She shook her head. “I came up with it as a name to call him for the time being. If his uncle is Italian, then he might be too, and Massimo is the only Italian name I know.”
“That makes sense. Better than calling him ‘that man’ anyhow. Pray, I have thought about what we should do next. Concrete steps. I think what we ought to do is speak to your parents first. Once we have managed that, we will take ourselves off to my country seat in Southampton, marry properly, and return with the correct documentation.”
Clara felt a sudden wave of nausea. Her parents. How was she going to explain any of this to her parents?
Her father would most likely be pleased, she reasoned. One of the things he had always cared about most was that his daughters were well placed in society, and she was now supposedly married to a duke. That much would sit well with him.
But her mother was another matter entirely. And then another thought struck her, and she sat up sharply.
“My godmother,” she said. “I was supposedly with her for the entirety of this past year. She would certainly know whether I was with child or not. What if my mother writes to her?”
He set down his knife. “That is a quandary, to be certain.” A short silence fell between them. “Were you out and about a great deal while you were in Scotland?”
She shook her head. “No. We spent most of the time at her estate in the Highlands. We did spend some time at her house in Edinburgh but only at the very beginning and at the very end. The majority of the time, we were in the country, and we saw very few people.”
“Good,” he said. “Then we will write to her by messenger today and tell her the truth. There are not many people who can know it, and we must limit that number, but your aunt must be one of them. Write to her at once.” He paused. “Then we will go and see your parents, and then we will set off for Southampton.” He nodded toward the spread before him. “But first, have some breakfast. It is going to be a lengthy day, and I do not want you to?—”
“Feel faint,” she finished for him. “I would not feel faint. Why would you say such a thing?”
His eyebrows rose. “Because the last time I saw you was at Arabella’s fourteenth birthday celebration, and you fainted from lack of eating.”
“That was?—”
“Foolish,” he said. “I remember it clearly. You had not eaten because you wished to fit into a certain gown.”
“That is not accurate,” she said, drawing herself up slightly. “The fashion of the day does not require one to show off one’s figure in any case. I was attending a costume ball, and I wished to wear a proper corset which is most uncomfortable on a full stomach. So, I had not eaten, not because of vanity but because of the corset.”
“So, you wished to fit into a costume,” he concluded, “and therefore did not eat. My point stands.” He winked at her. “You did look rather smashing in your costume, I will concede that.”
She rolled her eyes. “You need not pay me Spanish coin. Your point stands. And I have already begun eating.” She cut into her bread roll with considerable flourish, keeping her eyes on him as she did so, as if to challenge him to say another word on the subject.
What happened next was difficult to manage with any dignity.
She cut herself. Not with the bread knife, which would at least have been understandable, but with the butter knife, which took a certain clumsy talent.
She stared at her finger. A drop of blood appeared, then another.
“Clara,” Julian said.
He leaped up from his seat with such speed that his chair fell backward, striking the floor with a loud crack. Before she had quite processed what was happening, he was beside her and had taken her hand, turning it toward the light from the window to look at the cut.
His hands were warm and steady in stark contrast to the chaos with which he had crossed the room.
“It does not look too bad,” he said though he did not release her hand. He reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief, pressing it firmly around her finger. “Hold that tight.” He kept his hand over hers, pressing down. He was standing very close—close enough that she could smell the faint scent of wood and cedar that had lingered in the carriage last night. It was entirely improper, and worse, she found she didn’t want to pull away.
“It is a butter knife,” she said, trying to anchor herself.
“I am aware.”
“It is genuinely impressive that I managed to?—”
“It is,” he agreed, and she heard the amusement in his voice. “Do be quiet for a moment.”
She did though she made a mental note that she was choosing to do so and not simply obeying. She looked down at their hands. His were considerably larger than hers, his skin tanned from being outdoors. She wondered, distantly, whether he hadalways had such capable-looking hands or whether she was only noticing it now because the morning was so thoroughly upended.
“There,” he said, after a moment. “I think it has stopped.”
He lifted the handkerchief and examined the cut as intensely as if he were mapping a battlefield.
