Not a reckless one.
But deliberate.Certain.
His hand came to her waist, steadying her as her fingers curled into the lapels of his coat.Her body leaned into his, and his mouth claimed hers with slow, aching reverence.His thumb stroked the line of her jaw, and she shivered—half from desire, half from the terrifying wonder of it.
He kissed her back, with the same slow ache, the same longing.
It was not a proposal.
But it was something dangerously close.An unspoken understanding, the kind that carried the weight of a vow.A silent pledge that said more than words ever could.
And this time, she did not pull away.
Chapter15
The next morning broke soft and gray, as if London itself had paused to hold its breath.Clara stood by her window, forehead resting against the cool glass, and watched the drizzle gather on the panes.The city stretched before her, bustling and indifferent, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that everything had changed.
Because it had.
The kiss in the garden still warmed her.It thrummed beneath her skin like the echo of a harp string, impossible to hush.Not because it had been stolen, but because she had given it.Freely.Deliberately.She had kissed Crispin back with a heart not shackled by pretense but aching with possibility.And he…he had responded with a reverence that frightened her more than all her mother’s ambitions combined.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, the warmth of his kiss still lingering there.It had not been a game.She had felt it in his hands, in the way he had held her as if afraid she might vanish.
In the breakfast room, her mother chattered on about fabric samples and flowers, punctuating her words with the occasional pat of her napkin against her wrist or an absent stir of tea.But Clara barely registered the words.She offered nods and vague murmurs, her mind elsewhere, still caught in the garden shadows and the memory of the press of Crispin’s mouth against hers.
By midday, she could bear it no longer.She scribbled a quick note and made her excuses, retreating to the carriage with a heart thudding too loud in her chest.But she didn’t go shopping.She didn’t visit friends.
She instructed the driver to take her to Eden’s Mayfair townhouse, the one with ivy climbing the cream-stone façade and windows that always seemed to glow with warmth—even on a rainy afternoon such as this.
Eden greeted her with a knowing smile.“You look as if you haven’t slept.”
“Because I scarcely did.”
“Oh dear.Come in,” Eden reached for Clara’s hand.
The drawing room was warm and inviting, bathed in afternoon light and filled with the scent of violets.Clara entered, Eden’s calm presence steading her just as it always had.
“You saw the papers?”Eden asked gently.
Clara nodded.“Everyone has.”
Eden didn’t press.She simply poured the tea, let the silence stretch, and offered her the chance to speak when ready.
“I kissed him,” Clara whispered.
“In the garden?”Eden asked, not at all surprised.
Clara nodded again.“It felt… inevitable.”
Eden reached for her hand.“What do you want, Clara?Not what your mother wants.Not what society whispers.You.”
Clara stared at the teacup in her hands.Her fingers tightened around it.“I want to be certain.I want to know this is real.”
“And is it?”
Clara did not answer.
Later that evening, the Blackstones hosted a ball.A grand affair, bursting with London’s elite.Clara wore soft blue silk and pearls.Her hands trembled as she adjusted her gloves.Somewhere, she knew, Crispin waited.
