Chapter 5
C lara was determined not to crumble, though doubt prickled at her resolve, uncertainty heavy on her chest. Her fingers curled against the edge of the table, nails biting into her palm.
The aroma of cooling tea mingled with the faint scent of roses from the garden, but neither could soothe the storm churning just beneath her skin.
She sat alone in the breakfast room of her family’s townhouse, stirring a lukewarm cup of tea as the morning sun slanted across the floral wallpaper. Her mother had yet to rise, and the silence in the house felt thick, like a held breath. Her thoughts, however, were anything but still.
Crispin Hallworth was a menace. Since entering her life again, he had disrupted her days, invaded her thoughts, and pulled her into a charade that seemed more dangerous by the hour. And worst of all, he made her feel things she had no business feeling. Not now, not ever.
Since the moment she had uttered the words, "We are engaged," her life had spiraled into a nightmare she could not escape. Her visit to the Hallworth home had been a new low in absurdity—a tea filled with saccharine praise, Lady Oakford’s delighted laughter, and plans for a wedding that would never happen.
Clara could still hear the chiming voices discussing flowers, musicians, and gowns, all while she sat stiffly, pretending she was not on the verge of being sick.
And a kiss that still burned against her lips despite her furious insistence that she felt nothing.
Sleep had been elusive. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his smirk. Felt his hand at her waist. Heard the infuriating, silken purr of his voice whispering, "Be a good girl, Clara."
She would sooner swallow a dose of castor oil than be his "good girl."
What the devil did he truly want? Did he intend to trap her into marriage out of spite?
Or was this merely another game, an amusement to him but one that upended her entire world?
The uncertainty coiled in her chest, whispering possibilities she dared not believe.
Least of all the one where he wanted something more than revenge or mischief.
She moved to the desk and retrieved his letter in one fluid motion. She had received it this morning, tucked it into a drawer with the firm intention of forgetting it altogether. Perhaps she should have burned it as she had his first letter. But, despite her better judgment, she had kept it.
With a resigned sigh, she broke the seal. The handwriting was unmistakably his.
Lady Clara,
The gardens at Kensington are particularly lovely in the morning. I should like the pleasure of your company.
Yours, C.H.
P.S. Wear something scandalously innocent.
The phrase lingered in her mind longer than it should have, igniting a flicker of something she dared not name—amusement, anticipation, or perhaps the treacherous thrill of being seen not as a pawn but a woman who could play the game just as well as he could.
She nibbled her lip and turned her attention back to the letter, reading the final line.
It suits your particular brand of mischief.
Clara groaned and tossed the letter on the table.
Yet an hour later, she found herself stepping into the carriage, hat properly pinned, gloves pristine, parasol in hand. She had no idea why she went. Perhaps to confront him.
Perhaps, if she were being disgracefully honest, to see what the devil would say next. Though she loathed to admit it—she was drawn by a maddening curiosity and something deeper, more dangerous.
Kensington Gardens was alive with spring. Sunlight filtered through budding trees, dappling the wide gravel paths. Crispin was already there, lounging on a bench like a lord surveying his domain. He rose as she approached, bowing low with exaggerated gallantry.
“You came,” he said, clearly pleased with himself.
“Only to tell you I will act my part so long as this farce must continue.”
“Good morning to you as well, dearest. You look radiant.”
She ignored the compliment. “I am caught in a web of my making and will therefore cease my complaints. For now.”
“And what a lovely treat you make.” He gave a devilish grin.
She narrowed her gaze. “I will not stand for further dishonor. You must behave as a gentleman should,” she said, though even as the words left her lips, Clara wasn’t sure she believed he ever would, or that she truly wanted him to.
He stepped closer, measured and calm. “I always do.”
“You kissed me. Again. And in front of your brother.” She squared her shoulders.
“Edward is not so easily scandalized.”
“This is not a joke, my lord.”
He sobered slightly. “No. But it is convenient.”
They walked slowly along the path, her gloved fingers gripping her parasol with more force than necessary.
“My mother and yours are planning our wedding.” Her throat tightened. Visions of vellum and lace flashed through her mind, followed by their mother’s delighted smiles.
“I noticed.”
“You promised this would buy me time. Instead, it is accelerating my doom, and there is a real danger that we will find ourselves shackled...to each other. Your mother is planning an engagement ball for tomorrow evening.”
He stopped walking and turned to face her. “You could have slapped me. Accused me of accosting you. You did not.”
“Because there were a hundred people watching, and I panicked,” she seethed.
He leaned closer. “And what a performance you gave. I nearly believed it myself.”
Clara narrowed her eyes. “I do not need you to save me.”
“No,” he said. “But you let me. That tells me all I need to know.”
She looked away, throat tight, a prickle rising behind her eyes as if the truth he’d spoken had pressed too close to something tender.
They continued on in silence until they reached a bench tucked beneath a blooming cherry tree. Crispin gestured for her to sit, and for once, she did.
“How does this end, Crispin?” she asked, weary lines creasing her brow.
He considered her, expression unreadable. “When the time is right, we dissolve the engagement. Quietly. With dignity.”
“And my future?”
“Secure. Elevated. You will be the woman who turned the Devil of Oakford tame, if only briefly. Men will queue up to court you, driven mad by jealousy and fascination. My mother will go back to badgering me, and yours will be delighted by your many suitors.”
“And what of you?”
“How kind of you to care.” He smiled. “I shall remain a rogue. But one with another story worth repeating.”
She shook her head. “You are impossible.” And yet, infuriating as he was, there was something about his unpredictability that chipped away at her resolve. It was maddening, and worse, oddly compelling. A part of her, however small, wasn’t entirely sure if she wanted him to stop.
He turned serious then, all mischief fading from his eyes. “I never meant to ruin your first season.”
The admission stunned her. For a heartbeat, resentment wavered, and suspicion mingled with something more dangerous, the stirrings of forgiveness. Perhaps there was more to the scoundrel than she had imagined. Could it be that beneath the deplorable surface the reprobate harbored a conscience?
“I was foxed. And bored. And too selfish to see the damage one careless comment could do. I never expected it to spread.” He leaned forward, his gaze holding hers.
“But it did.”
“Yes. And you have hated me ever since.”
“Would you not despise the one who spread falsehoods about you—ones with ruinous consequences?”
“It would seem not.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small velvet pouch, then handed it to her. “For here we stand and I am wholly lacking in animosity.”
She opened it slowly. Inside was a ring.
A gold band cradled a cluster of diamonds encircling a large ruby.
Her hand trembled slightly as she stared at it, awe and dread tightening her chest in a single, breathless beat.
The ring was exquisite, but it seemed to whisper of expectations, of a future she had not agreed to.
The light caught the facets, throwing sparkles.
It was beautiful, yes, but it felt like a shackle, glittering and inescapable.
She held the ring out. “Our engagement is not real,” she said. “I have no need of a ring.”
“No,” he said. “But it looks convincing. My mother expects to see it on your hand tomorrow when she presents you at the ball.
Clara turned the ring over in her palm. She feared that putting it on would somehow cement her fate.
She glanced up sharply, her fingers curling tight around it. The ring smarted in her palm like a promise she never made, brilliant and binding—too heavy with meaning for a lie. “I will not be your pawn.”
The words left her lips with a force that surprised even her, but did she believe them? She wanted to. She had to. Yet some part of her feared she had already surrendered more than she intended.
Clara stood up.
He rose too, gaze locked on hers. “You are not. You are my equal in this scheme. You started this game, and now I am playing my part. This is not vengeance, Clara. Not for me.”
Clara’s breath caught. His words struck with unexpected force, lodging somewhere just beneath her ribs like a truth she’d tried to ignore. She wanted to dismiss them, laugh it off, but the sincerity in his eyes rattled the armor she had so carefully fastened around her heart."
Their gazes held, unspoken truths weaving between them like the breeze through the cherry blossoms.
Finally, Clara turned away. “I need time to think.”
“Take it,” he said. “But play your part as you do. The Season waits for no one.”
“Indeed,” she said, then glanced toward her carriage. “I must go. A seamstress awaits.”
“Until the ball then.” He leaned closer, a scandalous grin tugging at his lips. “Save me a waltz, pet.”
She let out a sharp sigh and pivoted toward her carriage.
And as she walked away, the ring clenched tightly in her hand, Clara realized she was no longer sure who held the reins—him, her, or fate.
Worse, she had a heady sense of curiosity and excitement stirring within her. For better or worse, the Devil of Oakford was in her grasp. Or she was in his.
The thought unsettled her because some reckless part of her didn’t want to escape.