“With the woman you what?” she prompted, voice breaking.
“You know what.”
“Say it.”
“Why?”
“Because in three weeks I’ll be gone, and I want to hear it at least once.”
Gabriel cupped her face as though she were something rare and breakable. “I love you, Clara Whitfield,” he said hoarsely.“I’ve loved you since we were children grafting roses. I loved you through eight years of silence. I loved you when you appeared at my door half-dead. And I will love you when you leave, even if it kills me.”
Tears slid down her cheeks. “You can’t love me.”
“Too late.”
“Gabriel…”
“Say it back. Even if it doesn’t change anything, say it back.”
“I love you,” she whispered. ““Oh sweet mercy, I love you too.”
He kissed her then, not with desperation but with reverence, soft and deep and full of everything they could not have. When exhaustion finally claimed them, they slept tangled together, holding one another against the inevitable world outside their small, stolen sanctuary.
CHAPTER 13
Clara stood in the servants' quarters, staring at her reflection in the small, spotted mirror while Mary attempted to arrange her hair into something presentable. The assembly was in three hours, and Clara would be attending, not as a guest, of course, but rather, to be present as a member of His Grace's suite, appointed to attend to his comforts and see that his remarkable severity of countenance did not cause undue alarm among the guests.
"You're fortunate to be going at all, miss," Mary said, pinning another curl into place. "Most housekeepers wouldn't be permitted at such an event, but His Grace insisted you accompany the party."
"His Grace requires someone to manage his considerable ill temper when forced into society, and I drew the shortest straw," Clara replied, though they both knew that wasn't remotely true. Gabriel had practically ordered her attendance, though he'd been frustratingly vague about why.
"Perhaps he simply wants you to witness his triumphant return to society after three years of self-imposed exile," Mary suggested, though her tone indicated she believed nothing of the sort.
"His triumphant return where he'll be escorting Miss Ashworth and proving to everyone that he's capable of normal social interaction despite his reputation as a scarred recluse."
"Love tends to improve one's demeanor and appetite for life or so I've heard," Mary said innocently, adding another pin.
Clara's eyes met Mary's in the mirror. "I don't know what you're implying…"
"I'm not implying anything, miss. I'm merely observing that His Grace has been eating more regularly since you started personally delivering his meals and standing over him until he finishes them."
"That's called proper household management."
"If you say so, miss. Though most household managers don't personally supervise their employer's consumption of every meal while engaged in what appears to be extremely heated discussions about estate management."
"His Grace has very strong opinions about estate management that require extensive debate."
"I'm sure that's exactly what all that passionate arguing is about."
Clara turned to face Mary directly. "You're being remarkably bold for someone who's been employed here less than two weeks."
"I'm being remarkably observant, which is different from bold, though I understand the confusion. Please know that you have our sincere hopes and warmest good wishes.”
“Our?”
"The entire staff, Mrs. Potter, Lord Hartley…”
"There's nothing to wish for. I'm leaving in less than three weeks."
