Chapter 3 #2
He stopped, turning to face her. “Why not? It is diverting, and does no one any real harm.”
“It does me harm. And it will do you harm once your mother realizes you are not actually tamed.”
His mouth twitched. “You underestimate my mother. She has always known I am un-tameable.”
Clara exhaled, breath misting in the chill as they stepped outside. “Then let us agree to a quiet dissolution. We tell our mothers we quarreled, or that you have made some new conquest. Anything. But we cannot carry on like this.”
Crispin studied her. “Your reputation hangs by a thread as it is, Lady Clara. If we break off the engagement now, you will be the one left ruined, not I.”
She drew back, her voice tight. “So you are leaving me no choice.”
“Hardly,” he said, voice gone quiet. “I am advising you to be patient. We let the matter run its course. In a few months perhaps you will have the restored reputation you wanted. Then you can break it off, if you still wish, and perhaps your reputation will survive.”
“And if I do not?” The words surprised her even as she said them.
He shrugged. “Then you will have learned to bear me, at least as well as you bear my mother’s tea. And you will have the opportunity to woo me.”
She laughed then, in spite of herself. “You truly are insufferable.”
“So I am told,” he said, and offered his arm.
Reluctantly, she took it.
The moment they were beyond the line of windows and the sight of the parlor, she released his arm and added distance between them. The illusion of the dutiful future Lady Oakford vanished.
She spun on him, skirts crackling with suppressed energy.
“We cannot continue with this farce for months. You did not hear our mothers. They will have us before the vicar in three weeks’ time if we do not stop them.
” Clara’s brow furrowed. “There must be a faster way to dissolve it.” She tapped her fingers against her skirt, deep in thought.
Crispin leaned one hip against the marble balustrade. His arms folded, his mouth quirked in a smile equal parts amusement and challenge. “By all means, let us hear your grand strategy.”
“I am not strategizing, I am pleading.” Clara kept her voice pitched low.
She doubted the roses cared for her reputation, but the gardens were full of staff, and Hallworth gossip traveled faster than any carriage.
“There is nothing to be gained by prolonging this farce. You dislike the idea of marriage. I abhor you. Why not simply confess the truth? Say that it was a misunderstanding, a flight of fancy?—”
“And then what?” he interrupted. “You are left with your reputation in ribbons. The ton will have something even juicier to gnaw on. The only thing more delicious than an impromptu engagement, Lady Clara, is a public scandal. You would never recover.”
She flinched as if struck. “Better that than… this.” She waved at the estate, the gleaming windows, the choking sense of inevitability.
He regarded her with mild curiosity, as one might study a particularly entertaining animal at the Tower Menagerie—unpredictable, clever, and wholly outside the realm of his usual pursuits.
Something in her defiance fascinated him, as if he had stumbled upon a creature both rare and impossible to tame.
“You do surprise me, Clara. I had thought you more pragmatic.”
She bristled at the informal use of her name but did not correct him. “I am pragmatic. I have no interest in martyrdom, believe me. But I also have no interest in being paraded about as your latest amusement, and even less in becoming your wife.”
He lifted a brow. “Amusement is a virtue, not a vice. Surely you would prefer that to being consigned to some rural crypt with a man who counts cabbages for a pastime?”
“I would prefer to be on the shelf,” she spat, her voice trembling with fury. Better that, she thought, than to be the devil’s pawn, maneuvered and manipulated as though she had no mind or will of her own. The shelf at least was quiet, and hers. “I have no wish to be anyone’s?—”
“Project?” he offered.
“Pawn.” Her hands trembled with the force of it. “You want to win. That is all. Even if it means pulling us both into a storm you have conjured yourself, so long as you are not alone in the wreckage.”
He gazed out at the crocuses, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “You see through me so easily. It is no wonder I find you so appealing.”
Clara paced a circle around him, her slippers crunching gravel. “You are impossible. Tell me, how is any of this to end well? Are you so bent on humiliating your mother? Do you truly wish for all of London?—”
“Perhaps,” Crispin straightened, but made no move to come closer, “I am simply giving the world what it wants. The illusion of Oakford tamed. The redemption of the Devil. And saving you from yourself in the process.” He took a step toward her.
“My mother will parade you through every ballroom from here to York. You will be the darling of the season. And at the end, when you have collected every dance card and every new suitor’s sigh, you may choose whichever future you desire. ”
Clara scoffed. “How am I to collect suitors if every man in London believes me betrothed to you?”
A flash of real amusement lit his face. “Mystery,” he said smoothly. “Nothing drives a man to madness like desiring what he cannot have.”
She scoffed. “You think they will line up to woo me merely because I am linked to you?”
“It is the ton, darling. The forbidden is always in fashion.”
She shook her head. “You are abhorrent.”
He beamed, delighted. “I prefer to think of it as… insightful.”
She turned away, hands balled at her sides, and stared at the mist rising from the hedges. For a long moment, neither spoke.
At last she said, “I cannot do this.”
“You already are,” he replied, more gently than she expected.
She looked back, searching his gaze. “Why did you give a fig about my reputation?” she asked.
He was silent long enough for her to regret asking, then said, “Because as we danced, you looked at me as if I were a man, and not a monster.”
Clara’s breath caught. She had not meant to see him that way, had not even realized she had, but the truth of his words struck something within her.
For all his arrogance, his reputation, his maddening smugness…
he had seemed almost human in that moment.
Not softened exactly, but real. And that frightened her more than any scandal ever could.
His gaze softened, the razor edges gone.
“No one has done that in years. So you see, Lady Clara, you are as much to blame for this as I.”
She did not know whether to scream or cry.
A sudden shout cut through the fog. “Crispin! Where are you?” Edward’s voice rang out.
Crispin reached her in a heartbeat, his gloved hand sliding around her waist with the terrifying ease of practice. “Be a good girl,” he whispered, then pulled her in for a kiss.
This kiss bore none of the showy bravado of the one at the ball.
It was slower, more intimate, and yet it stole her breath all the same.
This kiss was far more dangerous. His mouth was warm and wicked, tasting of danger, and for one traitorous instant she let herself lean into it, just to see if he would relent.
He did not. His hand pressed at the small of her back, keeping her anchored, until the crunch of Edward’s footsteps grew loud. His lips slanted over hers with shocking force, stealing her breath and composure in a single, brazen moment. It was bold, brash, utterly wicked.
And maddeningly thrilling.
Clara tried to push him away, but he only laughed against her lips, kissing her deeper.
Edward appeared, hands shoved into his coat pockets, face twisted in a scowl of long-suffering patience. “Mother wants you both inside. Something about the vicar’s schedule and the seating plan.”
Crispin let her go, his gaze moving to Edward. He smiled lazily. “We will be along in a moment.”
Edward retreated, disappearing through the hedges.
Only then did Clara allow herself to wipe her mouth with the back of her glove. She turned on Crispin, fists balled. “Do not ever do that again.”
He grinned, unrepentant. “You may want to practice your swoon. The next time, there will be a larger audience.”
She shoved him hard, though he barely moved. “Go to the devil.”
“You forget that I am the devil.” He gained, not the least but chastened.
Clara pivoted and stormed ahead, praying the cold would numb her lips before she had to face the world again.
She would not admit it aloud, but for a breathless instant, she had leaned in, drawn by something she refused to name, her better judgment lost to the heat of the moment.
Her heart had surged, then recoiled, drowning in a wave of humiliation so fierce it left her breathless. She hated that she had wanted it.
As they neared the house, Crispin matched her stride. “You really ought to thank me, Lady Clara,” he said lightly. “Your technique improves with every rehearsal.”
She bristled. “If you ever touch me again, I will make you regret it.”
He grinned. “I look forward to the attempt.”
She stopped just shy of the steps, whirling on him. “I mean it. I will not be your pawn. You will not ruin me.”
“There is a bit of sport in our subterfuge, but,” His eyes darkened, the humor draining away. “Is that what you believe? That I am out to ruin you?”
“Are you not?” she demanded. “You kissed me in the middle of a ballroom, and now this charade continues, a performance neither of us can seem to end. You kissed me again, just now.”
He looked at her, truly looked, as if seeing her for the first time. “You may find this difficult to believe, but I have no desire to ruin you.”
“History tells me otherwise. Your whispers ruined my first season. Are you back to finish me off now?”
He stepped closer, dropping his voice. “Do not let your pride make an enemy where you could have an ally. We are in this together, like it or not. Our mothers are inside, planning the social event of the decade. If you cannot act the part, we will both pay for it.”
She hated that he was right. Hated it with a ferocity that made her tremble. “Do not overstep again,” she said, jaw clenched.
He held out his arm. “Do remember to smile, darling. Our audience awaits.”
It was not lost on her that he did not agree to keep his lips to himself. Nonetheless, she took his offered arm, hating the way her hand fit so naturally in the crook of his elbow.
Clara was possessed of a will that no man, not even the Devil of Oakford, could bend. She was not a pawn, and he would not win. Not today, not ever. If that meant enduring a few more stolen kisses and a legion of mothers with lace and calendars, so be it.