She found him in the conservatory.It was quiet there, the glass walls beaded with rain.He stood by a lemon tree, his hands clasped behind his back, his profile solemn.
He turned as she approached.“Clara.”
She swallowed.“I came to say something, but I am not sure how.”
He waited, giving her the space to begin.
“This...this started as a performance.But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a role.I stopped pretending.”
His eyes darkened.“I have not pretended in weeks.”
Clara stepped closer.“But I was still afraid.Of what it would mean to want you.To choose you.”
He reached for her hand.His touch was warm.“What are you afraid of now?”
“That I want you too much.”
He drew her against him, his breath feathering over her cheek.“Then stop running.”
She did.
Their lips came together, slower this time, but no less fierce.The kiss built like a tide, rolling through her with a power she had not expected.Her fingers curled into his coat.His hands slid around her waist, anchoring her.
They broke apart only to breathe, and then his mouth was on hers again, urgent now, hungry.Clara felt the boldness ripple through her.Tonight, she kissed him back with the full knowledge that this choice was hers alone.
“Clara,” he whispered against her skin.“Come with me.”
She did not ask where.She only nodded.
Crispin’s townhouse was quiet when they slipped through the front door.
Clara paused just inside, her heart a jittery cadence, the silence around them thick with the thrill of secrecy and something more, a daring hope.The soft click of the door behind them sounded impossibly loud, underscoring the intimacy of the moment.The cool marble beneath her slippers gave way to plush rug, grounding her in the choice she had made.Not reckless, but real.
Anticipation thrummed between them with the knowledge that this night was theirs alone.Her pulse quickened as Crispin took her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles with silent understanding.
A fire had been lit in the drawing room, casting golden shadows that flickered across the walls and danced over the edges of the polished wainscoting.The flames reflected in Crispin’s eyes, turning them to molten amber as the light caught in the strands of his hair.Shadows moved with a quiet grace across the ivy-framed windows and rich wooden paneling, drawing the room into their private world, soft, golden, and waiting.
Earlier, Clara had penned a note to her mother, claiming a headache and urging her to stay at the party—a fib shaded with truth.Her hand had trembled slightly as she wrote, the ink pooling at the curve of each letter like held-in breath.Her thoughts churned—was it guilt tightening her chest, or the giddy weight of anticipation?Perhaps both, tangled together like threads she could not separate.But when she sealed the message, a quiet thrill rushed through her—not of deception, but of decision.For once, she wasn’t being steered by duty.She was claiming the course herself.
Now alone with Crispin, she felt a rush of heady anticipation.Her breath caught, a flutter rising in her chest with the wild tumble of emotions pressing against her ribs.Clara’s hand lingered in his, the contact sparking along her nerves.For a heartbeat, she stood motionless, absorbing the intimacy of the moment, the hush, the heat, the knowledge of what she had chosen.
A sensation stirred deep within her, not just desire, but something richer, fuller, an aching hope that curled low and whispered of belonging.Not fear.Not entirely.But a daring, vulnerable hope that tonight, this man, might be the beginning of something irrevocably hers.
He led her through shadowed halls, past portraits and polished banisters, to his bedchamber.The room was aglow with soft lamplight, firelight dancing across the walls and casting gentle movement over Crispin’s features.She watched as the golden light slid over his collar and into the dip of his throat, the subtle rise and fall of his breath mirroring the rhythm of her own.The carved bedposts gleamed, silk shimmered faintly under the shifting light, and every flicker felt like a heartbeat.The scent of beeswax lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the faint smoke of the hearth.A hush settled over the space, thick with expectation and the quiet pulse of desire.
Clara crossed to the window.She drew the curtain aside and looked down at the dark garden, the sheeted rose beds, the hedges clipped into silhouettes that belonged to another season.Crispin watched her from the threshold, unable to move for a moment.He had imagined her here so many times—always some shade of defiant, always exactly as herself.
She turned, and when she met his gaze, there was no fear in it, only something bright and alive.
“Clara,” he said.
She did not answer, only held out her hand.
He came to her.Their bodies made a strange mirror at first—she standing by the window, him just inside the glow, neither quite willing to break the last thin film of civility.But her hand was warm in his, and when he drew her near, he could feel the wild hammer of her pulse at her wrist.She pressed her other palm to his chest, fingers splayed, as if to test the boundary between his skin and hers.
“Kiss me,” she said.
He did.The kiss started as all their previous ones had—a skirmish, a test of wills—but it changed almost immediately.She softened under his mouth, and he lost the impulse to conquer, wanted only to hold and be held.
