Chapter 8 #2
Color rose in her cheeks. She turned to go, but he caught her hand, halting her with a gentleness that stole her breath. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. “You are dangerous.”
She laughed, a little breathless. “You are the one with the devil’s reputation.” The sound of her voice startled her—unsteady, light in a way it had not been in years. She wasn’t sure if she was warning him off, or inviting him closer.
“Shall we explore that?”
Before she could react, he kissed her. Not for the crowd, not for the game, but because he needed to.
Clara froze for half a breath. Her thoughts scattered like startled birds, crashing against her composure. And then, she leaned in, her heart choosing before her mind could object.
It was raw, unguarded. She met him with equal fire, yielding, fingers rising to knot in the fine hair at his nape. Their mouths moved against each other, hungry, messy, a collision of hope and need that left them both off balance.
She moaned, and he pressed her back against the wall, one hand cupping her jaw, the other braced at her waist. His entire world reduced to the points where their bodies touched. Her breath, her heat, her unfiltered desire.
When they finally broke apart, she stared up at him, her lips kiss-swollen and chest heaving. “That was not part of the arrangement.”
“No,” he said, pulse thrumming. “It was not.”
“My mother will be looking for me,” Clara said, stepping back.
“Let her look,” he said, pulling her back against his chest. “We are betrothed, after all.”
She stepped back with a smirk. “Ever the scoundrel, aren’t you?”
“And you cannot get enough.”
“I assure you I can,” she lied.
Clara took his arm, her fingers trembling slightly. A reminder that no matter how composed she appeared, the kiss had unraveled something within her. She wasn’t sure if it was fear, desire, or the terrifying possibility of hope.
She glanced down, noticing the loose clink at her wrist. Her bracelet—a delicate chain of silver and mother-of-pearl—a gift from her father on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday, hung at a precarious angle, the clasp undone. She stopped, frowning at it, and released his arm. “Perfect.”
Crispin glanced at her instantly attentive. “What is it?”
“My bracelet. But there is no cause to fret,” Clara replied. In truth, she was mortified. If the bracelet were lost, she would never hear the end of it from Mother.
“May I?” Crispin held out his hand, palm up, a question in the gesture.
She hesitated, then extended her wrist. He took it surprisingly gentle, and peered at the tiny mechanism before removing his gloves.
His hands were warm and dry. The pads of his fingers bore faint calluses that spoke of more than idle living.
Clara watched as he drew a small tool, a miniature screw-turner no bigger than a quill tip, from the inside of his waistcoat.
“You carry repair tools with you?” she asked, unable to disguise her surprise.
“Always. It would shock you to learn just how often things come apart at inopportune moments.”
He set to work, head bent in concentration, faint light catching the lines of his jaw.
Clara studied his face. The small scar at his left temple, the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
He was not as flawless as the gossip implied.
That slight imperfection, the quiet reality of him, rendered him achingly human.
“There,” he said, after a minute. “It was only bent. You must have caught it on something.”
Clara flexed her wrist, testing the closure. “Thank you,” she said, her heart softening.
Crispin did not release her wrist. “I find them fascinating, you know.”
“Bracelets?” She arched a questioning brow.
He smiled, gaze flicking up to hers. “Puzzles. Locks, riddles. I spent my childhood taking apart everything in my father’s house and trying to put it back together before anyone noticed.”
She could not help but smile. “I did the same. Though rarely messed with locks.”
Crispin’s eyes lit with genuine delight. “You see? We are not so different.”
Clara doubted that, but the conversation had grown too intimate to permit an outright denial.
She tried to withdraw her hand, but he lingered a moment, thumb brushing against the skin of her wrist. The contact sent a ripple through her, soft and unbidden, a sensation she felt deep in her chest. Her breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, she forgot why she had wanted to pull away.
“Thank you,” she said again, meaning it in a way she had not intended.
The words felt heavier than expected, laced with gratitude she did not wish to examine too closely.
Because in accepting his help so freely, so gently, she was also admitting that perhaps she no longer wanted to keep him at arm’s length.
He donned his gloves, then placed her hand on his elbow. “Think nothing of it.”
They returned to the Exhibition, to her mother’s side, Clara walking with careful poise, though something between them had shifted, subtle but undeniable.
Inside, everything felt unsteady, like the shift in the air before a summer storm.
She could not name what had altered, only that the weight of the evening now pressed differently on her chest. Lighter in some ways. Heavier in others.