“A wager has been laid upon the matter?”
"Of course there has. We have very little entertainment, and His Grace's romantic situation is better than any novel."
"We don't have a romantic situation."
"You share his bed every night."
"For sleeping."
"Of course. Sleeping. With an extraordinary amount of tossing and turning and muffled sounds that definitely indicate peaceful rest."
Clara felt her face flame. "The walls are thin."
"The walls are stone, miss. Stone doesn't carry sound unless the sound is particularly... energetic."
"Mary…"
"I'm merely suggesting, if you're trying to maintain the illusion of a professional relationship, you might want to consider separate rooms. Or at least quieter frustration."
"We're not…we haven't…"
"I am aware. That is precisely what renders it a yet greater misfortune. Such ardour, without an acceptable outlet to bestow it!” That's what makes it even more tragic. All that passion and nowhere to put it."
“Indeed, it is nothing short of agony.”
"I imagine so." Mary's expression softened. “It is clear your affections are bestowed upon him.”
It wasn't a question, but Clara nodded anyway. “Very much so.”
"And are his affections returned?”
“Entirely, I assure you.”
“For love cannot sustain us, given his station and my lowly position. Society maintains certain undisputable rules that, if broken, ruin will befall upon both parties. And what is more, in a mere eighteen days, my necessary departure will come, leaving him here; we must both then shoulder the burden of feigning that this intimacy never existed.”
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"That's reality."
"Reality is negotiable if you're creative enough."
"You sound like Gabriel."
“Perhaps his disposition is beginning to influence us all.”
Before Clara could respond, she noticed Gabriel approaching their corner, which caused a minor sensation among the assembled servants.
"Your Grace," Clara said with a perfect curtsey. "Is something amiss?"
"Miss Whitfield, I require your assistance with a small matter in the retiring room. It seems my coat has suffered some damage during the dancing."
"Of course, Your Grace."
She followed him through the crowd, aware of the eyes tracking their movement. He led her not to the retiring room but to a small antechamber that was blessedly empty.
The moment the door closed, he pressed her against it, his mouth claiming hers with desperate hunger.
"Gabriel," she gasped when he finally let her breathe. "Someone could walk in…"
