A footman, perhaps recognizing him, admitted him without question.He was led to the rear garden, where lanterns flickered low among the trellises, casting swaying shadows across the flagstones.
She was there.Waiting.
She wore a gown the color of moss in moonlight.The fabric shimmered in the lantern light, silken as it moved around her ankles, echoing the guarded vulnerability etched into her features.
“You came,” she said.
“Of course I did.”His voice was soft, unsure.He hesitated a moment, the confession trembling in his chest, then added, “I could not stay away.”His gaze lingered on her face, searching for a trace of forgiveness or welcome, but finding only silence between them.
She did not smile.Instead, she turned, gesturing for him to walk with her.Her shoulders held stiff, chin tilted in defiance as she took the first step along the path.Crispin noted the way her fingers curled at her sides, betraying the tension she tried so hard to hide.
He watched her closely, the silence heavy between them.Her lack of warmth settled like a stone in his stomach, twisting alongside a creeping uncertainty.Was she regretting their kiss, or merely guarding herself, as she so often did?
They followed the path that curled beside the hedgerow, the grass damp beneath their feet.A stray rose petal stuck to the toe of her slipper.The scent of the garden—roses, wet soil, and jasmine—curled between them, mingling with the soft crush of petals beneath their feet and the distant chirr of crickets hidden among the ivy.Shadows danced across Crispin’s face as the lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, casting golden flickers that moved like whispered secrets over the garden walls.
“The Mayfair Whisper,” she said after a long silence, her tone brittle.Clara didn’t look at him, but her fingers twisted together.“My mother nearly choked on her toast.”
“It was vile.”He turned to face her.“And cowardly.”
Her brows rose, incredulous.“But not wrong.”
He hesitated.“There’s no truth in calling our engagement false.”
“Is there not?”she whispered.
The wind stirred the ivy.Crispin stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“Come away with me.Let the scandal fester while we disappear.I’ve made arrangements.My country house is quiet, private.Just a fortnight.”
“To hide?”She crossed her arms over her chest.“That’s your answer to everything?”
He moved toward her, but she stepped back.“It is not hiding.It’s breathing.”He reached for her.“It is allowing you time.”
She looked away, jaw tight.He watched her profile, the defiant tilt of her chin, and remembered how she had looked just before fleeing the garden—conflicted, wounded.That moment had undone him, and seeing her now, just as closed off, threatened to do the same.
“I can not go.”
“You will not or you can not?”
“Both.”
He waited, hoping she would say more.But her silence was loud enough.
The echo of her refusal stayed with him through the night and into the next day.By the time Lady Everly’s dinner party began, Crispin had resolved to stop waiting for fate to choose for him.
Clara entered on his arm, dressed in a silver gown that shimmered with the cool gleam of starlight, her expression poised but her eyes flickering with something far less certain.She maintained a careful smile, her posture impeccable, but the way her gaze slid past familiar faces without settling hinted at the storm beneath.A slight clench of her jaw, a pause too long before a reply—she was hiding something, but he could not guess what.To the others, she was the perfect fiancée.To Crispin, she was a locked door.
Dinner unfolded with a gilded rhythm.Laughter rose, glasses chimed, and the scrape of cutlery mingled with orchestrated pleasantries.The scent of roasted duck and sugared pears hung in the air, but Crispin barely tasted the meal.He watched Clara instead, the way she smiled just enough, how her hands never trembled but her eyes never lingered.
At the halfway mark of the meal, as a footman poured the next course of wine and a lull in conversation gave way to expectation, Lady Everly lifted her glass.Her voice rang clear through the din, calling for a toast.
Crispin rose.
Heads turned.
“I would like to make an announcement,” he said.His voice did not waver.“Lady Clara Mapleton and I are to be married six weeks from today.”
The room held its breath.Then came the murmurs, the widening eyes, the startled gasps.
