Chapter 7
T he morning after the engagement ball dawned golden and still, as though the heavens themselves had decided to bless Clara with a reprieve.
Sunlight streamed through the windows of her bedroom, casting lace-like shadows across her coverlet.
She sat before her vanity, her thoughts spiraling around the previous evening.
The ball had been a triumph, if measured by attention alone. Gentlemen had vied for her time. And Crispin, confound him, had been both attentive and entirely too charming. All of which left her unsettled, and a bit confused.
She needed space to breathe. A chance to make sense of the chaos and her own treacherous heart. Alas, it was not to be granted.
She and her mother had received an invitation from Lady Stratmore for a garden party.
With a sigh, she rose from her vanity. She donned her day dress, its fabric whispering against her skin as she met her mother in the entrance hall.
The carriage ride to Lady Stratmore’s estate was silent, Clara’s thoughts louder than the clopping of the horses’ hooves.
As they passed through the grand iron gates of the estate, she steeled herself for the day ahead.
Lady Stratmore’s estate bloomed in exuberant chaos, peonies and foxglove crowding the paths, fountains arcing, and debutantes circling like birds of prey.
The air hung thick with the caw of feminine ambition.
Clara despised garden parties, which were, in her estimation, little more than balls in the grass, lacking both polish and propriety.
They were all pretense and perspiration, gloved hands wilting in the heat, false laughter echoing beneath parasols, and empty compliments.
She had survived the initial greetings and the parade of lemon-water toasts, but now her cheeks burned from the last hour’s forced smiles.
A sigh escaped her, and she glanced toward the hedgerows, their shifting shadows promising a quiet escape.
Clara slipped away under the pretense of examining the latest shipment of Dutch tulips, but once beyond the sight line of the tea pavilion, she turned left instead of right and entered the old rose garden.
Here, high brick walls shielded her from the wind and, more importantly, the scrutiny of her mother, her mother’s friends, and the army of well-wishers lurking at every intersection.
The roses sprawled in decadent abundance—blood red, cream, and apricot—lush and untamed, as if they had never heard of restraint.
Their heady scent wrapped around her, stirring a strange ache of nostalgia and longing she could not name.
Clara inhaled deeply and, for one fragile moment, was herself again.
She drifted down the gravel path, trailing a gloved finger along the foliage.
Her thoughts, of their own accord, spun back to the ballroom the night before.
The press of bodies, the taste of champagne, the searing touch of Crispin’s hand at her waist, and the way he had smiled when she threatened to murder him.
Clara banished him with a grim set to her jaw and strode for the iron gate at the garden’s far end.
She was nearly there when a voice called out, “Lady Clara. I had not thought you a naturalist.”
She started, as though the devil himself had stepped from the late-morning mist. And indeed he had—Crispin stood, leaning one shoulder against a lichen-crusted statue of Venus, holding a single long-stemmed rose between his fingers.
His coat, a shade of midnight blue, caught the light like the wing of a starling, and his boots shone from a recent polish.
“Lord Oakford,” she said, too breathless for her own comfort. “I could say the same of you. Have you lost your way to the card tables?”
He smirked, the effect as devastating in sunlight as it had been by candlelight. “I am forbidden from all games of chance at Stratmore. Last summer’s…exploits left them wary of my influence.”
“Pity,” she said, recovering her composure.
“Just so,” he replied, twirling the rose between his thumb and forefinger.
“But roses, I find, are endlessly fascinating. Take this one, for example.” He crossed the path in a handful of long strides, closing the distance with the casual arrogance that made mothers clutch their daughters and daughters clutch at fantasies. “It is a bourbon, is it not?”
She glanced at the bloom, white at the petal’s edge, bleeding to crimson at the heart. “I would not have guessed you a scholar of horticulture, my lord.”
He offered her the flower, bowing with mock gallantry. “I have studied the subject only so far as it pertains to seduction and survival.”
She accepted the rose, but made no show of appreciation. “It is my experience that both pursuits end in pain.”
He grinned, eyes glinting. “Or in pleasure, if you choose the right company.”
Clara ignored the way her pulse sped and met his gaze. “You overestimate your charms.”
“I have yet to receive a complaint,” he said, unbothered.
“If I might be permitted, there is a specimen here I believe you would find intriguing.” He gestured down a side path, shaded and lined with a tangle of pale yellow climbers.
“Unless, of course, you are too frightened to spend time in the company of your affianced.”
She set her jaw, but curiosity won. “Lead on. But if this is a prelude to another of your infamous wagers, I will have you know I do not bet.”
He offered his arm, which she ignored. Undeterred, he escorted her, hands clasped behind his back. “I recall you once staked a shilling on whether Lady Pavington’s wig would dislodge during dinner.”
“Lady Pavington was my aunt, and it was for charity,” Clara replied, her lips betraying a smile despite herself. “You recall an alarming number of my indiscretions.”
“It is the only way to judge character,” he said, “to watch what people do when they believe no one is looking.”
They passed through a trellis heavy with yellow Lady Banks, the petals raining down like confetti. Crispin paused, watching her as she brushed a few from her shoulder, and she had the uncomfortable sense that he was committing the gesture to memory.
“I am not your project,” she said, unable to stand the silence.
“No,” he agreed. “You are my partner in deception.”
“Do not mistake proximity for alliance,” she retorted, the words sharper than intended.
He smiled, and in that moment, she saw the ghost of the boy he must have been. A child who knew exactly how to break things and fix them just enough to escape punishment.
They reached the far corner of the garden, a patch of shadow broken only by the sun’s reflection off a leaded-glass cold frame.
Behind it, Clara saw the oddest roses she had ever encountered.
The blooms were true blue, the color of periwinkle and heartbreak.
They were sprawled against the brick, ungainly and beautiful in a way that made her heart lurch.
Something in their imperfect, persistent bloom spoke to her.
A silent echo of her own contradictions, her own fight to be seen on her own terms.
She stepped forward, inspecting the petals. “I did not think blue roses possible.”
“They are not,” he said, voice gone quieter. “These are the result of years of cross-breeding and disappointment. They call it Winfield’s Folly.”
She looked up at him, something in his tone drawing her attention. He watched the roses with a peculiar mixture of pride and regret, as though they were a testament to failed ambition.
“Why show me this?” she asked.
Crispin shrugged, hands in his pockets. “It is beautiful, but everyone walks past it. They prefer perfect ones. But I find the broken ones far more compelling.”
She blinked. “That is either very profound or very pitiful, Lord Oakford.”
“Possibly both,” he said, and for a heartbeat, she wondered if he was speaking of more than roses.
Clara reached out, touching one of the blue blossoms. A thorn caught on her glove and pricked her finger clean through. Blood beaded instantly, vivid as the roses behind her.
She cursed a low, unladylike word. Before she could so much as inspect the damage, Crispin was at her side, a handkerchief already in hand. He wrapped her finger with quick, competent movements, his touch so gentle that it startled her more than the prick itself.
“There,” he said, knotting the cloth with deft fingers. She looked down. The linen square was pale and finely embroidered with a devil’s head monogram in the corner.
“I did not think you capable of first aid,” she said, distracted by the warmth of his hand around hers.
He did not let go. “You would be surprised what I am capable of.”
She met his gaze, blue on blue. Crispin’s hand lingered around hers, thumb tracing a circle just above the pulse in her wrist.
Her breath turned shallow. “You can release me, Lord Oakford. I am not in mortal peril.”
He did not move. “Perhaps I prefer to keep you in suspense.”
Her cheeks flushed. She pulled her hand free, but the gesture was more symbolic than forceful.
They stood in silence, the pause thick and lush as the garden itself.
Crispin tucked the stained handkerchief into his pocket. “You are welcome,” he said, tone mild, as though she were a recalcitrant child he had just saved from a scraped knee.
“I am hardly in your debt,” she replied, but the words rang hollow. Something in her had shifted, a degree or two off axis. She hated him for it, and yet, wanted nothing more than to see what else he might do to unsettle her world.
What the devil was wrong with her?
She stepped back, hands folded tight at her waist. “Thank you. For the assistance.”
“My pleasure, Lady Clara.”
She turned then and began retracing the path back toward the crowd.