"None of that makes me who I am, Clara. You make me who I am, or at least who I want to be, which is someone capable of more than just surviving behind these walls with my bitter memories and brandy for company."
Before she could respond, there was a knock at the door that made them spring apart like guilty teenagers, Clara scrambling to pull the covers up to her chin while Gabriel rolled away with a groan of frustration.
"Your Grace," Peter's voice came through the door, carefully neutral as always. "Lady Agatha's carriage has been spotted approaching the drive, and she appears to have brought additional guests."
"Of course she has, because apparently my aunt has decided that my torment isn't complete without an audience to witness it," Gabriel said, running his hands through his hair in a way thatonly made it more attractively disheveled. "Tell me, Peter, does the additional party happen to include Miss Ashworth looking like a lamb being led to increasingly tedious slaughter?"
"I believe Miss Ashworth is among the party, yes, Your Grace, along with what appears to be Lord and Lady Ashworth and possibly some younger relations, though it's difficult to be certain from this distance."
Clara was already out of bed, grabbing her clothes with the efficiency of someone who'd been preparing for disaster since the moment she'd agreed to this arrangement. "They've brought her entire family? That suggests something more serious than a social call."
"It suggests my aunt has decided to escalate her matrimonial campaign from subtle manipulation to full-scale invasion, which would be admirable if it weren't so terribly inconvenient given that I have no intention of entering into matrimony with anyone except the woman currently fleeing my bedroom like it's on fire," Gabriel said, watching her dress with an intensity that made her fingers fumble with the buttons.
"I'm not fleeing, I'm making a strategic retreat to maintain the illusion that we have any sort of professional relationship remaining, though I suspect that particular fiction has become increasingly transparent to anyone with functioning eyes," Clara replied, trying to pin up her hair without a mirror while Gabriel continued to stare at her with that particular combination of desire and desperation that had become his default expression lately.
"There's nothing professional about any aspect of our relationship at this point, unless you count the wages I'm supposedly paying you, which we still haven't actually discussed in any detail because every time we try to have a practical conversation, we end up pressed against various surfaces trying not to tear each other's clothes off."
"That's a gross exaggeration of our interactions, though I admit there have been several instances where furniture has been involved in ways its creators probably didn't intend."
"The piano was particularly memorable, especially the way you…"
"Gabriel, you cannot start describing what happened with the piano when your aunt is about to arrive with what sounds like half the county's eligible population in tow, presumably to parade them before you like some sort of matrimonial marketplace."
"Let them parade all they want, because I'll spend the entire time watching you and imagining all the things I'd rather be doing than making polite conversation with people who see my title and overlook my scars, or worse, see my scars as some sort of romantic battle wound that makes me mysteriously intriguing rather than simply damaged."
Clara paused at the door, looking back at him still sprawled in the bed they'd shared, his expression a mixture of defiance and vulnerability that never failed to make her heart ache. "You're not damaged, Gabriel, or rather you are, but so is everyone in different ways, and your particular damage happensto be visible while most people hide theirs behind pleasant smiles and social niceties."
"Your defense of my character would be more convincing if you weren't simultaneously running away from me and the conversation we desperately need to have about what happens when your self-imposed deadline arrives."
"We've had that conversation multiple times, and it always ends the same way, with you offering impossible solutions and me having to be the practical one who points out why they are not feasible.”
"They're not impossible, they're just difficult, and the only reason they won't work is because you're too stubborn to let me sacrifice anything for you, even though you're sacrificing everything for me by walking away."
"I'm not sacrificing anything that wasn't already lost the moment I showed up at your door in stolen boots and desperate circumstances that made this entire situation inevitable."
"Nothing about this was inevitable except the fact that I've loved you since we were children and will continue loving you long after you've gone and left me to rot in this mausoleum with nothing but memories and the ghost of what we could have been."
The raw pain in his voice almost undid her resolve, but the sound of carriage wheels on gravel reminded her of the immediate crisis. "Get dressed, Gabriel. Your aunt requires a duke, not a lovesick boy, and the sooner you give her what sherequires, the sooner she'll leave us to our remaining days of mutual torture."
She left before he could respond, though she heard him cursing creatively as she hurried down the servants' stairs to her room, where she could attempt to transform herself into the perfect picture of a professional housekeeper rather than a woman who'd spent the night wrapped around her employer, discussing impossible futures while trying not to give in to the magnetic pull between them that grew stronger with each passing hour.
By the time Clara had made herself presentable and descended to oversee the tea preparations, the invasion was in full force. Lady Agatha had indeed brought an entire contingent, Lord and Lady Ashworth, who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else; Miss Penelope Ashworth, who appeared to be finding the entire situation amusing; and most surprisingly, a young man who could only be the Oxford-studying brother Miss Ashworth had mentioned at the assembly.
"Miss Whitfield," Lady Agatha's voice cut through the morning room like a blade designed specifically for severing pretensions. "How fortuitous that you're here to oversee the refreshments, as I'm sure His Grace will want everything to be perfect for our discussion of the upcoming betrothal."
Clara's hands stilled on the tea service, though she managed to keep her expression neutral through years of practice hiding her emotions. "I wasn't aware a betrothal was being discussed, my lady, though of course I'll ensure the household provides whatever hospitality His Grace requires."
"Oh, it's not being discussed so much as finalized, assuming Gabriel can be brought to see reason about his future and the necessity of securing the succession with an appropriate bride who understands the responsibilities of her position," Lady Agatha replied, her tone suggesting that Clara was decidedly not such a person, not that anyone was implying she might be.
"How efficient of you to have planned His Grace's entire future without the inconvenience of consulting him about his preferences," Clara said mildly, arranging the lemon cakes with mathematical precision while internally calculating how much arsenic would be required to eliminate the entire room It was not that she was seriously contemplating so grave a crime as murder, but the mere theoretical exercise of the matter offered a surprising and most agreeable solace.
"His preferences are irrelevant when weighed against his duties to his title and the estate that has been in the Hale family for three hundred years," Lord Ashworth interjected, apparently feeling the need to assert his presence in the discussion. "A man in the duke's position cannot afford to indulge personal whims when the succession is at stake."
"How fascinating that you've taken such an interest in His Grace's succession, Lord Ashworth, though one might wonder if that interest is purely altruistic or if perhaps there are other considerations at play," Clara observed, noting the way the man's face flushed at the implication.
"Are you suggesting something improper, Miss Whitfield?" Lady Ashworth's voice could have frozen fire, though Clara noticed Miss Penelope hiding a smile behind her teacup.
"I'm suggesting nothing at all, my lady, merely observing that His Grace's matrimonial prospects seem to have attracted an unusual level of attention from parties who might benefit from an alliance with the Ashbourne estate."
