Clara’s breath hitched, her knees weakening under the onslaught of sensation.He kissed her again, more deeply this time, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger she hadn’t known he possessed.
His hand cradled the side of her face, anchoring her even as the world tilted beneath her feet.
Her fingers trembled against his chest, caught between wanting more and fearing the fall.She felt the strength of him—the surety, the heat—and for a heartbeat, she gave in to it, to him.
His body was solid against hers, the heat of his skin seeping through layers of silk and lace.A tremor rolled up her spine as his hand grazed the delicate skin above her stocking, a whisper of pleasure and danger coiling low in her belly.Her breath caught, her heart thundering a warning she didn’t want to hear.She wanted to lose herself in the sensation, in the illusion of safety his arms offered.
But even as she leaned into his kiss, a flicker of dread whispered beneath the desire.
And then, clarity.A sudden, searing jolt of recognition that no matter how fiercely she craved his touch, that if she surrendered fully in this moment, there would be no going back.Not for her body, and not for her heart.
Clara broke away, breathless.Her bodice askew, her skin flushed.
“I can not,” she whispered.“Not like this.Not when I do not know where this ends.”
He stepped back, chest heaving.“Clara…”
But she was already walking away, back toward the door.
“I need to think,” she said over her shoulder.
She didn’t look back.
A breeze stirred the hem of her gown as she disappeared into the house, vanishing.Her footsteps echoed faintly across the parquet floor, the distant tick of the drawing room clock marking each heartbeat.The scent of lavender sachets still lingered in the air, mingling uneasily with the wild perfume of crushed petals and the lingering heat of Crispin’s touch on her skin.It was a discordant harmony, domestic calm against untamed desire, that made the air feel too close, too intimate, too real.Her lips still pulsed with the memory of his.It was exhilarating.Terrifying.She had kissed him and wanted to do it again.Craved the feel of his lips on hers.And that frightened her more than any gossip the Mayfair Whisper could publish.
Chapter13
The smoky hush of Brooks’s Club held the scent of leather and tobacco, mingling with the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of crystal tumblers.The subdued rustle of newspapers and the soft flick of cards being dealt added to the symphony of masculine repose.Crispin lounged in his usual chair near the hearth, a glass of brandy warming in his palm.But tonight, the club felt less like a haven and more like a trap.
He wasn’t three sips into his drink, the sharp tang of brandy barely hitting his tongue before the first snide murmur cut through the lull, punctuating the club’s otherwise placid decorum.The weight of stares prickled the back of his neck.Shame curdled in his gut, mingling with a slow-blooming anger—at them, at himself.
“Still no wedding date?”Lord Amesbury’s voice carried just enough to sting as he passed.
“Perhaps he is rethinking this sudden urge for domestic bliss,” another muttered.
“Or she is,” came a third.“Heard the girl’s clever.Would not be the first to trap a rake in his own snare.”
Laughter, sharp and knowing, rippled around the card tables.
Crispin’s jaw flexed.He had built this reputation.Libertine, heartbreaker, rake.Now, the weight of it pressed against his chest like a chain-mail of his own making.Regret burned low and hot, curling in his chest.He shifted in his chair, the familiar leather suddenly too tight, too stifling.He’d worn the mask so often it had become his face, but now, with Clara’s image lodged firmly in his mind, the armor felt too tight.
He stood abruptly.The scrape of his chair against the parquet startled a few nearby gentlemen.
“Going so soon, Oakford?”someone called.
“I have remembered better company,” he replied, tossing back the last of his brandy.
He left the smoky hush of Brooks’s behind, the laughter of his former compatriots echoing after him.London’s chill met him like a dare as he turned toward Belgrave Square—toward the one place that now felt less like escape and more like home.
The night was cool and damp, the kind of London evening that felt more ghost than weather—mist clinging to his coat, each breath a pale wisp swallowed by the dark.It was a night for hauntings, and Crispin carried plenty of his own.He walked quickly, each footfall along the cobblestones echoing the rhythm of his thoughts.
Clara.
He recalled that kiss in the garden.The memory clung like ivy—her lips on his, the feel of her thigh beneath his hand, and then the way she had torn herself away, eyes wide with something that looked too much like fear.He had half a mind to leave her in peace, but the other half knew there could be no peace without her.
He arrived at her townhouse in Belgrave Square, the memory of her retreat in the garden still fresh—her lips parted, breath stolen, eyes full of something wild and afraid.He could still feel the silk of her stocking against his palm, the heat of her mouth, and the hollow ache that had settled deep in his chest when she’d left him standing alone.What had she said?“Not when I do not know where this ends.”
He meant it.Every damn second of it.And he knew where he wanted it to end.He took the long way round to the back gate.The same one he had slipped through two nights ago.The same one that had led him to ruin and revelation.
