Chapter 15
T he next morning broke soft and gray, as if London itself had paused to hold its breath.
Clara stood by her window, forehead resting against the cool glass, and watched the drizzle gather on the panes.
The city stretched before her, bustling and indifferent, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that everything had changed.
Because it had.
The kiss in the garden still warmed her.
It thrummed beneath her skin like the echo of a harp string, impossible to hush.
Not because it had been stolen, but because she had given it.
Freely. Deliberately. She had kissed Crispin back with a heart not shackled by pretense but aching with possibility.
And he…he had responded with a reverence that frightened her more than all her mother’s ambitions combined.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, the warmth of his kiss still lingering there. It had not been a game. She had felt it in his hands, in the way he had held her as if afraid she might vanish.
In the breakfast room, her mother chattered on about fabric samples and flowers, punctuating her words with the occasional pat of her napkin against her wrist or an absent stir of tea.
But Clara barely registered the words. She offered nods and vague murmurs, her mind elsewhere, still caught in the garden shadows and the memory of the press of Crispin’s mouth against hers.
By midday, she could bear it no longer. She scribbled a quick note and made her excuses, retreating to the carriage with a heart thudding too loud in her chest. But she didn’t go shopping. She didn’t visit friends.
She instructed the driver to take her to Eden’s Mayfair townhouse, the one with ivy climbing the cream-stone facade and windows that always seemed to glow with warmth—even on a rainy afternoon such as this.
Eden greeted her with a knowing smile. “You look as if you haven’t slept.”
“Because I scarcely did.”
“Oh dear. Come in,” Eden reached for Clara’s hand.
The drawing room was warm and inviting, bathed in afternoon light and filled with the scent of violets. Clara entered, Eden’s calm presence steading her just as it always had.
“You saw the papers?” Eden asked gently.
Clara nodded. “Everyone has.”
Eden didn’t press. She simply poured the tea, let the silence stretch, and offered her the chance to speak when ready.
“I kissed him,” Clara whispered.
“In the garden?” Eden asked, not at all surprised.
Clara nodded again. “It felt… inevitable.”
Eden reached for her hand. “What do you want, Clara? Not what your mother wants. Not what society whispers. You.”
Clara stared at the teacup in her hands. Her fingers tightened around it. “I want to be certain. I want to know this is real.”
“And is it?”
Clara did not answer.
Later that evening, the Blackstones hosted a ball. A grand affair, bursting with London’s elite. Clara wore soft blue silk and pearls. Her hands trembled as she adjusted her gloves. Somewhere, she knew, Crispin waited.
She found him in the conservatory. It was quiet there, the glass walls beaded with rain. He stood by a lemon tree, his hands clasped behind his back, his profile solemn.
He turned as she approached. “Clara.”
She swallowed. “I came to say something, but I am not sure how.”
He waited, giving her the space to begin.
“This... this started as a performance. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a role. I stopped pretending.”
His eyes darkened. “I have not pretended in weeks.”
Clara stepped closer. “But I was still afraid. Of what it would mean to want you. To choose you.”
He reached for her hand. His touch was warm. “What are you afraid of now?”
“That I want you too much.”
He drew her against him, his breath feathering over her cheek. “Then stop running.”
She did.
Their lips came together, slower this time, but no less fierce. The kiss built like a tide, rolling through her with a power she had not expected. Her fingers curled into his coat. His hands slid around her waist, anchoring her.
They broke apart only to breathe, and then his mouth was on hers again, urgent now, hungry. Clara felt the boldness ripple through her. Tonight, she kissed him back with the full knowledge that this choice was hers alone.
“Clara,” he whispered against her skin. “Come with me.”
She did not ask where. She only nodded.
Crispin’s townhouse was quiet when they slipped through the front door.
Clara paused just inside, her heart a jittery cadence, the silence around them thick with the thrill of secrecy and something more, a daring hope.
The soft click of the door behind them sounded impossibly loud, underscoring the intimacy of the moment.
The cool marble beneath her slippers gave way to plush rug, grounding her in the choice she had made. Not reckless, but real.
Anticipation thrummed between them with the knowledge that this night was theirs alone. Her pulse quickened as Crispin took her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles with silent understanding.
A fire had been lit in the drawing room, casting golden shadows that flickered across the walls and danced over the edges of the polished wainscoting.
The flames reflected in Crispin’s eyes, turning them to molten amber as the light caught in the strands of his hair.
Shadows moved with a quiet grace across the ivy-framed windows and rich wooden paneling, drawing the room into their private world, soft, golden, and waiting.
Earlier, Clara had penned a note to her mother, claiming a headache and urging her to stay at the party—a fib shaded with truth.
Her hand had trembled slightly as she wrote, the ink pooling at the curve of each letter like held-in breath.
Her thoughts churned—was it guilt tightening her chest, or the giddy weight of anticipation?
Perhaps both, tangled together like threads she could not separate.
But when she sealed the message, a quiet thrill rushed through her—not of deception, but of decision.
For once, she wasn’t being steered by duty. She was claiming the course herself.
Now alone with Crispin, she felt a rush of heady anticipation.
Her breath caught, a flutter rising in her chest with the wild tumble of emotions pressing against her ribs.
Clara’s hand lingered in his, the contact sparking along her nerves.
For a heartbeat, she stood motionless, absorbing the intimacy of the moment, the hush, the heat, the knowledge of what she had chosen.
A sensation stirred deep within her, not just desire, but something richer, fuller, an aching hope that curled low and whispered of belonging. Not fear. Not entirely. But a daring, vulnerable hope that tonight, this man, might be the beginning of something irrevocably hers.
He led her through shadowed halls, past portraits and polished banisters, to his bedchamber.
The room was aglow with soft lamplight, firelight dancing across the walls and casting gentle movement over Crispin’s features.
She watched as the golden light slid over his collar and into the dip of his throat, the subtle rise and fall of his breath mirroring the rhythm of her own.
The carved bedposts gleamed, silk shimmered faintly under the shifting light, and every flicker felt like a heartbeat.
The scent of beeswax lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the faint smoke of the hearth.
A hush settled over the space, thick with expectation and the quiet pulse of desire.
Clara crossed to the window. She drew the curtain aside and looked down at the dark garden, the sheeted rose beds, the hedges clipped into silhouettes that belonged to another season.
Crispin watched her from the threshold, unable to move for a moment.
He had imagined her here so many times—always some shade of defiant, always exactly as herself.
She turned, and when she met his gaze, there was no fear in it, only something bright and alive.
“Clara,” he said.
She did not answer, only held out her hand.
He came to her. Their bodies made a strange mirror at first—she standing by the window, him just inside the glow, neither quite willing to break the last thin film of civility.
But her hand was warm in his, and when he drew her near, he could feel the wild hammer of her pulse at her wrist. She pressed her other palm to his chest, fingers splayed, as if to test the boundary between his skin and hers.
“Kiss me,” she said.
He did. The kiss started as all their previous ones had—a skirmish, a test of wills—but it changed almost immediately. She softened under his mouth, and he lost the impulse to conquer, wanted only to hold and be held.
Crispin’s hands moved over her with reverence. He cradled the line of her jaw, the nape of her neck, the trembling slope of her shoulder. Clara, in turn, found the buttons at his collar and worked them loose.
She let the jacket slip, followed by the waistcoat, her fingers moving with a deliberate grace that mirrored the quiet certainty in her heart. She fumbled at the cravat, laughed under her breath, and untied it with a sharp tug.
He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor.
For a moment she only looked at him, her hands hovering just above his skin, uncertain whether to touch.
He leaned forward. Her fingers brushed his chest, then further, until her arms circled his back and their bodies fit together.
He kissed her again, slower this time, and she yielded. Crispin caught the back of her head, tangling his hand in her hair, and he let the feeling of her—her warmth, her scent, the sinewy grace of her—flood through him until he could no longer recall what it had been like to be alone.
He traced the laces at the back of her gown, fingertips skimming the curve of her spine through the silk. “May I?” he asked, and the question shocked them both with its courtesy.
Clara breathed, “Yes,” barely a sound, and he slipped the laces free. Her dress slid to her hips. The chemise beneath was gossamer, nearly nothing, and she flushed a deep, beautiful pink at his first true glimpse of her.
She began to turn away, suddenly shy, but he caught her at the waist and pulled her close.
“You are so lovely,” he said. “I have wanted you since the first time you threatened to kill me.”
She laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder. He gathered her closer, one hand at her hip, the other pressing into her back, and he felt her body melt against his.
They toppled, half-laughing, half-clinging, to the edge of the bed, and then she was beneath him, hair fanned over the sheets, eyes wide and unguarded.
He took a moment to gaze upon her, to memorize the line of her jaw, the arch of her brow, the pulse that flickered at her throat. She looked back, steady and certain.
He bent and kissed the hollow at the base of her neck, felt her shudder and draw a sharp breath. He let his lips drift down, tasting her shoulder, her collarbone, the bare, trembling skin of her chest. She reached for him, found his hair, pulled him up to meet her mouth.
“I want you. I want this,” she said, running her hands down his back, pulling him close.
“I intend to take my time,” he replied. “Unless you would prefer?—”
She shook her head. “No. I want all of it.”
He slipped the remaining garments fully off, baring her. His hands—steady, deliberate—skated over her ribs, her waist, her hips. She shivered beneath his touch, but did not look away, even when he peeled the last fabric from her skin.
He removed his boots and breeches in silence, letting her watch. She did, her gaze roaming his body with a frankness that made him feel flayed and worshipped at once.
When he finally lay beside her, he pulled her close, skin to skin. The sensation was overwhelming. She was warm and alive, her heart pounding so hard he thought it might bruise them both.
“Clara,” he whispered again, but this time it was a benediction.
She touched his cheek. “Yes.”
He kissed her, and the world collapsed to the two of them, to the way her body arched under his, the way she gripped his shoulders. The heat gathered and built until it was unbearable and then, somehow, more than that.
She gasped when he entered her, a small, startled sound, and for a moment he stilled, afraid he had gone too far.
But she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him deeper, meeting him with a ferocity that astonished him. He matched her, pulse for pulse, until the rhythm became a tide. Their bodies pressed together, slick with sweat, fingers digging into flesh as if each sought to anchor the other in place.
Her climax took her by surprise—he felt the shudder, the sharp cry muffled in his neck, and he lost himself in the same moment, spilling into her with a low, ragged groan. They clung together through it, unwilling to let go.
After, they lay tangled on the sheets, limbs entwined, foreheads pressed together. He smoothed the damp hair from her brow and pressed a lingering kiss to the soft skin just above her cheekbone.
For a long time, neither spoke. The silence was profound, complete. The fire in the grate hissed as it burned down.
At last, Crispin murmured, “You are mine.”
He felt her smile, slow and secret, against his skin.
He stroked his fingers across her back, writing forever against her skin as he continued. “Not because of a bargain. Not because of scandal. Because you chose me and I chose you.”
She lifted her head, studied him with clear, steady eyes. “And I will again. Tomorrow. And the next day.”
He could not help it. He laughed, and the sound was softer than any he had ever made. He let his hand drift down her back, tracing the curve of her spine.
He said, “Then marry me, Clara. Be the calm to my storm, the light that finds me in the dark.”
“Yes,” she said, as though the word had always belonged to them.
He kissed her then, the slow, lingering kiss of a man who had finally found home. She kissed him back, slow and certain, and in that instant he knew he had lost everything he once valued, and had won everything he had never dared to want.