Clara had frozen in her task of pulling one of Martha’s lasagnes out of the oven. For a moment, as she looked between me and Ophelia, the blankness in her expression faded away, and I could see complete and utter devastation left in its wake. I blinked in confusion at her. Why was she devastated? She’d been openly planning to leave me for the last two weeks. Why was she showing this emotion now? I hadn’t expected complete devastation, to be honest. I’d expected anger, maybe a bit of her fire back again – that I could work with. That would have been better than the relentless nothingness. But I didn’t want to hurt her.
“Clara,” I breathed, pushing Ophelia away to move to her. Her eyes glassed over as she stared at me across the kitchen. She was still standing stock still, holding the lasagne but using only a couple of flimsy teatowels. She flinched, looking down at her hands and arms as if forgetting where she was. Then I saw a different pain flash across her features as she winced. I looked down at the pan she was holding, realising part of it was in direct contact with her skin.
“Clara!” I shouted and she dragged her eyes from the lasagne pan to me as I flew across the space, grabbing a towel, then taking the pan from her, and throwing it onto the chopping block. When I turned back to Clara, she was still frozen in place. “What the hell are you doing?” I snapped as I grasped both her hands, turning them so that they were palm up. There were red marks up her arms,some of which were starting to blister. “Shit, shit!” I hustled Clara’s stiff body across the kitchen to the sink, turned the tap on to cold and enclosed her from behind to hold her hands and arms under the stream of water. “Baby, you’ve hurt yourself,” I said, panic threaded through my voice.
“Step back,” Clara spoke for the first time that evening and I clenched my jaw in frustration.
“I will not step back. Not if you’re going to hurt yourself. You need to keep the burns under water, or they’ll?—”
“Step back!” she shouted, and the kitchen went deathly silent.
“Clara,” I said softly, not letting her go. “You need to?—”
She laughed then, but it wasn’t like any of the other times I’d heard her laugh. No, this was a hollow, bitter and utterly sad sound, full of pain.
“You’ve no bloody idea what I need, Rafe. Now, step back.”
“Rafey,” said Poppy carefully from behind us, her hand settling on my shoulder. “Maybe you should go. I’ll look after Clara and follow you there.”
Fucking hell, what was happening? How had I lost control of this situation so utterly? A wave of helplessness swept through me, quickly followed by anger. I wasn’t used to feeling out of control, and it was pissing me off.
“Fine,” I snapped, lifting my hands off Clara, holding them high up in the air above my head and stepping back. “I’ll leave if that’ll make you happy. Nevermind this ismyfucking house, but fine. Have at it, Poppy.”
Poppy moved forward to Clara, gently guiding her back to the sink when she tried to step away.
“But you keep those fucking hands and arms under the water and I’m calling a fucking doctor to look at them. Understand me, Clara?”
She was still looking down and the wave of frustration that crashed over me was so strong that I felt like my head was exploding.
“Goddamn it, Clara! Look at me when I speak to you.” I slammed my hand down on the granite surface, and Clara flinched away so violently that it took her almost into a crouch on the floor. She was shaking. Christ, I’d made her shake.
“Baby, please—” I said in a broken whisper, but it was Poppy who cut me off.
“Just bloody leave, Rafe,” she snapped. “You’re only making her worse.”
Ophelia was looking completely baffled at the unfolding scene.
“Er, hi,” she said to Clara. “Sorry about your arms, babe.”
“Hi,” said Clara softly. “Sorry about the drama.”
Ophelia shrugged. “Ilivefor drama.”
“Fi, you go on with Rafe,” Poppy said, smiling at her friend. “I’ll see you guys there, okay?”
The gala wasa complete shit show, and I almost didn’t make it past the champagne reception.
Ophelia was all over me from the moment we exited the car, and the press ate it up. It would be front-page news by tomorrow, with Ophelia being pegged as the next Lady Sterling, along with my ranking as the second sexiest aristocrat in the UK (the Duke of Fuckingham beat me last year, the bastard – but I was convinced that his very public love story with his gorgeous now wife playing out in the media a few years ago helped. I’d get him next year.)
All I’d wanted to do was go home and check on Clara. I felt sick at the devastated expression on her face, and then at the fear in her eyes when I’d made her flinch. I’d scared her, something Ipromisedmyself I’d never do again. But although my mind was completely on Clara, I knew that for Poppy’s sake I had to at least stay for the dinner. As soon as that was over, however, I made my excuses and left, Ophelia still in tow. Thankfully, Dave agreed to drive her home as soon as he’d dropped me off.
Once I made it home and shut the door, I looked up to see Clara on the stairs only feet away as if she’d been waiting for me.
“Rafe,” she said, her voice full of that same longing it had held before all the blankness crept in.
“Clara,” I breathed, holding out my hand to her. But I hadn’t locked the bloody door behind me and Ophelia used the opportunity to push her way in and fling her arms around my neck. Clara froze on the stairs, her eyes going wide with shock and that same devastation from earlier.
By the time I pushed Ophelia away and instructed a sheepish Dave, who’d run after Ophelia when she’d given him the slip, to “take her bloody well home this time,” Clara had turned and run back up the stairs. Once the door was safely shut and locked behind me, I ran after her and started pounding on her door.
