”
She stared at him.“Running away solves nothing.”
“I am not running,” he said.“I am trying to give us space to figure out what this is.”He stepped forward again.“I am trying not to lose you before I have had the chance to earn you.”
Her throat tightened.“You think hiding in the country will fix what’s broken?”
“I think it might help us see clearly.Without the noise.”
Clara looked away.“And when we return?What then?”
He did not answer right away.Instead, he reached out and touched her hand.“I know I hurt you.I know I ruined what might have been.But this… what we have now… it is real.For me, the game has ended.”
She should have stepped back.She didn’t.
Her thoughts tangled—fear of what she was risking, longing for something she did not know him capable of, frustration at how little control she had over her own heart.It was all too much.
Clara surged forward, pressing her lips to his.
His arms closed around her, fierce and unyielding, as though anchoring himself to something he had nearly lost.He pulled her flush to his chest, and the kiss deepened—no longer a question but a declaration.Heat surged, wild and dangerous.Her fingers tangled in his cravat.His hands splayed at her waist.
She gasped when his mouth found the curve of her neck.“Crispin?—”
He stilled.“Tell me to stop.”
She could not.
Crispin’s hand slid slowly down her back, the warmth of his palm trailing like fire across her spine, igniting nerves she had not realized were exposed.His touch found the silk of her stocking and then the bare skin above, his fingers tracing the tender curve of her thigh.
