by Lavinia Kent
It would be easy to leave now and put off until tomorrow the consequences of this night, to wait until she knew what her mind wanted—she was afraid that she already knew what both her heart and body wanted.
Him.
Why could he not have said simple words, told her that he cared, told her that he wanted to be with her forever? Why had it all sounded so cold, so final? Why could he not have pushed aside her arguments with declarations of affection?
Why could he not have spoken of love?
Love.
She wanted to scoff at the word. He did not love her, and she most assuredly did not love him.
Only—perhaps she did. She hated herself for it—she needed a man who realized that her opinion held—but she had long recognized that the mind did not control the heart.
She was delaying.
Did she enter the ballroom or not? Did she face public disgrace now or on the new day?
Would anything be better in the morning? Be easier?
No. If she was going to brave this out, she would do it now.
She closed her eyes for one moment, granted herself one brief second of relief, and then placed a mask upon her face as surely as if it had been a masquerade. She would be confident and seductive, act like nothing had happened. She would be the coquette they all imagined her, but one far more powerful than they could have dreamed.
She ran a finger over her lips, feeling their tenderness. Swollen and red—it drove men crazy and made women jealous. Pinching her cheeks hard, she tried to draw color into them. Their pallor would be a certain mark that she was worried, and worry would betray all.
Strong. Confident. Unashamed.
Those were the qualities that would make them stop, make them question. She could survive questions if they were unsure, but wondering if she could have done this. It was only if they were positive they knew the answer that disgrace would fall.
So let them wonder.
She swallowed, pushing away the lumps that formed in her throat—her voice must be husky, but clear.
She started to pull her shoulders back, but softened them instead. This was not the moment for the warrior. She must act as if there was no battle to fight, act as if she had already won.
A slow, easy grin spread across her face, and she sashayed into the room. All society turned and stared, and she kept her smile fixed, the mask truly in place.
Nobody looking at her would have guessed her internal devastation. She was a woman returning from a stroll, nothing more.
She flashed a grin first at a man, then at a woman, letting all understand she would not be conquered.
She stepped forward and felt them part around her.
There must be a friendly face here, one she could count on. Her glance passed over Mrs. Struthers. She would be a help, but not quite what Clara needed.
Ah, it was almost as if the heavens had sent an answer to her prayer—the Duke of Brisbane. He stood on the far side of the room staring at her along with the rest of the crowd. His look was kind rather than condemning, however.
If Clara had been asked how he would react, she would not have been sure. They’d had a brief liaison at the start of her wild years, but had parted on good terms. She had always considered him a friend, but had been aware what a stickler he was for propriety. He would never have dallied with her if she had been anything but a rich widow.
The possibility that he would condemn her for her actions was real, but as she met his dark eyes across the room, she felt no doubt.
She fixed him in her gaze and walked toward him, refusing to look to either side.
“Lady Westington.” His voice was cool and deep.
“Brisbane.” She could only hope she betrayed no tremor of uncertainty.
He continued to look at her, appraising, his mind still not made up. She could only stand and wait.
He held out his hand. “Would you care to accompany me in the country dance that is beginning?”
She grasped his hand in welcome.
Maybe she really could survive this.
Brisbane’s arm was hard beneath her grasp as she let him lead her to the floor. The murmur of whispers followed her with every step.
He paused at the edge of the floor and leaned his head toward her, creating a moment of intimacy between them, an island of quiet in the storm. “Has he asked you to marry him? Do you need me to do some persuading?”
Did every single person think there was only one answer to her dilemma? “He did. I said no.”
She could feel his shock. Those dark eyes widened and then grew tight, his lips tensed. “You will have to rethink that or not even I can help.”
“Cannot or will not?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He drew in an angry breath. “Does it matter? I am here. I am your friend, but there are limits.”
“Of course. I am sorry. I am amazed that you even risked this dance. I know how you value your reputation.”
“Tonight the jury still deliberates. Few will risk a direct cut until they see in which direction the tide flows. I suggest that you make sure that it flows in your favor.”
She could only nod as he led her onto the floor and they began the intricate moves of the dance, the pace and changing of partners allowing no further conversation.
Focusing solely on the music and the movement of feet and hands, she tried to block out everything else. Step, turn, step. Smile, nod, bow, smile. If she thought of nothing the world would keep moving and she could pretend for a few brief seconds that all was right.
Then the music slowed and stopped, and Brisbane was leading her to the edge of the floor. The murmur of gossip met her ears and she could hear her name whispered. Brisbane gave her hand one firm squeeze and then released her.
“Do the correct thing,” he murmured.
She only wished that she knew what that was.
He did not walk away, but even with him standing next to her, she could feel that magic circle that surrounded her once again.
“You don’t need to stay with me,” she whispered to Brisbane while keeping a smile plastered on her face.
“I know,” he said as he peered about the room, catching anyone who looked askance with a heavy glare. One unfortunate was even treated to the lifted monocle and narrowing of the eyes.
It was almost enough to cause a hysterical giggle to rise up in her throat. The whole world seemed askew.
“Oh Clara, how could you?” Violet’s voice asked from behind. “I thought better of you.”
Brisbane coughed. “I believe that is my cue to find another drink.” He nodded politely at Violet and faded into the crowd.
“Why on earth would you have thought better of me? I would have thought we have been friends long enough for you to know there are few things I wouldn’t do,” Clara answered, trying to pretend she was lighthearted about the whole matter.
“Oh, not disappointed about that. You were merely unlucky to be caught—although perhaps you should have locked the door. No, I refer to being involved with my brother. I thought you had better taste.”
“I thought a few weeks ago you were on the point of encouraging such a relationship. I seem to remember discussion of a dinner party invitation. And there is nothing wrong with your brother. Masters is a wonderful man. It is not his fault that things turned out as they did.” She found herself rising to his defense as naturally as a mother protects her young—although she certainly had not the slightest maternal feeling about the man.
She turned more fully to Violet and caught the edge of a knowing look. “I do mean it,” she continued. “Despite your own qualms about him, he is always trying to act in the best way he can. It is merely that he cares too much sometimes, I believe.”
Even as she spoke she saw him. He had entered the room from the doors leading to the long gallery and stood surveying it like a hawk looking for prey. His eyes locked on her, and she knew she was his target. From across the room she could feel the pull of his glance. Her
feet turned toward him of their own accord. Her toes curled under as she fought not to walk toward him, to resist the powerful draw.
“If you think so highly of him, then why do you refuse his offer to make you an honest woman?” Violet’s question caught Clara off guard as she stared back at Masters.
It still felt as if he’d cast a rope across the room and caught her tight. It pulled ever harder, until she felt that she had no choice but to follow.
“I can see I’ll talk no sense into you now.” Violet’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “I’ll call in the morning and we can discuss this matter in great detail. I may be unsure of my own feelings for my brother, but there is little choice for you.”
Clara lost the meaning of Violet’s words as she saw Miss Thompson approach Masters and watched as the daring young miss pushed him backward through the doors from which he had just arrived.
“You’ll have to marry me now,” Miss Thompson demanded as he found himself bodily pushed back into the long gallery. He would not have thought such a slight thing could be so strong. Resisting would, of course, have been no difficulty, but he didn’t want to risk more of a scene than was already being caused.
“There is already talk about us. We cannot be alone.” He shoved a foot in the door before it could close. He was six inches of open space away from compromising a second woman for the night.
“That is why we must wed.”
“But it was not you.” He could only stare at her as if she had gone slightly insane.
“I know that and you know that, but nobody else seems to.” Miss Thompson tried to reach around him to grab the door handle.
He didn’t care how hard she tugged it. His foot was not moving. “I do believe that we are not the only ones who know.”
She shook her head. “Of course I realize that. But it doesn’t matter. You must marry me. My reputation has been ruined.”
He did feel a gasp of responsibility. If he had not allowed their names to be publicly linked, then she would never have been suggested as his partner. “I do apologize for that, but I assure you that it will be quickly realized that you were not involved. I understand the gossip all involves a brunette. I do not believe that anybody could mistake your golden locks.”
His remark did not please her. Her brows drew together and she glared, her eyes colder than a January sea. “It was Lady Westington then. I should have guessed that she would never have been so helpful in arranging our match if she did not have her own motivations. She was clearly angling for this all along.”
“I can only assure you that she did all in her power to ensure that you and I became better acquainted.” It was the truth. Clara had worked hard to find him the bride he thought he wanted. If only he had realized sooner what it was, who it was that he truly did want.
“Does everything in her power include fucking you every chance she got?” There was true anger in Miss Thompson’s voice.
He could only stare at her. He had never even heard a woman use such language before. Clara might be provocative, but she was never vulgar. “I have not said that it was Lady Westington.”
“You don’t need to, and even if it was not I don’t care. You are supposed to marry me. You were going to ask me tonight.”
The worst thing was that he couldn’t deny it. He had been going to ask her. “I can only offer you my most humble apologies.”
“No, that is not all you can do. You can ask me to wed you as you indicated you would.” Miss Thompson kept her voice down, but it still felt as if she were screaming. He would have felt anger in return were it not for the clear sign of unshed tears in her eyes. “I will not be left behind for some brazen strumpet. The whole world knows of her and her lovers. I can’t believe I ever thought she might be a decent woman, a lady.”
“I can assure you that she is every bit a lady.” It was easy to lose sympathy quickly when she spoke like that about Clara.
Miss Thompson drew herself to her full height, almost reaching his nose. “Well, if you want to keep her that way, I suggest we set a date soon. It will still any rumors that it was she in the library, and once we are wed my own reputation will be restored. I will let it be known how in love we are and that we could not wait. Of course, our engagement will have actually taken place earlier in the garden. I am sure your sister Lady Carrington will support our story. Should we not become engaged, however, I fear that the rumors about Lady Westington may be quite vicious. That would be such a pity, wouldn’t it?”
Yes, it could be very hard to feel sympathy.
Chapter 18
Clara lay in her bed, a pillow over her face. She could not remember having lived through a worse night. The night after Michael had died had been a nightmare, but there had been an emotional numbness that had blocked her from the worst of reality.
Last night had not been like that. If anything, the world had moved slower, every detail clear. There had been no pointed comment, no cut direct, but everyone had given her that second glance or moved to avoid contact with her. Judgment might not have been rendered, but it was clearly not far off.
She had lived on the edge of scandal for years, and had thought she could handle it with grace. There was, however, a great difference between almost a scandal and being caught in the thick of it.
And her pregnancy was not even known. There would be no way she could keep the child with her now. Her hand dropped to her stomach. She still could not feel the baby move within her, but she was ever more conscious of its presence.
She needed to act for both of them.
And then there was Robert. The date of his wedding to Jennie was finally set and Lord Darnell seemed pleased. How would he act when he heard what had happened?
If she didn’t marry Masters, her world as she knew it was done. Last night she had spoken of choice, but in truth there was very little.
She could move to the far north or even to the Americas. She could use a different name and pretend the baby belonged to a deceased husband. Money, of which thankfully she had plenty, could solve many problems. But life as she knew it would be over.
Or she could marry Masters.
Her belly knotted at the thought.
In so many ways, it was everything that she wanted.
But in even more ways, it was not.
He would never see her as his equal if they came together in these circumstances. In all else she had held her own with him, given as good as she got.
Now she would be in his debt. He, the man, could survive this. It might even enhance his reputation.
She could not.
But did she have a choice?
In truth, no, she did not.
Throwing the pillow across the bed, she pushed up on her elbows and stared across her bedroom. The feminine, comforting appointments had always given her pleasure. Now they seemed to mock her, demonstrating all she had that was lost.
Masters’s house was distinctly dour. It was hard to imagine how she could make it a home.
She was whining.
And of all the things she had been in her life, a whiner was not one of them.
She swung her feet off the edge of the bed and stood on the cold floor. A good splash of icy water and she’d put herself to rights.
Violet had said she would call this morning, and while a morning call normally did not actually mean before noon, Clara had a feeling that in this case it did.
She picked a cloth from the basin and began to scrub her face. Somehow, she would make this all work. She might have no choice, but that didn’t mean she had no power.
She would make her own decisions in her own way. She didn’t need Violet’s help or anybody else’s.
Masters strode across his study. His agent had sent the latest accounts down from his estates. He stared at the pages of figures, trying to make sense of them.
He needed distraction—distraction from the decisions he had to make.
Damn, the situation had been difficult enough before Miss Thompson had ma
de her demands. Now it was impossible.
Why the bloody hell couldn’t Clara have just agreed to marry him at the beginning? It had not been an elegant or thought-out proposal, but it had been sincere.
He had been slow in realizing what he wanted, but from the moment he had not asked Miss Thompson to marry him, he had been definite.
Clara was it. Clara or nobody.
Only now the world had tilted.
Clara did not wish to marry him, despite facing certain disgrace if she did not. Did she really find him so distasteful?
No, she was just being stubborn, refusing to see what should have been plain and simple.
Numerous curses ran through his mind as he considered just how wrongheaded she was being.
If only she were here to argue with him, to make him understand her reasoning. Then he could have tried to fight it, to make her see why his way was so sensible, so right for both of them.
“If you stare any harder at that portfolio, you’re going to burn a hole right through it.” Violet’s voice sounded from the doorway.
He turned toward her with a scowl that softened immediately as he saw the concern deeply etched in her expression. “Good morning, sister.”
“I don’t see what’s good about it.” She took the thought from his mind, making no pretense at social niceties.
He raised a brow.
“Oh, don’t even think of looking at me like that,” she exclaimed. “You know as well as I why it is a horrid day. I’ve just been to see Clara and been told she is not receiving. She has never refused me before. She knew why I wanted to see her.”
“Perhaps that’s why she refused. She certainly has a mind of her own.” He felt his own mood darken at the thought. Clara was in need and he could not help, or she would not accept the help that he could offer. Only his failure to find Isabella had ever left him feeling so powerless. And even there he had his own shameful motivations and fears.
Now he did not. Even his personal feeling and desire for marriage to Clara were secondary to his desire to spare her.
He clenched his fists in frustration. “Why can’t she let me help her?”