Scarsdale slammed his fist on the table, rattling Eris’s leftover porcelain plate. “I knew it!” he exclaimed triumphantly.
Landon cursed. Fishing a small purse from inside his jacket, he tossed it past Clayton, the sack landing with a noisy jingle near Scarsdale’s fingertips.
“You . . . ?” Perplexed, Clayton couldn’t get out the rest of that thought. He couldn’t make anything of the bizarre exchange unfolding before him now.
“I knew it!” Scarsdale exclaimed again. Kicking his legs up, he rested his boots on the edge of the breakfast table.
“You knew?”
The other man shrugged. “It wasn’t difficult to see.”
“Except, apparently, for me,” Landon mumbled under his breath. “How long?”
Clayton drew a breath. Forever. It was as though his and Sylvia’s souls had been connected before they even met, and that relationship cemented upon their first meeting on the side of Lady Waverly’s ballroom floor. “From the moment she made her Come Out.”
“God dammit.” Landon took out another small bag of coins and hurled those earnings over at a laughing Scarsdale.
The moment the other man’s laughter died down, Clayton collected the newspaper and returned to his seat. He read through the front page before handing it back over for Landon’s perusal.
“Why would anyone do this to you and Lady Norfolk?” Landon asked, scanning the words on that vile sheet. “You are probably two of the nicest people. Present self excluded, of course.”
“Of course,” Scarsdale said sarcastically.
“Norfolk’s father,” he clipped out.
That managed to again silence both men for a moment.
Taking care to leave out any and all details of what Sylvia had revealed about Norfolk’s death, Clayton shared everything else about his dealings with Lord Prendergast . . . and the man’s ruthless determination to see his grandson.
When he finished, they remained quiet.
Landon’s cheeks were a sickly shade of grey.
Clayton straightened in his chair. “What is it?”
“I’m so sorry,” Landon said, his voice weak. “He came to me, asking if I could help arrange a meeting between you and he.” Gentleman Jackson’s. “It was his idea . . . to meet at that place. Said he wanted to watch Scarsdale and me because of how Norfolk used to love boxing. Claimed he felt closer to his son.” Which was not unlike some of the subtly coercive words he’d used to bring Clayton around to doing his bidding. “I didn’t know,” the other man said on a rush, misinterpreting the reason for Clayton’s silence. “I thought I was helping. I thought—”
Clayton squeezed his arm. “It is not your fault. The man is a master manipulator, and he has been attempting to exploit us all.” And now the marquess was playing a different game. One that threatened Sylvia’s right to her own child.
“Why are you still here, St. John?” Scarsdale asked.
“Where should I be?”
His friend eyed him like he had two heads. “Wait, after sharing everything you’ve shared about Lady Norfolk, you really still believe you should be here?” Scarsdale leaned forward. “If you love her, why are you here even now with us miserable buggers?”
Why . . . indeed?
A hand touched his shoulder, and Clayton looked over at an uncharacteristically solemn Scarsdale. “For too long, you’ve worried about too much. Don’t let fear of what others might think, or what might happen to you, keep you from your happiness . . . again.”
Landon nodded, adding his support.
Clayton needed to go to her. He needed to see her now. Even as it was likely the worst thing to do for the increased scrutiny they would receive, he had to see her. With their names twisted and twined with scandal and gossip. Because everything between him and Sylvia was good and pure. Oh, society would never see it that way. Because society cared about an image of propriety. They, with their false outrage and sense of offended morals. And yet . . . it was not as uncomplicated as his friends believed it was.
“Go to her,” Scarsdale urged. “Don’t be a damned fool like I was, man.”
He is right . . .
And it was as though Clayton were suddenly free. As if the chains he’d placed upon himself, restraints that had kept him from surrendering completely to Sylvia and a future with her, were broken.
He took off flying from the breakfast room . . . and collided squarely with a servant who had the inopportune timing of being in the entryway at that particular moment.
The small young man, Jones, went sprawling square on his arse, while a slightly unsteady Clayton managed to maintain his feet.
“I hope that’s not a sign,” Landon whispered loud enough for Clayton to hear.
Yes, he hoped the same thing.
“He didn’t fall,” Scarsdale pointed out, shielding his mouth as he spoke.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Jones stammered from where he still lay on the floor. “Company arrived for your sisters, and when I informed her that they weren’t here, she insisted that she would wait. And—”
Stretching out a hand, Clayton helped the servant to his feet. He really didn’t have time for this. There was the matter of trying to convince Sylvia he was worth marrying.
“I have important affairs to see to; handle it as you would.” With that, Clayton took off running once more down the hall, calling for his horse as he went.
“I did. But, my lord, your sisters aren’t here—”
Whatever else Jones intended to say was lost as Clayton reached the next corridor and nearly ran headfirst into a maid.
The young woman gasped but managed to stay on her feet. “Forgive me, my lord.” It was official: overeager servants were determined to get in his way, and delay a proposal that was years overdue. “I was advised to find you and—”
Clayton continued on and reached the foyer to find his butler in wait with the door partially open. At least someone in his household staff was not determined to thwart him.
“Thank you,” Clayton called, not breaking stride as he stepped out the open door and into the street and— “Sylvia!” She had been the one waiting for his sisters. Of course.
Halfway inside the carriage, she froze. “Clay . . . Lord St. John!” Ignoring the offer of help from the servant, Sylvia scrambled down and, lifting her skirts as she went, glided toward him as if they’d met in a parlor.
And he hated that she had corrected herself in using his Christian name. He hated that formality because he wanted only the intimacy that had begun as a secret years ago, and had grown between them.
They met at the bottom of the steps of his townhouse. Just as much as he wanted to hear his name fall freely from her lips, he wanted to invite her in . . . and he hated that his sisters had not yet returned, and the perception that would come from her joining him inside. Instead, they’d be forced to steal several moments as if they were passersby compelled to exchange pleasantries.
He lowered his voice. “I heard . . . read . . . the gossip, and I am sorry. So sorry.”
She waved off that apology. “Do not be, Clayton.” The breeze toyed with those artful curls she always left to dangle at her shoulder, and he ached to gather them in his fingers as he’d done when they were alone. When they made love. And yet for the intimacy of this exchange, he was suddenly aware of the interested glances cast their way from residents in their windows. Sylvia brushed the strands back, and he envied her that touch and freedom. “You were correct,” she said softly. “That was one of the reasons I wished to see you. To tell you that. Rather, to thank you. I should have had the courage to follow through with the demand for justice. I didn’t. Instead, I made a deal with the Devil, and because of that . . . here we are.” Her voice trailed off.
A pair of elderly matrons, holding the leads of two noisy pugs, came marching down the pavement. Neither woman made any effort to conceal her bald curiosity. And as Clayton and Sylvia stepped apart, allowing them to pass, it served as a reminder that their every mo
ve was being scrutinized. Making a show of holding out his elbow, he offered her an escort back to her carriage. They made a very slow stroll.
“How can I help you?” he whispered as they walked. Anything. Whatever she asked. Clayton would marry her to save her reputation, and make sure her son remained in her care. But now, he also realized, he would marry her even if there was no reason at all. That was, beyond the love he felt for her.
“An emergency meeting of the Mismatch Society was called today.”
And he had not been invited. Of course, it made sense. They couldn’t very well have the fellow whose name had been linked present. But still, he wanted to have been included. Because he loved her. Because she was his friend.
“The general consensus is that the situation is very dire. The options to restore my reputation are few. My mother suggested marriage.”
Clayton’s heart skipped a beat, and then fell with her next words. “I thought on it a good deal . . . I don’t want a marriage because of necessity. One of convenience. I already had that. One where I was a responsibility.”
It wouldn’t be that with her. Yes, he’d reentered her life for the very reasons she hated and spoke against now. But deep down, it had been about something more. He knew that now. He couldn’t say as much. “Of course,” he said, his voice wooden to his own ears.
They reached the carriage, and he made to hand her up, but Sylvia ignored that offer of help. “And then I realized something . . .”
“What was that?”
She craned her neck back to meet his gaze. “It wouldn’t be any of that. Not with you. Yes, of course it would be convenient, given the circumstances. But that isn’t why I would marry you . . . why I want to marry you. I would do so because I love you.” Her eyes softened. “I love you,” she repeated.
Clayton’s ears . . . They could not make sense of it. Of what she’d now said twice. What was she saying?
“I have loved you forever,” Sylvia said softly. “I am asking you to marry me, not because you feel you have to. But because you want to. Want to, as I want to marry you. And I know what you are thinking.”
He was glad one of the two of them did.
For he could make less sense of the latter part than the former. Sylvia . . . not only loved him . . . she was also asking him to marry her?
“You think this is about respectability and . . . the gossip sheets. And Vallen.”
Nay, he couldn’t put together one thought, let alone all those she’d strung together.
“And yes, given the circumstances, it would certainly be convenient. But that isn’t the reason I’m asking you to marry me. You are the reason. When I am with you, I am happy.” And in the greatest contradiction, a glassy sheen filled her eyes. He caught one of those tears as it rolled down her cheek. A watery laugh bubbled past her lips. “I always was, with you. And then I forgot to smile and laugh, and you reminded me how to do all those things again.”
And you came to her on a lie. You came to her in what began as her being one more responsibility . . . and she will hate you if she knows that. She will question whether your motives were driven by a sense of obligation instead of friendship.
Sylvia’s full lips quivered, and her smile faltered. “You don’t want to.”
“No.”
Her hands released his, leaving his palms cold and empty. “I see.”
My God, no. “Not no. Yes. I mean, yes. Yes, I love you.” Clayton’s voice shook—his entire body shook from the force of his emotion. “I have loved you from the moment I met you, Sylvia.”
“I don’t . . . under . . .” Sylvia stopped, and then tried again. “You . . . do?”
“I was a damned fool.” About so much, and for so long. Clayton moved his gaze over the cherished planes of her face. “I was scared. Scared of what my fate held and what that would mean to any woman I left behind. Scared I was undeserving of you, because I wasn’t good enough for you.”
“Why? Why?” she whispered. “Why would you ever think that? I thought you only saw me as a friend. Just a friend.”
“I was so determined to see you happy, not even allowing myself to imagine a future with you as my wife, if it meant that you could have the grand love you were deserving of.” Which he had thought Norfolk could provide her. God, he had been wrong about so much. He glanced over the top of her head to the steady stream of carriages passing by. “I thought I would be just fine with that sacrifice, but only destroyed myself and broke my heart when I saw you marry him.” He briefly closed his eyes and relived the hell of watching her walk down the aisle to meet another man, lifting his glass in many marriage toasts to Sylvia’s future with another. Even to this day, he struggled to breathe from the pain of that.
When he opened his eyes again, he found Sylvia’s tears falling freely. “You foolish, foolish man,” she said, lightly pounding her fists against his chest.
“Yes, I have been. But I’m determined to never be so again where you are concerned. I will marry you as long as you promise to be my partner in every aspect of life . . .”
“Clayton, Clayton, we will always be best friends.”
Sylvia flung herself into his arms, and Clayton caught her to him. Laughing, she touched her mouth to his. And this, her in his arms and the promise of a future together laid out before him as a reality, was only all he’d ever wanted.
Reality, however, had a way of rearing its ugly head. He wanted all the things he’d just said, but he also wanted the absolute truth between them. He’d not have a lie clouding over that happiness, for then it could never be a true happiness. And it was that which chased away what should have been unadulterated joy, replacing it with a dread that tightened all the muscles of his belly. Reluctantly, he broke that kiss. “I need to—”
“Clayton is kissing Sylvia!” Eris cried. “Ew. Ew. Ew. Yuck.”
Not that. He certainly did not need that.
All seven of them, to be exact. Clayton looked off toward the owner of that very public pronouncement. And cursed his and their timing. Like a small army on the march, the Kearsley sisters streamed down the pavement toward him and Sylvia.
“Kissing a lady in the street is sure to garner attention, and more attention is not something either of you are in need of,” his mother said, loud enough to be heard by all, and Clayton flinched. She and her contingent of daughters reached them. “Granted, I mind it less if there is marriage and love involved,” the viscountess prattled. “Not that marriage need be involved. As long as love is.” Clayton’s mother looked back and forth between Clayton and Sylvia.
“There is . . . both,” Sylvia supplied. She nudged him in the side.
“Yes, both.”
Clayton’s mother clapped her hands. “Splendid! Not that I am one to require marriage for something as innocuous as kissing to occur, but other mothers?” She cleared her throat in an exaggerated manner. “Such as your mother, dear,” she said on an equally obscenely loud whisper that sent Clayton’s hand up to reflexively cover his eyes. “She would, I suspect, worry.” Looping her arm through Sylvia’s, the viscountess led Sylvia off. “Now, come. We shall celebrate first with our families before the public announcement.”
And as the Kearsley women swarmed Sylvia, she stole a bemused glance over her shoulder back to where Clayton stood, left behind . . . trying to figure out how in hell to tell her now.
Chapter 26
All the ton was talking about Sylvia and Clayton still. But the gossip had shifted, and what once had been viewed as sordid was now a great romance. And the only thing Polite Society devoured more than someone’s downfall was an unexpected and unlikely love story.
As such, there had definitely been more sighs at this latest Mismatch Society meeting than at all the other meetings to come before it. A surprising amount, given that what had brought most of them together was their disdain for anything romantic.
At that particular moment, the latest of the sighers was the eldest of Clayton’s sisters. “How very—”
> “Progressive.”
Anwen favored Cora with a frown. “I was going to say ‘romantic.’”
“Yes, I agree it is both,” her younger sister said. “However, I prefer we lead with progressive. Lord knows a society of independent ladies has already gotten far enough away from our original intent.”
Annalee held her silver flask aloft. “I’ll drink to that.” As the young lady lifted it to her mouth, Valerie leaned over and neatly slipped it from the other woman’s hand. She set it down at her feet, away from Annalee.
“Spoiler of good times,” Annalee groused. “We should acknowledge in some way that we’ve moved dangerously far away from what we’d set out to do.”
“What did you set out to do?” Sylvia’s mother, who’d shockingly decided to remain on as a member, looked around the room. “What was . . . the original intent?” she asked when no one made any effort to elaborate.
Leave it to Clayton’s perfectly wonderful and eccentric mother to expound on that question. “To break down marriage.”
The dowager countess fluttered a hand about her breast, fishing for the chain that dangled at her throat. “That . . . was real?”
“Very much so,” Miss Dobson confirmed.
Wilting in her seat, Sylvia’s mother grabbed her smelling salts and sniffed.
“Worry not, Hettie . . . Some of the girls have not entirely disavowed the state. Why, your daughter is marrying . . . that is . . . if she doesn’t change her mind and wish to retain her inde—”
“Oh, goooooood.” Sylvia’s mother collapsed against the back of her seat, and with a wry grin, Clara fanned the older woman.
Seated next to one another on the painted canapé sofa, Sylvia and Clayton shared a smile.
Yes, the dowager countess may be close to fainting, but she’d unconditionally and staunchly stood beside Sylvia through the whirlwind of a scandal . . . and she was here now, attempting to be part of the Mismatch Society. And it was also the closest Sylvia had ever felt to her mother in the whole of her twenty-seven years.
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