CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Clare sat curled in the corner of the settee, a book open in her lap, though she hadn’t turned a single page in over twenty minutes. The words blurred together, unread and unabsorbed, her mind too preoccupied with the events of the morning.
Her mother’s unexpected arrival had upended everything.
She had been so close. So agonizingly close.
This morning, when she’d stepped onto the doorstep, valise in hand, her heart pounding with the thrill of escape, she had felt freedom at her fingertips. And then—there she stood. Her mother. A force of nature in lace-trimmed traveling attire, looking down at Clare with that razor-sharp gaze of hers, suspicion nipping at the edges of her perfectly controlled expression.
Clare had fumbled for an explanation, but before she could form the words, the butler had arrived, his presence a temporary reprieve from Mama’s scrutiny. Then Meredith and Griffin had come down, bright and cheerful, welcoming their new house guest with warmth and ease, while Clare had seized the opportunity to slip away.
Back in her room, she had shoved the letters she’d left out into the depths of her drawer, pressed the valise to the farthest corner of her wardrobe, and locked away any lingering hope of escape.
She had waited too long.
And, infuriatingly, her mother had arrived too early.
The timing had been cruelly perfect. Clare had written to Mama last week, assuming she would arriveafterthe Merriweathers’ ball as planned. The ball that was scheduled for tonight.
Her mother, of course, had made quite the show of insisting that she and Clare stay in and rest. That a ball was frivolous, unnecessary. They would return to the countryside in the morning, away from prying eyes and whispered conversations.
Clare hadn’t argued. What did it matter? The only thing that had mattered—her escape—had been stolen from her.
But Meredith had been persuasive, as always. And eventually, Mama had relented, agreeing to allow Meredith and Griffin to escort Clare to the ball tonight.
“I hate to be the object of gossip,” her mother had said pointedly, the words laced with sharp-edged disapproval. Clearly indicating that Clare was the one responsible for the whispers. That she was the one who ought to be ashamed.
Clare had said nothing. She didn’t care whether she went to the ball. What difference did it make? She had lost her chance. The reality of her failure settled in her chest like lead.
She had been so close—so close to leaving this life behind, to disappearing before Ash could convince her to stay, before her mother could dictate her future, before Society could finish writing her story for her. And yet, she’d failed.
And she knew precisely why.
Her fingers curled tightly around the edges of her book.
It was Ash.
She’d been loath to leave Ash. So she had lingered too long. Held onto something that was never meant to last.
Now, she would have to wait until spring. There was no sneaking out of the country in the dead of winter. The servants there were all terrible gossips, and Clare had no doubt they would report any unusual behavior back to Mama. Not to mention the mail coachman would recognize her in an instant and ruinanyattempt at secrecy.
No. London was her only hope of escape. And after tonight, she wouldn’t be allowed to return until spring for her annual shopping trip with Mama.
At least Ash didn’t know what she had tried to do this morning. That she had planned to disappear without a word, to leave him behind without so much as a good-bye. He’d tried more than once to get her alone to talk today, but he soon learned how closely her mother watched her during waking hours.
Clare exhaled slowly, closing her book.
The only amusing part of the day had been watching Ash interact with Mama.
Clare was used to people fawning over her mother. To watching them bow and scrape, treating Mama as if she were some long-suffering saint, the most tragically put-upon mother in the entireton. She relished it, thrived on it, played the part of the martyr so well that even Clare, at times, almost believed it.
Meredith was one of the few who refused to indulge her, and today, Ash had done the same.
It had been unexpected. Startling, even. He had watched her mother with the same quiet calculation that Clare had come to know so well, but instead of playing along, instead of offering sympathies or praise, he had treated Mama as ifshewere the one who ought to be ashamed.
LUNCHEON HAD BEEN A BRITTLE AFFAIR.Clare sat rigidly beside her mother, Meredith and Griffin occupying either end of the table, while Ash sat directly across from the two ladies.
Clare maintained a carefully impassive expression while Meredith, ever gracious, attempted to draw her mother into conversation. Ash, meanwhile, seemed wholly uninterested in the soup, the silver, or the strained pleasantries—his attention remained fixed on Clare. She did not dare meet his gaze.
