Chapter 8
T he Grand Royal Exhibition unfolded before them, a glittering labyrinth of marvels, imported, invented, or conjured for the delight of England’s elite.
Even by the standards of a society addicted to spectacle, it was calculated to dazzle.
From the avenue outside, one glimpsed the golden glow of a hundred thousand gas jets and heard the babble of aristocrats, artists, and all those who had bought, begged, or blackmailed their way inside.
Within the glass-roofed palace, anticipation shimmered.
Crispin escorted Clara through the first archway, his smile pitched perfectly between adoring fiancé and feral predator.
Clara, for her part, held herself with the practiced elegance of a woman immune to judgment.
Beneath the stillness of her posture, her fingers curled ever so slightly against her gloves, the only sign of the tension coiled tight beneath her calm exterior.
If she felt the press of a thousand curious glances, it did not show.
She was exquisite as ever, draped in silver-grey muslin, her hair pinned high with blue gemstones that caught the light and flung it back in dazzling fragments.
As they entered, recognition rippled through the crowd. Eyes tracked their every step. Fans fluttered. Names were whispered behind gloved hands. Crispin relished such attention.
“Your public awaits,” he murmured.
Clara lifted her chin ever so slightly, the faintest arch of her brow signaling her readiness to meet the performance head-on.
A part of her bristled at the charade, and yet another part, one she barely admitted to herself, thrilled at the way he made it feel like a private joke shared only between them.
She did not glance his way, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “I suppose we should give them a performance, then.”
He leaned in, his voice brushing her ear. “If you want to shock them, I will happily toss you over my shoulder and run for the nearest exit.”
She arched an eyebrow. “And hand Lady Marsh her third scandal this week? I think not.”
He laughed, drawing glances from those nearby. The sound caught Clara off guard, warmer and more genuine than she had expected. Something in her chest loosened, and though she kept her expression serene, a curious flutter stirred beneath her ribs.
Clara ignored them all as Crispin guided her smoothly past a mountain of orchids and a set of statues so anatomically detailed that even he looked away.
They stopped at a steam engine polished to a high gleam, hulking, magnificent. Pistons hissed. Metal churned. Clara paused. Her gaze sharpened, and she leaned forward, drawn in despite herself.
“A miracle of engineering,” he offered. “They say it can pull a railcar the length of Grosvenor Square without so much as a wheeze.”
Her eyes stayed fixed on the machine. “Mr. Stephenson’s work, is it not?”
He turned to her, surprise lighting his gaze. “You read engineering journals?”
“Only when the gossip columns bore me.”
Clara saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes and felt a strange satisfaction bloom in her chest. Still, she wasn’t sure if she enjoyed impressing him or unsettling him more.
His smile turned real. “You are wasted on the drawing room set.”
“Say that too loudly,” she murmured, flicking her eyes to the crowd, “and you will be forced to marry me for my mind alone.” The words came lightly, but an odd tightness curled in her stomach.
Joking about marriage with Crispin felt like walking a tightrope.
Thrilling and precarious all at once. Did he hear it as banter?
Or as the truth she was starting to want?
“Would that be so dreadful?” He asked, his gaze holding hers.
She pretended to ponder. “More so for you than for me, I expect.”
Before he could say more, the press of bodies and the sharp scent of oil nudged them forward.
He led them to a quieter chamber, the air warm with varnish and sawdust. Automata lined a velvet-draped table.
A prancing goat, a whistling monkey, and in the center, a golden nightingale adorned with lapis feathers, glimmering as if it might take flight.
Crispin saw her then. Not the composed lady of the ton, but something unguarded, with a quiet vulnerability and rare honesty that stripped away every performance.
She stepped close, her hand lifting, then halting just shy of the glass. “It is beautiful,” she said, wonder softening her features. “I have never seen one so perfect.”
He nodded to the attendant. “Would you show it to us?”
The young man lit up. “Of course, my lord.”
With a turn of a silver key, the bird came to life. Its breast rising, beak parting, releasing a trill so clear and haunting the whole room stilled.
Clara listened, transfixed. A lump formed in her throat, sudden and inexplicable. Something about the fragile, perfect sound pierced her defenses.
It spoke of solitude and longing, of being seen and cherished just as one was. For one breathless moment, she felt at peace in a way she had not in weeks. It was as if the bird sang not for the crowd, but for her alone, a small, aching gift of beauty meant to reach the part of her she kept hidden.
When the song faded, she looked up at Crispin.
For a single suspended breath, she forgot the surrounding room.
The sound of the automaton still echoed faintly in her chest, threading through her.
Then, just as swiftly, she mastered her expression, chin lifting, spine straightening.
In that moment, he saw the girl she had been before society taught her to hide behind poise and precision.
“Thank you,” she said coolly, and moved on, taking Crispin with her.
They paused at a case of Indian treasures. Vibrant silks, ivory, and a starburst of jewel-encrusted knives. Clara lingered, her gaze studying the jewels.
“Beautiful,” he said, unsure if he meant the weapons or the woman.
The admission slipped out before he could check it, and for a heartbeat he wondered if she could hear the weight behind it.
Did she notice his lingering gaze, his quickened pulse?
He did not know when his fascination had shifted from amusement to something more perilous than fascination, but it had.
She traced a finger along the glass. “Yes. But a little sad. Meant for danger, now caged for display.”
“Most dangerous things are,” he said. “Tamed by polite society.”
She glanced up. “Is that your fate, then?” The words came too softly, but her heart beat loudly behind them. She was no longer sure if she was teasing him, or asking for something she wasn’t ready to name.
“Only if you are holding the leash.”
Their eyes locked. A pause stretched between them, charged and trembling, until a high, nasal laugh cracked it like glass.
Two matrons lingered nearby, voices pitched low behind fluttering fans, their eyes darting toward Clara and Crispin with poorly concealed curiosity.
“She cannot truly wish to marry such a man.”
“I daresay not. There must be more behind it.”
“Scandal, to be sure.”
“You do not think he seduc?—”
Clara turned. The fans snapped shut.
“Ladies,” she said sweetly. “Forgive me, but I could not help overhearing.”
Both women looked to Crispin for rescue. He offered none. His gaze remained level, unreadable, but inside, his thoughts whirled. He had long since learned to let barbs pass without defense, yet something in Clara’s tone, her steadiness, shook something loose inside him.
“I do hope you will keep your opinions to yourselves. If you must trade in gossip, may I suggest a more private setting?”
The lead matron paled. “I—I meant nothing by it?—”
Clara’s smile turned razor sharp. “I am sure. But children might overhear. And we would not want them believing such delightful untruths.”
She turned to the second matron. “Do you not agree, Lady Fenwick?”
The woman nodded.
“Splendid. I shall rest easy knowing my betrothed’s reputation is in such capable hands.”
She rejoined Crispin, calm as ever. The matrons wilted in her wake.
He glanced sideways, an amused grin tilting his lips. A flicker of something unfamiliar stirred in his chest, not pride or amusement—well, perhaps a bit of both—but more importantly the uneasy thrum of being protected. It left him oddly exposed. “You defended me. Why?”
She hesitated. “Because I do not believe half of what they say about you.”
“Which half?” He narrowed his eyes in scepticism.
“The part that says you are incapable of loyalty. Or kindness. Or responsibility. I think you are. I think you are just afraid to show it. You are no devil.”
He stared at her, at the strength in her posture. “You might be right. But I am very good at pretending.”
“So am I.”
Crispin guided her to a secluded gallery, slipping behind a curtain of wine-dark velvet.
Inside, the hush was nearly total. The scent of beeswax and old canvas hung heavy. Clara stepped forward, gazing at the gilded frames, her features softened in the amber light.
“Have you decided to abduct me after all?” she asked, catching him staring.
“No,” he said, letting the curtain fall. “I wanted a moment without an audience.”
“Lord Oakford.”
He stepped closer. “I do not require defending.”
“You would rather I let them tear you apart?”
“I am used to it. Sometimes even find humor in the tales. But you seemed to enjoy silencing them. Why?”
“Because I dislike inaccuracies. You are many things, but not everything they say. And I know what it is like when no one speaks the truth. I prefer to be the resistance. Besides, what sort of woman would I be if I did not defend the man I claim to be smitten with?”
He looked at her with something like awe. “You astonish me.”
She gave an impish grin. “I thought I was a bore.”
“You are the most amusing person in this entire place. Perhaps in all of London.”