Chapter 9
C rispin left the royal exhibition, his time with Clara’s weighing heavy on his mind, and walked straight into the last man he wanted to see.
“Oakford,” someone called out behind him.
He turned. Lord Beresford stood at the corner, cane in hand, lips curled in a half-smile. A man made of polished ambition and too-perfect grooming. A man Clara had once set her cap for.
“Beresford,” Crispin said coolly.
“You seem to have stolen my almost-fiancée.”
Crispin’s brow twitched. “I do apologize. I had no idea you were still collecting hearts.”
Beresford smirked. “Lady Clara is… spirited. But her reputation remains fragile. I hope you know what you are doing.”
“Odd,” Crispin said mildly, “that you would imply her reputation was delicate when you were so eager to abandon her at the first whisper of scandal.”
Beresford stiffened. “That was years ago.”
“And yet she remembers.” Crispin narrowed his gaze at Beresford.
“I would hope you are not dragging her through another scandal,” Beresford said.
Crispin stepped closer. “And I would hope you would remember to whom you are speaking. Lady Clara is under my protection now. Whatever your history, I suggest you tread carefully.”
They stared each other down for a tense beat. Then Beresford tipped his hat and walked on, leaving Crispin simmering.
Only now did he realize how fiercely protective he had become.
He thought suddenly of Clara’s quiet bravery at the exhibition, the vulnerability in her voice when she had spoken of her past. It was in those small, honest moments that she had unknowingly drawn him in and made him care more deeply than he had intended to.
This had stopped being a performance. Clara mattered, and he had to do something about that.
Truth. The word echoed through him.
Could he do that? Could he be honest with Clara?
And if he did? What then?
Perhaps, Crispin realized, the truth was the first step toward a risk he had avoided for far too long.
Clara sat behind a crescent of ornamental palms in the tearoom, across from Eden.
The press of the teacup against her lips brought Oakford’s kiss to mind, and her cheeks warmed.
Perhaps she should have retired home after the exhibition.
She was not at all in the right state of mind for a polite tea.
Eden cleared her throat. “You look less inclined to flee to a nunnery,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice.
Clara managed a smile. “I fear I would make a rather disappointing nun.”
Eden leaned in. “How are you, truly?”
“Yes, how are you?” Alice slipped into the chair on Clara’s right.
Clara exhaled. “Somewhere between progress and peril.”
Eden grew serious. “I remember when Oakford crossed our path in Harrowsgate. You were visibly shaken when you caught sight of him.”
“His reputation was only half of it,” Clara muttered. “The other half is how he looks at me as if he knows the ending already.”
“You like it.”
“You could not possibly,” Alice said, stirring a lump of sugar into her tea.
“I like... parts of it. Not him. The tension.” Clara sighed. “I would not wish to burden you?—”
“I am still here after Brighton and the duel,” Eden said with a fond smile, her eyes gleaming. “And I distinctly recall pulling you out of that fountain in Bath, so I think I have earned the right to hear your tangled feelings and promise I shall not judge.”
“And I have been at your side since we were girls.” Alice met Clara’s gaze. “You know you can trust us.”
Clara looked into her tea, the steam curling softly between them. “Do you remember when I lost my Almack’s voucher? That moment taught me how swiftly reputations could unravel, how fragile approval truly was. Ever since, I have kept people at a distance, especially men like him.”
“That was dreadful, and all—” Alice pressed her lips together, cutting off her words, but Clara knew how the sentence ended.
All because of Oakford. Her chest squeezed.
Eden was oblivious of the whole dreadful affair.
She and Eden had not been friends at the time, but Alice knew the tale all too well.
“Go on.” Eden nodded encouragement.
“It was Lord Oakford,” Clara said quietly. “He joked about seeing me in the hedge maze. Said I remained innocent, but by morning, the ton assumed I did not.”
The words settled between them like fog.
Clara stared into her teacup, watching the steam curl and vanish, as if hoping her shame might evaporate just as easily.
She had not spoken of it aloud in years.
Not to her mother, not to her friends, not even to herself.
But the hurt had never left, only buried itself deeper each season.
Now, speaking it aloud made the weight shift—heavier in one way, and lighter in another.
“He ruined you,” Eden said as Alice shook her head in the affirmative.
Clara set her teacup aside. “And he never noticed, or cared. Oakford went on with his life while Lord Beresford stopped calling on me. Mother scrambled to repair the damage, but for a while the invitations slowed to a near stop.”
Eden squeezed her hand. “And now he is courting you. Pretending he will marry you and setting you up to be ruined all over again.”
“I am not so certain he is. He listens. He makes me laugh. And sometimes... I think he likes me.”
“And you?”
“Most of the time, I want to find a way to beg off without ruining my reputation.” She paused. Took a sip of her tea. “Sometimes, I like him back. And it terrifies me. I do not know what it means to like someone who once hurt me so deeply, what it says about him, or about me.”
“You are not that girl anymore,” Alice said.
Clara blinked, her throat tightening around the truth of it. She wanted to believe it, needed to, but the weight of the past still clung like damp silk. And yet, in Alice’s eyes, she saw no doubt. Only belief. And that belief was something she had not realized she craved.
“Still, I do not trust him. Or myself. It feels like I am being swept away in a storm of my own making.” Clara sighed. “It was I who made that foolish announcement, and now I am trapped.”
“What would you have him do? Apologize?” Eden asked.
“Would you even believe it?” Alice set her teacup down and leaned in.
Clara shook her head. “I do not know. But regardless, I would remain caught in my web of deceit.”
Eden held her gaze, teacup in hand. “Do you want him to be the villain? Or the man you have glimpsed beneath the mask?”
“I have built my walls so high, I do not know how to let them down. I have despised him for years.”
“And rightly so,” Alice said. “But people do change. You have.”
Eden reached for Clara’s hand. “Do not tear them down. Just lower the drawbridge. Allow him a chance. You might find yourself pleasantly surprised.”
Clara laughed. “You sound like a pamphlet.”
“I sound like your friend.” Eden’s lips curved in a gentle smile.
“We are both here for you, Clara. Whatever you need. Whatever happens.” Alice reached out and squeezed Clara’s hand. “You can count on us.”
Clara hesitated, then whispered, “I want revenge. I want him to regret it. I want him to see me. To know what he cost me. To be sorry.” She doubted an apology would change anything, but perhaps it might return a piece of herself she had lost. The girl who had once believed in fairness, in love and happily ever afters.
That hope had been buried for years, but still, she longed to unearth it.
“That is not vengeance,” Eden said. “That is longing.”
Clara smiled. “Maybe it is both.”
The words sat between them, soft but undeniable. Half confession, half defiance.
“Perhaps I am a fool,” Clara said.
“You are not a fool. You are simply human.” Eden shook her head. “Allow him a chance to surprise you.”
And as Clara sipped her tea, the knot in her chest loosened. For now, she had Eden, Alice, and a fragile thread of hope.
Sometimes, that was enough.