"Our moral fortitude is currently scattered across the floor with our clothing, which, oh God, Gabriel, my dress is literally hanging from the candelabra. How did it even get there?"
"That was your doing, actually, during that particularly energetic moment when you declared you needed better leverage and apparently decided the candles needed fashion accessories."
Clara stared at the offending garment swaying gently in the morning breeze from the open window. Upon my word…”
"Indeed, right after you accused me of being insufficiently creative and challenged me to prove otherwise, which I believe I did quite thoroughly, judging by your response."
"My response was perfectly reasonable given the circumstances."
"Your response was to invoke several deities who probably weren't meant to be referenced in that particular context."
Before Clara could formulate a response that wouldn't further incriminate her, there was a knock at the door that had all the authority of someone who'd been knocking on that particular door for many a years and wasn't about to let something like potential scandal stop her now.
"Your Grace," Mrs. Potter's voice carried through the wood with remarkable clarity. "I'm coming in with fresh linens, and I'm giving you exactly thirty seconds to make yourselves presentable.”
"Did she just…" Clara began.
"Acknowledge our complete lack of discretion while maintaining plausible deniability? Yes, that's Mrs. Potter's particular gift."
Clara dove for Gabriel's dressing gown while he pulled on his trousers with the speed of someone who'd learned to dress quickly under fire, though presumably his military training hadn't prepared him for this particular sort of invasion.
"Twenty seconds," Mrs. Potter announced, apparently counting down their humiliation.
"Can't you tell her to go away?" Clara hissed, fighting with the sleeves of the dressing gown that were approximately three times too long.
“You are, I do believe familiar with Mrs. Potter? She doesn’t pay heed to my authority on principle, and she's been waiting for this moment since we were children. She's probably prepared a speech."
"A speech?"
"Ten seconds," Mrs. Potter informed them with what sounded suspiciously like glee.
"About moral responsibility and the sanctity of matrimony and the importance of not scandalizing the household staff who definitely didn't have a betting pool on when this would happen."
"Five seconds."
Clara managed to tie the dressing gown while Gabriel achieved something approximating respectability with his shirt, though neither of them looked anything less than thoroughly debauched, especially with Clara's hair doing whatever it was doing and Gabriel's morning stubble combined with what could only be described as a supremely satisfied expression.
The door opened, and Mrs. Potter entered carrying linens that were clearly an excuse rather than a necessity. She took in the scene before her the destroyed bed, the dress on the candelabra, Clara drowning in Gabriel's dressing gown, Gabriel's inside-out shirt and made the tutting sound Gabriel had predicted.
"Well," she said, setting down the linens with deliberate calm. "I suppose congratulations are in order, though I might have hoped for a proper wedding ceremony before the consummation, but then young people today have no respect for the proper order of things."
"We're betrothed" Gabriel offered, as if that explained the hurricane that had clearly occurred in his bedroom.
"Oh, betrothal is it? And when did this occur? Before or after Miss Whitfield's dress decided to explore alternative locations?"
Clara felt her face flame. "Mrs. Potter, I can explain…"
“We shall be wed in a mere three weeks.” Gabriel said, pulling Clara against his side despite their audience. "The banns will be read starting this Sunday."
"Three weeks?" Mrs. Potter's eyebrows rose. "And what does Lady Agatha have to say about that?"
"Lady Agatha can say whatever she pleases from whatever distance she chooses to say it from. Her approval is neither required nor desired."
"She won't give up easily. That woman's like a terrier with a bone when she sets her mind to something."
"Then she'll have to gnaw on disappointment, because Clara and I are going to be wedded regardless of her machinations."
Mrs. Potter studied them both with the kind of look that suggested she was cataloguing everything for future reference or possible blackmail. "Miss Clara, your inheritance has been the talk of the servants' hall. Thirty five hundred pounds is quite a sum."
