Was she afraid of loving him, or more afraid that she already did?The low, simmering heat he had stirred deep within her lingered, confusion clinging like a fog she could not escape.Did she want this wedding?Or did she simply want him?Her heart thudded painfully.Across from her, her mother glowed, oblivious, while Clara sat motionless in the wake of a kiss that had shattered her certainty.
“Six weeks!The Duchess of Lunsford has already sent word requesting an invitation—what a coup!”
Her mother prattled on, planning a spectacle.Clara’s mind, however, was still in that dim corridor at Lady Everly’s.Still tasting the heat of Crispin’s kiss.Still haunted by the fact that she had kissed him back.And worse, had wanted to do so again.
“I suppose you will want a French modiste,” her mother mused.“Something daring, yet traditional.”
Clara rose.“I am going out.”
“To the modiste?”
“To think.”
She did not wait for permission.Her mother’s startled protest followed her, but Clara didn’t turn back.Each step toward the door felt like reclaiming a fraction of herself.Her spine stiffened, her breath shallow with emotion.Frustration, yes, but also desperation.The kind that came from teetering on the edge of something she could no longer pretend was only pretense.
Outside, the air was crisp, scented with rain and roses.The paving stones were slick, and the sky bruised with the threat of more rain.Her slippers made soft, wet sounds against the street.A flower vendor called out near the corner, his wares vibrant against the gray morning.She turned away from the carriages and chatter, skirts swishing around her ankles, and walked with purpose, her maid a few paces behind.She needed clarity, and she knew just where to find it.
Lady Oakford greeted her with an arched brow and a warm, conspiratorial smile, the kind reserved for intimates rather than mere acquaintances.Instead of rising formally, she inclined her head with a subtle nod and extended her hand—not in the rigid style demanded by rank, but palm up in a gesture of welcome.“Well, if it is not my future daughter-in-law.Come to rescue me from the tedium of polite callers?”
Clara curtsied and allowed herself to be drawn into the countess’s private salon.A space Clara remembered well.It smelled faintly of orange blossoms and old books.She had been here once before, during the height of the farce, when Lady Oakford had declared with dry delight that she was thrilled Clara had brought her son up to scratch.The memory warmed her even now.
Today, however, Clara wasn’t here to be congratulated.
“I needed to speak with you,” she said as they settled with tea.“About Crispin.”
Lady Oakford’s eyes gleamed.“Ah.Yes, the rogue of the hour.”
Clara’s throat tightened.She was not sure whether the countess’s amusement comforted or unsettled her.For a moment, she simply stared into her teacup, as if the rippling surface might reflect some truth back at her.Then she lifted her gaze.
“He told me what he did.Public declarations are a dying art—how delicious that he revived it,” Lady Oakford said.
Clara hesitated.“I wasn’t expecting it.”
“Neither was anyone else,” the countess said dryly.“But the ton needed something to talk about beyond lace and Lady Greystone’s unfortunate coiffure.”
Clara managed a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Lady Oakford grew quiet, then set her teacup down.“You do not look as if you have come to discuss flowers.”
Clara shook her head.“I came because I am losing my footing.Everything is changing, and I do not know how to stop it, or whether I want to.”
Lady Oakford tilted her head.“Do you love him?”
The kiss lingered in Clara’s mind, a spark smoldering in the shadows, refusing to fade—a whisper of something unspoken, dangerous, and achingly real, threatening to catch flame, fueling questions that burned hotter than her mother’s triumph or society’s approval.Did she want Crispin, or did she want the version of herself that existed only in his gaze—unapologetic, desired, free?She clenched her hands into fists, grounding herself in the present moment, while her heart wandered through every lingering glance and word they’d exchanged.She wasn’t ready to decide, not yet.But for the first time, she believed she could.
Clara’s silence was a confession.
The countess reached forward and gently squeezed her hand.“Power, my dear, is not in saying yes or no.It is in knowing when to decide for yourself.”
Clara left with a heart both heavier and lighter.Lady Oakford’s parting words coiled through her thoughts like ivy, tugging at the foundations of everything she believed about herself and what she deserved.As the carriage rumbled through the streets of Mayfair, the city outside blurred—familiar yet somehow distant, like a dream she could not quite trust.
As the door to the Oakford townhouse closed behind her, she pressed a gloved hand to her chest, steadying the rhythm beneath.The weight of the countess’s words settled over her like a velvet mantle, comforting yet unbearably real.Could she trust her own instincts again, after having spent so long suppressing them?Could she separate the performative from the genuine when every touch, every kiss from Crispin, blurred that line further?
A carriage wheel splashed through a puddle at the curb, snapping her from her thoughts.She drew a breath, lifted her chin, and stepped forward, not with certainty, but with intent.Whatever came next, it would be a decision made with her whole heart, not one borrowed from expectation.
Each step toward home felt like an act of quiet rebellion and trembling hope, her gloved hands clenched tightly at her sides, her breath caught between fear and possibility.She had not found answers, but she had found courage.Her breath eased, shoulders sinking just a fraction, and for the first time in days, she did not feel like she was bracing against the world.
Two days later, the garden party at Lady Densmore’s estate shimmered with golden light and hummed with polite whispers.Spring had come in full force, sending blooms into riotous color and filling the air with lilac and lemon cakes.Parasols twirled, champagne flutes glittered in the sun, and laughter rose like birdsong.
