Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
I t was four days after her appointment with Miss Swanlea that the seamstress made an appointment for a fitting at Clarissa’s home. She’d been led to the countess’s chamber upon arrival and set up her things, and now Clarissa stepped into the room to do the fitting for the white gown.
She wasn’t as excited about it as she normally felt with a new outfit. But the idea of yet another white gown fell flat now and she forced a smile as she moved toward the seamstress.
“Miss Swanlea,” she said, acknowledging when the woman curtseyed slightly. “I am thrilled to see you and cannot wait to enjoy what you’ve made.”
“I hope you’ll like both items,” Miss Swanlea replied, and then stepped back from the small portable rack where she had carefully hung the gowns and Clarissa’s coat.
Clarissa stared. Yes, there was the white gown in the fabric she had requested, but next to it was another dress. This one in the pretty pink fabric she had examined at the showroom and rejected despite her feelings about it.
“What is that?” she asked, unable to look away. The dress was gorgeous, with a slightly lower neckline than she normally wore and exquisite finishing touches like the wide ribbon along the bottom hem of the dress and the velvet band around the high waist.
Miss Swanlea smiled. “A surprise from the earl, my lady. He appeared in my shop the day after your measurement session and requested I make another gown for you. He wanted to know any fabric that particularly caught your eye and then chose from the colors you had liked.”
Clarissa moved past her and reached for the gown. Her fingers brushed the soft silk fabric with its fine damask pattern. It was so beautiful, even though it wasn’t the white she felt she had to wear for propriety’s sake.
But then again, she knew many women—most women, even—who wore color, didn’t she? Marianne and Esme, for example, were both women she admired and they wore beautiful gowns that weren’t white. Why couldn’t she do the same? Why couldn’t she embrace her own style, rather than stick to the one her books had insisted she wear so she wasn’t putting fashion over elegance.
No, she couldn’t think like that. But nor would she show her upset to Miss Swanlea. It wasn’t the seamstress’s fault that Roderick had asked for the dress to be created. She would take it up with him later.
“Where should we begin?” she asked with a bright smile.
Miss Swanlea motioned to the low step she had already set and Hester came from the corner of the room. Together they helped Clarissa into the white gown first. They chatted, with Clarissa trying to stay focused as Miss Swanlea made little markings for final adjustments she’d make to the gown.
When that was finished, they moved to the pink dress. Clarissa squeezed her eyes shut as they put her into the silk, and tried not to revel in the softness of the fabric. She knew it was just silk, like so many of her other gowns, but it still felt different, it felt like temptation, itself, to put it on.
At last, though, she was in it and she opened her eyes and looked at the full-length mirror Hester had drawn into the room so she could see the gowns herself. She caught her breath. Even with it not perfectly fitted, she could see it was the finest gown she’d ever owned.
The color was perfect for her skin. It made her cheeks look lightly rouged and her eyes dance, the little flecks of green within the brown standing out in a new way. She felt… pretty as she stared at herself and her eyes filled with tears that she blinked away as the same conversations were held about this gown as had been with the first.
When it was finished and Clarissa dressed again in her old gown—white, of course—and it felt so boring as she stared at it, she watched as Hester took her freshly lined coat away. She turned toward Miss Swanlea and smiled. “You do wonderful work, as always.”
“Thank you, my lady. And I must say that the pink truly does suit you. If you wish any other gowns with color, I have so many ideas for fabrics that will make you shine just as brightly.”
Clarissa’s heart lodged in her throat. She’d been going to Miss Swanlea for her clothing for a few years now and she’d never seen the woman so excited to make her something. She inclined her head. “You are too kind. Now I’ll excuse myself. Take your time collecting your things. Hester will escort you out when you are ready.”
“Good day, my lady.”
Clarissa waved and then stared downstairs. She’d been told Roderick was in the library before she’d gone to meet with the seamstress. Normally she wouldn’t interrupt him in his reading, but in that moment she had to have a conversation with him. Though what she would say, she wasn’t entirely certain.
T he rotunda room was where the library was housed and it had always been Roderick’s favorite chamber of the home. The bedchamber was becoming his second favorite. But today he sat in his favorite chair beside the fire, reading the bound edition of Othello Clarissa had gifted him a few days before. The lithographs included in the volume were exquisite. Sometimes he spent a long time just looking at the details of one before he turned the page to continue reading the play.
The door to the library opened and he lifted his gaze to watch Clarissa come in. Storm in was more like it. Her dark eyes were alive with emotion and her hands were fisted at her sides.
“Clarissa,” he said, and set the book aside as he stood to greet her. “How was the fitting?”
“Why did you go to Miss Swanlea behind my back and order a gown?” she asked.
He stared at her a moment. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad or thrilled by the fact he had done so. She was so very good at hiding, perhaps even from herself.
“I wanted to give you a gift,” he said carefully. “Just as you did me. A surprise. The fabric was lovely, Miss Swanlea said you had admired it. I think it must look beautiful on you. I cannot wait to see it.”
Her lips tightened. “I can’t…a woman may, of course, wear color, but white is always a sign of an elegance of mind, not a dedication to the frivolity of fashion.”
He shook his head. “That is from your book, isn’t it? I recognize the turn of phrase too well.”
“My book?” She shook her head, her eyes wild. “What do you mean?”
“I read Mirror of the Graces ,” he said, and watched as the high color in her cheeks bled away. “The night you slept in your own chamber last week. You left it there and I needed to understand why my delightful wife feels she must turn herself inside out for rules that I cannot even fathom.”
“You read it only to dismiss it?” she asked, her hands dropping to her sides. “To dismiss what’s important to me?”
“Are you angry that I did?” he asked, and stepped closer. He saw her tense. “Be angry, Clarissa. I beg of you. Tell me to sod off. Tell me I violated your boundaries.”
“No,” she murmured. “You won’t make me forget moderation. ”
“Moderation is for drinking,” he said, throwing up his hands since she wouldn’t. “Not for feelings. I have the deepest regard for what is important to you, Clarissa. And respect for how you comport yourself regularly. Not because of some book. I watch you in all your glory with those around you. What makes you a lady is how much attention you bestow when others speak. You make everyone feel as if they’re the center of the world when they’re near you. I admire your kindness to all, regardless of their rank. I definitely admire your wit, which occasionally cuts me and always makes me laugh.”
She lifted her chin and he saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes now. He moved closer again. “ None of those things came from the bloody book. In fact, the only good advice I found in the wretched pages of that thing was that you ought not wear cosmetics with ingredients that might kill you. Otherwise, the rest is trash that not even a saint could live up to.”
She pivoted away with a gasping cry that cut him down to the bone. The pain seemed to radiate from her now, something she could no longer control.
He touched her arm gently, not turning her back, but letting her feel the weight of his support. His love, even if he wouldn’t yet name it.
“Why did your lock yourself to this?” he asked gently. “Please, I want to know.”
“My pain for your pleasure?” she asked, her voice barely carrying.
He did turn her now, cupping her chin to make her look at him. “Never. Because your hurts are mine. I want to understand you.”
One of those tears fell at last, sliding down her cheek as she sucked in a shuddering, pained breath. “If I don’t control everything, control myself, bad things will happen.”
S he said the words she’d never spoken to another person out loud. She heard how foolish they sounded and waited for him to laugh at her or dismiss her. But instead he cupped her cheek, his expression softened in understanding and support. It nearly buckled her knees. He made her feel like she could depend on him.
What a dangerous thought that was.
“Bad things happen, no matter what we do,” he said gently. “It has nothing to do with your behavior.”
She shook her head. “That’s not true. I can make things right if I try harder. I can fix things for my parents, for you, for—for?—”
His brow wrinkled a little and he took her hand. “You don’t have to fix anything for me. You’re not responsible for that. And what do you have to fix for your parents? What have you ever done wrong when it came to them?”
She stared at him. She didn’t want to give him the answers, it felt so vulnerable to do so. But perhaps if she did, he’d leave her be. If he understood, he’d stop challenging her to be more than she was. He’d understand why she couldn’t be and then she could rebuild the shell around herself and focus on what was right. What was proper.
“I was born, that’s what I did wrong,” she said softly. “And I wasn’t what they wanted. I could never be what they wanted. What they needed. My father is a younger son of an earl, and the frivolous one at that. They spent all their money because they always believed they’d be able to raise themselves through their children.”
As she began her story, Roderick drew her to the settee. They took a place together and he cupped her hand in both of hers, his eyes focused on her face.
She chose to concentrate on her lap because she didn’t want to look at him when she spilled out the emotions she had tried for years to hold in moderation. She feared what it would look like when they were finally free.
“They had me within the first year of their marriage. As a girl I would likely cost them more than I brought them…” She glanced up at him. “That’s what they told me, many times. ”
He flinched but didn’t interrupt.
“They continued to try, but never succeeded in having another viable child.” She shut her eyes. “They would fight about it, I could hear them at night. But they always pretended it wasn’t happening. Put on their smiles in the light of day. As I got older, I began to feel the pressure of their desperation.”
“Because they began to realize you were their only hope.”
She nodded. “Yes. They altered their plans. Instead of having many sons and daughters, gathering support from them and their good marriages, they would have to manipulate the best marriage they could through me. To do that, they spent even more that they didn’t have. Presented a front and educated me in everything I would need to land the husband they saw as appropriate.” She shivered. “But it was never enough. I was never enough. I could be more, though. I could be better if I just…try harder.”
“Clarissa,” he said softly.
She shook her head. “I could be. I could make them happy and then they’ll…they’ll…” She trailed off because what she wanted to say was a stab wound to her heart.
“What will they do?” he asked.
She drew in a few breaths, squeezed her hands into fists so they’d stop shaking. “They’d like me. They’d…they’d love me.”
He let the statement hang in the air for a long moment before he touched her face gently. “You are so worthy of love without earning it. You earn it by simply existing.”
She sucked in a breath. He made it sound so simple when it never had been for her. Love was transactional. It was a carrot, or a stick when it was withdrawn after a mistake. And he made it sound like something soft and gentle and unwavering. Sort of like what she saw when she saw Ramsbury and Marianne together. Or Esme and Delacourt.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I didn’t explain it right.”
A sad smile tilted his lips. “You did. You explained it perfectly. That doesn’t change that I hate that you were taught otherwise by people who should have valued and treasured you. That they let their own failings fall upon you like that.”
She shrugged even though saying this meant so much more than that dismissive action implied. “But doesn’t it make me better? To strive for perfection is a lofty goal. And they encouraged it by presenting me with books on comportment like the one you read. The rules ground me. They let me know my place.”
He stared at her for a long moment and it was like he was seeing her for the first time. “When the world is chaotic and difficult to manage a way through, as it seems it was in your parents’ home, I would assume the rules gave you something to lean on. A way to understood what to do, how to respond.”
She shivered because what he was saying felt so…right. She never examined her childhood very closely. Her memories were foggy and unpleasant and they made her sad when she pondered them. But chaos was the way to describe her life at home. Her life up until this man had rode up to her doorstep and turned everything upside down. Or was it right side up? When he talked to her like this, offered her peace like this…she felt right side up for the first time in her life.
“But you must see how behaving properly could make someone see me as a good bet for marriage.”
“You never aspired to love?” he asked softly, and his hands tightened around hers. “You never thought to wish for someone who would love you for yourself?”
She tilted her head and looked into those dark green eyes. A calm peace like a deep forest she could lose herself in forever. But then how would she get out when he tired of her? Or if he found that woman who made him fall head over heels the moment he met her?
She turned away. “You wouldn’t understand. You speak with such love for your parents.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he said carefully, as if considering her statement. “I do view love differently after seeing it through the lens of their relationship to each other and to me. But I was adrift when they died so suddenly. I do understand that feeling of not knowing my place. Of needing to be grounded by something, anything. Though I likely chose worse options than diving into proper behavior.”
She smiled a little. “So that’s how you obtained your reputation as rake.”
“I suppose it is.” He smoothed a lock of hair away from her forehead. “I’m so sorry, Clarissa. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. However, the circumstances that created your dedication to rules and propriety are no longer what surround you. I could be…I want to be…your true north. Your stability, the thing you can depend on rather than all those rules that make you question yourself.”
She blinked at that idea. He must feel sorry for her to suggest such a thing, because he could mean it no other way. Just a few weeks ago, he’d declared he didn’t love her. That he had lost what hope he had for his future when they became engaged. How could she depend on him now, knowing they were destined to be friends and nothing more? Their futures would be intertwined, surely, but not the way he suggested.
Even if it sounded like heaven. Even if she could so easily picture it when she looked into his eyes. That future positively danced before her, teasing her. Taunting her.
Making her want things she couldn’t have and that hurt to pretend could ever be real.
“Depending on others? That’s too dangerous,” she said, and drew her hands from his before she rose to her feet.
There was a moment when he almost looked heartbroken by that statement. That couldn’t be true, and it was gone as soon as she’d recognized it.
He nodded slowly and also stood. “I understand why. I’ll have to prove that I’m worthy of such a risk.” She wrinkled her brow, but didn’t have a chance to respond, because he continued, “But please don’t shut out how you feel. Who you are. These rules aren’t right , even if you think them proper. And I lo—care for you too much to watch you be crushed beneath their weight.”
She blinked. He’d started to say love . Or she thought he had. Another lie he was telling or she was hearing. Her mind spun, though, and she could scarcely breathe.
“I’ll consider it,” she managed to whisper. She stepped to the door. “I have a few things to do. I’ll see you at supper.”
He nodded and didn’t try to stop her when she left the room. She closed the door behind her and let out a sob she’d been holding back before she fled to her chamber and locked the door behind her. The idea of moderation in her feelings was becoming harder and harder to achieve. Especially when the man she had linked her life to kept beckoning her closer, threatening her heart and her future with pretty words.
R oderick watched as his valet left the room. With a sigh, he moved to the candle on his dressing table. His evening had been…odd, at best. Clarissa had waited until the last possible moment to join him before supper and the meal had been quiet. He felt her withdrawal, her walls, and all he wanted to do was tear them down.
But he couldn’t. They were her protection. He wouldn’t strip them away by force. He wanted her to see she didn’t need them. But after hearing what she’d gone through, how she had been ground into dust beneath the feet of her family, he understood how difficult that would be.
He only hoped she wouldn’t walk away from him permanently to save herself from the grief she feared he’d cause.
As if on cue, his door opened and she stood there in her nightrail. Her hair was down around her shoulders, sleek and dark, and her gaze moved over him. She said nothing, but stepped inside, closed the door behind her and then came across to him at the bed.
He set the candle down and shivered when she wrapped her arms around him. Her mouth lifted and he met it, closing his arms around her and letting her mold to him.
This tiny surrender wasn’t what he wanted, not truly. But for now it would be enough. He lowered her onto the bed, writing his I love yous on her skin, feeling her surrender those hated walls if only to his passion.
And hoped that was only the beginning to what they could be to each other.