Chapter 13
T he smoky hush of Brooks’s Club held the scent of leather and tobacco, mingling with the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of crystal tumblers.
The subdued rustle of newspapers and the soft flick of cards being dealt added to the symphony of masculine repose.
Crispin lounged in his usual chair near the hearth, a glass of brandy warming in his palm.
But tonight, the club felt less like a haven and more like a trap.
He wasn’t three sips into his drink, the sharp tang of brandy barely hitting his tongue before the first snide murmur cut through the lull, punctuating the club’s otherwise placid decorum.
The weight of stares prickled the back of his neck.
Shame curdled in his gut, mingling with a slow-blooming anger—at them, at himself.
“Still no wedding date?” Lord Amesbury’s voice carried just enough to sting as he passed.
“Perhaps he is rethinking this sudden urge for domestic bliss,” another muttered.
“Or she is,” came a third. “Heard the girl’s clever. Would not be the first to trap a rake in his own snare.”
Laughter, sharp and knowing, rippled around the card tables.
Crispin’s jaw flexed. He had built this reputation.
Libertine, heartbreaker, rake. Now, the weight of it pressed against his chest like a chain-mail of his own making.
Regret burned low and hot, curling in his chest. He shifted in his chair, the familiar leather suddenly too tight, too stifling.
He’d worn the mask so often it had become his face, but now, with Clara’s image lodged firmly in his mind, the armor felt too tight.
He stood abruptly. The scrape of his chair against the parquet startled a few nearby gentlemen.
“Going so soon, Oakford?” someone called.
“I have remembered better company,” he replied, tossing back the last of his brandy.
He left the smoky hush of Brooks’s behind, the laughter of his former compatriots echoing after him. London’s chill met him like a dare as he turned toward Belgrave Square—toward the one place that now felt less like escape and more like home.
The night was cool and damp, the kind of London evening that felt more ghost than weather—mist clinging to his coat, each breath a pale wisp swallowed by the dark.
It was a night for hauntings, and Crispin carried plenty of his own.
He walked quickly, each footfall along the cobblestones echoing the rhythm of his thoughts.
Clara.
He recalled that kiss in the garden. The memory clung like ivy—her lips on his, the feel of her thigh beneath his hand, and then the way she had torn herself away, eyes wide with something that looked too much like fear.
He had half a mind to leave her in peace, but the other half knew there could be no peace without her.
He arrived at her townhouse in Belgrave Square, the memory of her retreat in the garden still fresh—her lips parted, breath stolen, eyes full of something wild and afraid.
He could still feel the silk of her stocking against his palm, the heat of her mouth, and the hollow ache that had settled deep in his chest when she’d left him standing alone.
What had she said? “Not when I do not know where this ends.”
He meant it. Every damn second of it. And he knew where he wanted it to end. He took the long way round to the back gate. The same one he had slipped through two nights ago. The same one that had led him to ruin and revelation.
A footman, perhaps recognizing him, admitted him without question. He was led to the rear garden, where lanterns flickered low among the trellises, casting swaying shadows across the flagstones.
She was there. Waiting.
She wore a gown the color of moss in moonlight. The fabric shimmered in the lantern light, silken as it moved around her ankles, echoing the guarded vulnerability etched into her features.
“You came,” she said.
“Of course I did.” His voice was soft, unsure. He hesitated a moment, the confession trembling in his chest, then added, “I could not stay away.” His gaze lingered on her face, searching for a trace of forgiveness or welcome, but finding only silence between them.
She did not smile. Instead, she turned, gesturing for him to walk with her. Her shoulders held stiff, chin tilted in defiance as she took the first step along the path. Crispin noted the way her fingers curled at her sides, betraying the tension she tried so hard to hide.
He watched her closely, the silence heavy between them. Her lack of warmth settled like a stone in his stomach, twisting alongside a creeping uncertainty. Was she regretting their kiss, or merely guarding herself, as she so often did?
They followed the path that curled beside the hedgerow, the grass damp beneath their feet.
A stray rose petal stuck to the toe of her slipper.
The scent of the garden—roses, wet soil, and jasmine—curled between them, mingling with the soft crush of petals beneath their feet and the distant chirr of crickets hidden among the ivy.
Shadows danced across Crispin’s face as the lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, casting golden flickers that moved like whispered secrets over the garden walls.
“The Mayfair Whisper,” she said after a long silence, her tone brittle. Clara didn’t look at him, but her fingers twisted together. “My mother nearly choked on her toast.”
“It was vile.” He turned to face her. “And cowardly.”
Her brows rose, incredulous. “But not wrong.”
He hesitated. “There’s no truth in calling our engagement false.”
“Is there not?” she whispered.
The wind stirred the ivy. Crispin stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“Come away with me. Let the scandal fester while we disappear. I’ve made arrangements. My country house is quiet, private. Just a fortnight.”
“To hide?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s your answer to everything?”
He moved toward her, but she stepped back. “It is not hiding. It’s breathing.” He reached for her. “It is allowing you time.”
She looked away, jaw tight. He watched her profile, the defiant tilt of her chin, and remembered how she had looked just before fleeing the garden—conflicted, wounded. That moment had undone him, and seeing her now, just as closed off, threatened to do the same.
“I can not go.”
“You will not or you can not?”
“Both.”
He waited, hoping she would say more. But her silence was loud enough.
The echo of her refusal stayed with him through the night and into the next day. By the time Lady Everly’s dinner party began, Crispin had resolved to stop waiting for fate to choose for him.
Clara entered on his arm, dressed in a silver gown that shimmered with the cool gleam of starlight, her expression poised but her eyes flickering with something far less certain.
She maintained a careful smile, her posture impeccable, but the way her gaze slid past familiar faces without settling hinted at the storm beneath.
A slight clench of her jaw, a pause too long before a reply—she was hiding something, but he could not guess what.
To the others, she was the perfect fiancée. To Crispin, she was a locked door.
Dinner unfolded with a gilded rhythm. Laughter rose, glasses chimed, and the scrape of cutlery mingled with orchestrated pleasantries.
The scent of roasted duck and sugared pears hung in the air, but Crispin barely tasted the meal.
He watched Clara instead, the way she smiled just enough, how her hands never trembled but her eyes never lingered.
At the halfway mark of the meal, as a footman poured the next course of wine and a lull in conversation gave way to expectation, Lady Everly lifted her glass. Her voice rang clear through the din, calling for a toast.
Crispin rose.
Heads turned.
“I would like to make an announcement,” he said. His voice did not waver. “Lady Clara Mapleton and I are to be married six weeks from today.”
The room held its breath. Then came the murmurs, the widening eyes, the startled gasps.
Across from him, Clara froze, her fork suspended mid-air.
It was done.
Later, in a dim corridor between drawing rooms, she found him.
Clara offered a bitter laugh. “Six weeks?” she said.
He didn’t flinch. “You deserve more than speculation.”
“You did it for me?”
“I did it for us.”
She shook her head. “You did it because you are incapable of standing still. Incapable of considering the wishes of others.”
He took her hand. “I did it because I am tired of pretending I do not care.”
She tried to pull away. He held her fast.
“I want you for my wife. You have captured my heart, Clara.”
He kissed her.
This time, she kissed him back.
Their mouths met with hunger and heat. She melted into him, fingers fisting his coat. His hand found her waist, sliding lower, over the curve of her hip.
Her breath hitched. The candlelight flickered over their tangled silhouettes. Her thigh pressed against his. Her mouth parted under his kiss, deepening it, drawing him in.
He groaned.
Then—
She pulled back.
“I can not,” she breathed, voice hoarse. “Not yet.”
He stepped away, hands up, the scent of her still in his lungs.
“I understand.”
She looked at him. Truly looked, and for a moment, he saw not the wary society beauty, but the woman behind the armor. Brave, bruised, and far more than the world had ever allowed her to be.
“Do you?” she whispered.
“I do now. And I will wait.”
She nodded once and turned, retreating into the shadows. Crispin remained alone, heart pounding, his emotions burning through him like a fever he could not ignore.
He no longer doubted what he wanted. Or who.