Chapter 3
L ady Clara Mapleton sat as still as a statue on the silk-draped settee, acutely aware that visits of this nature were governed by a strict choreography, pleasantries, compliments, subtle appraisals, all delivered beneath a veil of practiced civility.
That she loathed every moment of it only made her smile more fixed, her posture more rigid, her gloved hands folded in her lap, fingers tense beneath the silk, betraying more emotion than her face allowed.
Her spine ached from holding her posture, and behind her carefully blank expression, her thoughts swirled.
The Hallworth drawing room was oppressively perfect, all floral wallpaper and tasteful gilt, the kind of room that demanded polite conversation and stifled emotion.
A tea tray sat between them, silver and sparkling, its contents untouched save for the lemon slice her mother had daintily placed in her cup.
“You must allow me to speak plainly,” declared Lady Oakford, her cheeks pink with pleasure, “how thoroughly delighted I am. I had quite given up hope that Crispin would ever settle, but then…well, here you are, Lady Clara. A marvel.”
Clara forced a smile. “You are very kind.”
Her mother beamed beside her, positively glowing with maternal triumph. “We are equally delighted, of course.”
The older ladies exchanged knowing glances.
Lady Shipley, Clara’s mother, was beside herself with pride, which in Clara’s estimation was not far from being beside oneself with madness.
She had arrived thirty minutes early, resplendent in an apple-green walking gown that made her appear both younger and more severe, and had not once ceased beaming, even as Lady Oakford described her son’s various escapades in increasingly creative euphemisms.
“Such a wild spirit, my Crispin,” Lady Oakford intoned, passing a saucer with the benevolence of a Roman empress. “I have always said he needed a firm, clever hand to keep him in line, and now we have you.”
Clara accepted the cup with fingers that trembled, though whether from nerves or rage she could not say. “You give me too much credit, Lady Oakford.”
“Nonsense. I am merely truthful. You have performed a miracle, Lady Clara. Not one woman in all the ton has managed to bring my son up to scratch.” She turned to Lady Shipley, arching one silvery brow.
“Did you know I had wagered a hundred pounds with Lady Marsh that he would not be married before thirty?”
Lady Shipley’s laugh was brittle. “Heavens, Lady Oakford! You did not.”
“It is true,” the Countess replied. “Now, I have lost the wager, and gladly. Only last year I told Crispin he would need a miracle. He brought home a parrot from Antigua, but never a suitable bride. And now…” She gestured grandly at Clara, who nearly dropped her spoon in mortification.
“A miracle indeed,” Lady Shipley said, positively luminous with satisfaction.
Clara offered a faint smile and raised the teacup to her lips, hiding behind the fragile porcelain.
The conversation turned to matters of the wedding. “It will be a grand affair, for it would be a shame to deny the world a proper spectacle.”
Lady Shipley nodded so vigorously her hair ribbons trembled. “Of course, of course. And a breakfast after, perhaps at Mapleton House? Though I am certain Oakford could accommodate?—”
“Certainly not,” said Lady Oakford, her voice firm and unyielding. “We shall have it here. The gardens are unmatched in May. I insist.”
“Perhaps June.”
Clara studied the silverwork spoon, willing herself to disappear into the glare. She could not recall a time her mother had looked so pleased. Clara felt as though her lungs were being gradually compressed by the weight of expectations, embroidered linen, and maternal glee.
“Of course.” Lady Shipley sipped her tea.
“The guest list must be refined,” said Lady Oakford. “We cannot have every second cousin present. No offense, of course.”
“None taken,” her mother replied. “And the chapel at St. George’s, I should think?”
“Unless you prefer St James,” Lady Oakford said, turning to Clara with a smile so full of expectation it could crush granite.
Clara blinked. “Oh. I—St. George’s sounds lovely.”
Lovely. Yes. But there was no engagement, no wedding, just an elaborate fiction defined by mutual antagonism and ruinous pretense.
Yet here she sat, nodding like a fool while her mother and the unsuspecting Lady Oakford planned a wedding destined never to occur.
It was almost impressive how thoroughly a single impulsive kiss had upended her life.
And yet, even as her world teetered on the edge of disaster, a quiet part of her acknowledged that it had been her choice.
Not wise, perhaps, but hers. It had not been a mere mistake.
It was defiance. A brief, heady rebellion.
She reached for her teacup to hide the tremble in her fingers, sipping slowly as if it might delay the next assault. Clara half expected them to start discussing the names of future children and was tempted to suggest Lucifer and Calamity, just to see if anyone noticed.
“Of course, we must speak to the dressmaker,” her mother continued. “Madame Fleur has done wonders for Lady Beatrice’s silhouette.”
“And Clara’s figure is even more elegant,” Lady Oakford said warmly.
Clara very nearly choked on her tea, masking the reflex with a delicate cough and a demure lift of her napkin.
Her expression remained serene, but her thoughts roiled.
If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was anywhere but here.
She could imagine being back in Yorkshire, running wild in the meadows or plotting with Alice and Eden over some minor mischief.
She could almost taste the sharp air of the countryside, a welcome contrast to the perfumed confines of Oakford House.
Every surface gleamed with artifice, every smile carefully composed, and beneath it all lurked the sickening awareness that, at any moment, someone might actually expect her to coo adoringly at the devil of Oakford.
All while she fantasized about lacing his wine with arsenic.
Just enough to make him ill. Not fatal, merely a minor indisposition, she thought dryly.
“Did you know,” Lady Oakford confided, “that when Crispin was four, he convinced a young kitchen maid that the moon was made of meringue? She tried to bake one for him, and it exploded in the oven. He howled with laughter, and has been impossible ever since.”
Lady Shipley dabbed her eye with a handkerchief, overcome with mirth. “He sounds utterly delightful.”
“He is,” said Lady Oakford, though her tone suggested it was a fate she would not wish on her worst enemy.
Clara reached for a sugar cube and found she could not unclench her hand from the teacup’s handle. She pried her fingers loose, pulse thudding.
“I do hope,” Lady Oakford went on, “that you are not intimidated by his reputation. There are so many stories, and almost all are exaggerated. He has never once brought a woman to disgrace. He is mischievous, but I assure you, he is no devil.”
Clara’s lips twisted. “I am not easily intimidated.”
“Good,” the Countess purred. “He will test you, but I am convinced you will prevail.”
The implication that this was a test, a war of attrition to be fought and won, was hardly lost on Clara.
Her mother was oblivious, enthralled by the prospect of social vindication.
Clara looked instead at the mantle clock.
Twenty minutes until they could leave, by her calculations.
Twenty minutes of smiling and sipping and nodding as though she had not, less than twenty-four hours ago, staged the most outrageous lie of her life in front of half the ton.
She glanced at the doors, wishing them to open by sheer will alone.
As if summoned by the force of her desperation, footsteps sounded in the corridor. A moment later, Crispin filled the doorway.
He strolled in with all the ease of a man walking into his own drawing room—which, of course, he was—while Clara, by contrast, sat coiled with tension, every breath a battle against the crushing expectations that came with simply existing.
The sight of him still made Clara want to fling the nearest teapot at his smug face.
Beside him stood a younger man, tall and rakish, with the same sharp Hallworth features but with gentler eyes and a far less aggravating air. His brother.
“Edward,” Lady Oakford said with delight. “Do come greet your future sister.”
Edward bowed with a bemused smile. “Lady Clara, always an honor.”
Clara curtsied. “Likewise, my lord.”
Crispin met her gaze over the rim of his cup, a mischievous glint in his eyes that needed no words to convey his delight in the absurdity of it all.
“You look pale, darling,” he murmured. “Surely our impending nuptials have not rendered you ill?”
Clara smiled sweetly. “Not at all. I was merely wondering how your lips manage to move when your head is so swollen.”
His grin only widened. “Come. Let us escape this planning session before they start discussing the names of our future offspring.”
She could not stop the corners of her mouth from tilting up. “Calamity and Lucifer.”
The devil chuckled before he took her by the hand, blast the warmth of it, and led her through the French doors and out into the garden.
The early spring air was crisp, scented faintly with hyacinth and new grass. Crispin led her down a winding path flanked by trimmed hedges and rose bushes just beginning to bloom.
“You are enjoying this far too much,” she muttered.
“Immensely,” he agreed.
He smiled, and she hated the way her breath hitched in response.
“You cannot truly intend to continue this betrothal,” she said, her voice tight.
“You know as well as I, in the eyes of society, a broken engagement is more ruinous for a lady than a thousand whispered improprieties. Every dance, every appearance, every address exchanged…those expectations are not so easily undone.”