Page 14 of Mail-Order Lady

“And the social position.” Margaret’s eyes brightened with enthusiasm that wouldn’t die. “The Whitfields are one of the oldest families in Charleston. You’d be welcomed into society in a way that—” She paused, and something careful entered her expression. “In a way that’s been difficult for us since your father’s business troubles began.”

Margaret released Clara’s hand to cup her cheek instead, the gesture achingly tender. “You’re so young, Clara. You don’t yet understand what it means to be secure. To never have to worry about money or position or what people think of you.”

The touch seemed to freeze Clara in place. She didn’t pull away, but her posture went rigid.

“Chester can provide all of that.” Margaret’s thumb brushed Clara’s cheekbone. “A life where you’ll never want for anything. Where you’ll be cherished and protected and provided for. Where doors will open for you that would otherwise remain forever closed.”

Clara’s gaze cut sideways—straight to him.

The desperation in her eyes hit him like a fist to the sternum. Not panic, but something worse. A silent plea from someone drowning who’d been taught it was impolite to cry for help.

An appeal that stripped away every careful boundary he’d built between wanting to help her and wanting her.

He was on his feet before he’d decided to move.

“Mrs. McKinney.” His voice came out level. Calm. Nothing like the roar building in his chest. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Margaret turned toward him with an expression of mild surprise, as if she’d genuinely forgotten he was in the room. The performance was flawless. “Mr. Balfour?”

He crossed the parlor in three strides and positioned himself behind Clara, resting his hands on her shoulders. She needed to feel she wasn’t alone in this.

“Clara isn’t free to return to Columbia. Nor to marry.” He kept his gaze on Margaret McKinney’s face, watching for the shift he knew would come. “She has obligations here.”

Margaret’s smile didn’t falter, but her fingers stilled where they’d been stroking Clara’s cheek. “I’m sure whatever arrangements she’s made can be⁠—”

“To her husband.”

The words dropped into the parlor like stones into still water.

Margaret’s hand fell away from Clara’s face. “I beg your pardon?”

“Clara is married. To me.”

CHAPTER 4

Clara is married.

The words hung in the parlor air like morning fog over a valley.

She could see the exact moment they reached her mother. She’d spent her whole life watching her mother’s face for that moment, the one where the facade slipped just enough to show what lay underneath.

It was only a fraction of a second, the warmth going glassy before becoming solid again.

“Clara is what?” Mother’s voice stayed perfectly modulated. Pleasant, even. The tone of a woman who had just heard something confusing and was sure there must be a simple explanation.

Robert’s hands stayed steady on Clara’s shoulders. The weight of them—solid, unhurried—soothed her, and she fixed her attention on their sturdiness while the parlor rearranged itself around her mother’s recalculation.

“Clara and I were married before leaving the ranch.” Robert’s voice came firm, leaving no room for confusion. “I apologize we didn’t mention it sooner. We should have.”

We should have. As if it were simply an oversight. As if he had been carrying this plan in his coat pocket since they left the ranch and had merely waited for the right moment to produce it.

Had he been planning to say this?

Her mother turned to face her.

Clara met her eyes and kept her expression still and open, the way she had learned to do in rooms where she was being assessed. Don’t react. Don’t confirm or deny. Wait.

“Clara.” Her mother’s voice came softer now. More private, as if Robert weren’t standing inches away. “Is this true?”