Chapter 6 #2
“She is magnificent,” Edward said quietly, nodding toward Clara.
“She is surrounded,” Crispin replied, a touch more sharply than intended.
Edward gave him a sidelong look. “What did you expect? She is the star of the night.”
Crispin finished his champagne and set the empty glass on a tray. “I expected she would not find the company of Beresford quite so diverting.”
Edward’s mouth twitched. “You are jealous.”
“Do not be absurd,” Crispin said, but the denial lacked conviction.
“Why not sweep her onto the dance floor?”
“Because I am a gentleman, and it is not yet our turn,” Crispin replied, but this, too, sounded hollow.
Edward laughed. “How does it feel?”
Crispin did not answer. He was already moving back toward the crowd, weaving through the knots of guests with a predatory focus that startled even himself.
As he watched, Beresford offered his arm to Clara, and she took it before allowing herself to be led to the edge of the dance floor. The quartet shifted into a new dance, and the couples began to arrange themselves in concentric rings, the outermost still thick with spectators.
Crispin peered at them, his jaw set and his hands clenched behind his back.
He felt the heat of his own irritation, the foreign jolt of possessiveness that had never before afflicted him.
A sharp ache that struck not from desire alone, but from the terrifying realization that he could lose something he had not even meant to want.
Women had always been a diversion, a pleasure, a means to an end.
Never a contest, never a threat. Never this.
He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it, but the feeling was too real, too immediate. He wanted to storm the dance floor, to lay claim to Clara in front of every soul in the room. He wanted, for the first time, to win not because it was easy, but because the alternative was unthinkable.
The woman captivated him. She was his. For now, not forever, he reminded himself.
Clara spun under Beresford’s arm, her face luminous and unreadable. As the music continued, she caught her breath and retreated gracefully to the edge of the floor.
Let her enjoy the dance, he told himself, though the thought curled bitterly at the edges. Restraint tasted like defeat, and he was not a man who bore defeat easily.
And as the music swelled, and the dancers blurred, Crispin resolved that he would not let Beresford or any man steal a single moment from what was his.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
As the quartet struck the last chords, the couples parted and drifted to the periphery of the floor, all bright chatter and dazed satisfaction.
Clara allowed Beresford to escort her to a cluster of chairs near the musicians.
She laughed politely at something he whispered, and for a moment Crispin saw her as the rest of the world did.
A future countess, perfectly equipped for polite society, never once betraying the simmering resentment that he alone had glimpsed.
He watched them for three deliberate breaths, then crossed the expanse of marble with a confidence that parted the crowd.
Crispin reached the pair just as Beresford leaned in, perhaps to issue another compliment or to suggest the refreshment table, and placed a gloved hand at the small of Clara’s back.
The contact was subtle, but she stiffened at once. Crispin felt the ripple of tension in her body and smiled, all teeth and promise.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, not bothering to sound sincere. “But I believe the next dance is mine.”
Beresford had the decency to look sheepish, but he recovered quickly. “Of course, Oakford. Lady Clara, I shall see you later.” He bowed, then retreated, though not without a backward glance at Clara that Crispin would remember, and repay, at his leisure.
Clara turned her head to him, blue eyes narrowed. “Was that entirely necessary?”
“Absolutely,” he said, steering her back to the dance floor as the next waltz began. “It would be the height of bad manners for an affianced couple to ignore each other at their own ball.”
“You were not ignoring me,” she said, voice low and dangerous. “You were watching me.”
He inclined his head. “You gave a superb performance, Clara. The ton is utterly besotted.”
They took position among the other couples, hands settling into place. His right on her waist, hers at his shoulder, their free hands joined just so. Her posture remained impeccable, yet a subtle tension vibrated beneath his palm—a sign of the storm she refused to show.
The music began, and they moved, two forces locked in rhythm and resistance.
The waltz unfolded like a battle of wills, every step and turn an argument to be won or lost. She followed his lead with the precision of someone determined not to give ground, and he found himself grateful for it.
Too many women melted under his touch, mistaking aggression for desire.
Clara, by contrast, met force with force, and it was exhilarating.
“Do you enjoy being desired by every man in the room?” he asked.
“I thought that was the plan,” she said coolly. “You did say jealousy would drive them to me.”
His lips pressed into a line. “Yes, but I did not expect to hate it.”
She blinked. “What?”
He spun her elegantly, catching her close again. “I do not get jealous. Not over women.”
“You look like you want to murder Lord Beresford?”
He did not answer at first. Then, voice rough said, “Because the thought of his hands on you makes me want to break something.”
Clara stumbled.
He steadied her.
“That was not in the script,” she murmured.
“No. It was not.” He held her closer. “You seemed to rather enjoy Lord Beresford’s attention,” he said, letting the words hover just above her ear.
She replied without missing a step. “He is a gentleman. He knows how to be courteous.”
“And you find courtesy preferable to candor?”
She arched a brow, her lips curving into the ghost of a smile. “I find it preferable to… whatever it is you are doing.”
Crispin dipped her, not gently, and she gasped. He relished it, pulling her up close so that their faces nearly touched.
“Surely you are not afraid of me, pet.”
She met his gaze, ice over steel. “No more than I fear a house cat gone feral. You make a mess, but you rarely draw blood.”
He laughed, delighted, and spun them through a tight turn that forced her closer still. “Your suitors will need sharper claws if they hope to win you.”
“Perhaps I prefer my suitors declawed.”
He caught the glint in her eyes, the challenge. “That would be a shame,” he murmured, “given how much fun it is to spar with you.”
Crispin could not be sure what she was thinking, but she didn’t look away, not even when decorum dictated she should lower her gaze.
The defiance was unmistakable, and it thrilled him.
He allowed himself to admire her. The arch of her neck, the way her gown clung to the line of her back, the defiance in every movement.
“You look ravishing,” he said, softer now. “Was it deliberate, choosing the exact shade of blue to match the evening’s drama?”
Her lips twitched. “I would say the effect was accidental, but we both know I am not so careless.”
“I have never met a woman less prone to carelessness,” he said. “And yet here you are, betrothed to me.”
“A tragic oversight, I assure you.”
They danced in silence for a few bars. The music filled the space between their words, thick with everything they left unsaid.
Clara’s pulse fluttered at the base of her throat, each step a deliberate act of control against the current of emotion threatening to break through.
Then, as the waltz slowed, Crispin pulled her incrementally closer, violating the accepted inch of distance.
His fingers flexed at her waist, and he felt her intake of breath, quick and involuntary.
“You are trembling,” he said, the admission laced with concern and something far more fragile—longing, perhaps, or fear that he was beginning to care.
“It is only the cold,” she said, chin lifted.
He leaned in until his lips brushed her ear. “I think it is something else entirely.”
She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, gathering the fragments of her composure, then opened them with a calm that would have frozen a lesser man. “You are mistaken, Lord Oakford. I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”
The music drew to a close. Applause washed over them, but Crispin did not hear it. He saw only Clara, pulse thundering, lips parted, eyes aflame.
He kept hold of her arm a fraction longer than was proper, using the pretext of the crowded floor to draw her toward the edge of the ballroom. She allowed herself to be guided, though the look she gave him suggested she knew precisely what he was about and dared him to continue.
“I believe we have given them something to talk about,” she said, allowing a rare note of mischief into her voice.
He smiled, savoring the sensation of victory tinged with defeat. “That was always the plan, was it not?”
She glanced up at him, her gaze softening just enough to be dangerous. “Perhaps.”
They passed through an anteroom heavy with the scent of lilies and spilled champagne. Crispin steered her deftly through a knot of gossiping dowagers and out onto the terrace, where the air was cool and clean, cut with the smell of wet stone and distant smoke from the city’s chimneys.
Clara walked to the balustrade and braced herself against the stone, staring out at the latticework of rooftops that sloped away toward the Thames.
The moon was a thin sickle, but bright enough to silver the terrace tiles and render her profile in stark relief—the straight, stubborn nose, the unyielding line of her mouth, the hair wound high and gleaming like sun gold.
Crispin leaned beside her, folding his arms over his chest. The quiet here was a stark contrast to the noise of the ballroom. It had depth, a sense that every word would echo and hang in the air.
After a time, he said, “You are surprisingly good at this, you know.”
She did not turn. “At what?”
“Deception. Survival. Keeping a roomful of vultures at bay. I rather admire your tenacity.”
Clara’s lips curved, but her gaze stayed fixed on the horizon. “I have had years of practice. My entire reputation depends on not faltering. I suppose I should thank you for providing the crucible.”
He accepted the barb with a smile. “It is a rare woman who can take a public disaster and transform it into a triumph.”
She shrugged, and for the first time her posture seemed to relax, just slightly. “Necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention.”
They lapsed into silence again. The sounds of the ball filtered through the open French doors. Laughter, the pop of a cork, the pluck of a harp as the musicians set up for the next dance.
“I detest parties,” Clara said at last, so quietly that Crispin had to lean closer to hear.
“Then why are you always at the center of them?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“Because it is where they expect to find me,” she replied. “It is easier to endure the scrutiny than to give them reason to invent new rumors. At least this way, I control the narrative.”
She turned to face him, arms crossed in a way that mirrored his own. “Does it amuse you, watching me perform? Is that your true motivation? You live for the game?”
He considered her words. “No,” he said, surprising himself with his own honesty. “This started as a game. But it no longer feels like one. Not entirely.”
Clara’s heart beat faster.
“We cannot keep this up forever,” she whispered.
“No,” he said. “But for tonight, let them think what they will. Let them envy me. Because tonight, you are mine.”
The words echoed in her chest, stirring something reckless and quiet.
Perhaps it was easier not to protest. Easier to let the lie sit between them like a shared secret.
She tilted her head, searching his face for a trace of irony, but his expression was unreadable, save for the flicker of something in his eyes that made her breath catch.
“I do not like Lord Beresford,” she said. “He is insipid and relentless and abandoned me once.”
“You laughed at his joke.”
“I was being polite.” Her mouth twisted. “Unlike some.”
He felt a surge of satisfaction at her admission. “I suppose I will have to make you laugh, then.”
“I doubt you could.”
He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “You underestimate me, Clara.”
She held his gaze, unflinching. “I am quite certain I do not.”
He reached out and, with exaggerated delicacy, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath hitched, a flicker of something wild and unspoken rising in her chest before she could suppress it.
She froze, surprise flashing in her gaze, and the air between them charged like the moment before a lightning strike.
“Are you going to kiss me again?” she asked. Her heart thudded once, hard, the weight of hope and indignation colliding in her chest. She hated that she wanted him to. Hated it almost as much as she wanted to see what he would do next.
He leaned forward, considered her, this woman who had upended his plans. Who made him reckless and cautious in equal measure. He wanted to kiss her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. Instead, he stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender.
“No kissing, pet,” he said, voice soft as velvet. “That was your demand, was it not?”
Anger flared in her eyes, turning them impossibly blue. “You are insufferable.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But you seem to enjoy my particular brand of conduct.”
“I assure you, I do not.”
She turned on her heel and swept past him, skirts flaring. At the doorway, she glanced back, moonlight gilding her hair.
“I hope you enjoy your party, my lord.” Her voice was smooth. Her eyes unreadable.
And then she was gone.
Crispin stood there, the night air sharp against his skin, the thrum of the city a dull echo to the chaos within him.
Behind him, the laughter and music pulsed from the ballroom. He should have felt triumphant, or at least smug, but instead he found himself grinning and unbalanced.
He could not remember the last time he had wanted something beyond reach.
Desire had always obeyed him. But now, it tugged like a leash he hadn’t fastened himself.
The very idea that someone could tempt him into surrendering control, into wanting something he could not command, was as thrilling as it was terrifying.
He didn’t know whether he should be delighted or afraid.
But he knew beyond doubt that he would kiss her again.
Improperly, without regard for consequence, and with all of London to bear witness.
For now, he contented himself with the memory of her, the taste of near-miss in the air, and the certainty that they were far from done.