“So you intend to make me miserable, simply for your own amusement?”
He feigned outrage.“Not miserable.I intend only to enjoy the intrigue you have set in motion.Surely you did not plan to deny me the challenge of wooing you after you so brazenly trapped me?”
She looked down, seething, then up at him again.“The only challenge is whether I can stomach your company long enough to convince the ton this is not a farce.”
“You want to be convincing?”he asked, voice softening, breath brushing her cheek.“Then perhaps you should not glare at me as if I am a flea on your glove.Shall I instruct you in the art of feigned affection?”
“I would rather throw myself from the upper gallery,” she notched her chin up in defiance.
He considered it.“Dramatic, but inelegant.And marble is quite unforgiving.No, I believe we must persist in our charade.Leastwise for now.Perhaps,” he leaned closer, his gaze pinning hers, “until you have recovered your voucher and safely snared some other poor wretch.”
Her eyes flickered.Approval perhaps, or calculation.From Crispin’s vantage, it was enough to confirm she had accepted the terms of their farce, at least for now.He almost admired the cold-blooded logic of it.“Is that what you want?”he pressed.“Your reputation restored, and then I am to be discarded?”
She was silent, lips pressed tight.In that instant, he saw through the fire to the fear beneath.The dread of being consigned to the shelf, of her worth being measured in ruined currency.He felt a twinge, odd and almost tender, at the vulnerability she fought so hard to hide.
“I will not force you to marry me, Clara,” he said, the words more honest than he had intended.“But I will not let you wriggle free without some small measure of entertainment.”
“Entertainment,” she repeated.“Is that what you call public humiliation, endless speculation, and gossip?”
He shrugged.“Perhaps.”
“Very well.”She seethed, but her eyes betrayed a glimmer of curiosity.“What happens now?”
He smiled, slow and wicked.“Now, we return to the ball and bask in the horror of our peers.Or if you prefer, we wait here until the rumors ferment into something truly scandalous.The choice is yours.”
She stared at him, weighing the options.“You could release me,” she suggested.
“Certainly,” he said, but did not move.
She pushed off the wall, and he stepped aside, just enough to allow her passage.But as she brushed past, his hand shot out and snagged her arm.Not hard, but with absolute authority.
He leaned down, lips nearly grazing her ear.“If you are going to play at being my intended, you ought to act the part.Smile at me, Clara.Or at the very least, stop plotting my death with your eyes.The whole point is to be convincing.”
She turned, bringing their faces close enough to count each other’s lashes.For a fleeting moment, he wondered what would happen if he kissed her again.Would she claw his eyes out, or would she freeze and shudder like before, her fury and desire locked in combat?
He rather hoped for both, though he would not test her now.
She gave a brittle smile, all teeth.“Better?”
“Almost convincing,” he purred.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor.Crispin straightened, but did not release her arm.Clara shot him a look of pure murder and tried to twist away, but he simply tightened his hold, guiding her a half-step closer to his side.The voices grew louder.A woman’s peal of laughter, a man’s heavy tread.
He leaned in, voice pitched for her alone.“You may thank me later.”
She would never thank him, of course.But then, that was the real game between them.What she would never do.And what he could make her do anyway.A dangerous game, perhaps, but it thrilled him—this delicate dance between defiance and surrender, where the stakes were nothing short of hearts and reputations.
There was a peculiar flavor to the silence that followed.Brittle, poised to shatter under the least provocation.Crispin savored it, letting the tension wind itself taut as a violin string.Clara’s eyes darted to the corridor’s end, calculation flaring in the blue depths.He could see the frantic arithmetic as she weighed the cost of fleeing against the horror of being discovered in his arms.
She need not have bothered.The discovery came faster than her next breath.
“Crispin!Lady Clara!”His mother, the Dowager Countess Oakford’s voice could have cut glass, it carried so well down the passage.Moments later she swept into view, her silk skirts billowing, diamonds sparkling in the candlelight.On her arm was none other than Lady Shipley, Clara’s own mother, looking as if she had been winded by a strong draft and had not yet recovered.
Behind them, a second wave followed.Lady Alice Pickford, eyes alight with suspicion.Eden Langley, Marchioness of Blackstone, all perfect composure with a hint of chaos in her dark gaze.And Lord Blackstone, towering and taciturn, scanning the scene as if preparing for a duel.The entire flock bore down upon them, hungry for answers.
Clara tried to extricate herself, but Crispin only shifted his grip, turning her so that she fit neatly against his side.She stiffened, her lips forming the most insincere smile he had ever seen.He would have laughed, had it not ruined the tableau.
“My darling boy!”Lady Oakford gushed, hands fluttering to her chest.“I had no idea you were courting!”Her eyes, sharp as owls, swept over Clara’s mussed hair and high color.“What restraint you have shown to keep it so private.”
