Chapter 11 #2
Could she trust this man with the heart he had once damaged?
Emotions and memories welled within her.
The press of his lips against hers in the quiet corner of the exhibit hall, the way he had touched her hand with such reverence she had nearly wept.
The way he looked at her as if she were more than a clever arrangement.
More than a joke. She could not reconcile this Crispin with the one she had known mere weeks ago.
Alice entered and stopped in the doorway, watching the bird finish its song.
Her brows lifted slightly in curiosity, but a soft smile curved her lips.
She tilted her head, her gaze flicking from the automaton to Clara, then stepped inside.
Her movements were unhurried, her expression open and gently inquisitive.
“That’s new,” she said gently. Her gaze lingered on the automaton, her expression touched with something between surprise and knowing amusement.
Clara nodded, throat tight. “He sent it.”
Alice crossed the room and sat beside her. “It is lovely.”
Clara hesitated. The music still echoed faintly in her mind, and with it, a stirring she had not allowed herself to acknowledge fully—until now. Her fingers twisted lightly in her lap. “It is.”
She glanced at Alice, searching her friend’s face for some sign that it was safe to speak. The openness she found there gave her courage.
Her voice trembled as the words escaped, barely louder than the music that had just faded.
A dozen memories pressed against her chest, and for the first time, she allowed herself to feel them—unfiltered, unguarded.
The admission hovered in the quiet like something sacred, too raw to take back, too real to ignore.
“I think I might be in love with a man I promised myself I’d never forgive.
” Her voice faltered on the final word. Her gaze dropped to the nightingale automaton, its silver feathers catching the slanting afternoon light.
The delicate bird seemed to watch her in turn, a silent witness to the admission she had dared speak aloud.
Alice squeezed her hand, her grip warm and steady. The simple gesture offered comfort, yet it also made Clara’s throat tighten further.
“Then I hope, for both your sakes, that he proves worthy of it.”
Clara blinked, her eyes stinging unexpectedly.
She looked down at her lap, her fingers smoothing over the fabric of her gown, searching for composure.
Alice’s support felt like a balm, but also a mirror, forcing her to confront how deeply she longed for something more than clever repartee and fleeting warmth.
For all her careful posturing, what she truly wanted was a love she could believe in, one that would not vanish when tested. And if Crispin failed her... would she survive it?
That night, Clara stood near the tall windows at Lady Loring’s musicale.
Crispin spotted her almost at once. She lingered by the tall windows, where golden candlelight pooled on polished marble floors.
The room was quieter than most London gatherings, the air steeped in gentle murmurs and the soft strains of a solo violin.
Crimson velvet curtains softened the sharp edges of the chamber, while delicate floral arrangements perfumed the air with the scent of lilac and rose.
She wore dove-gray silk that shimmered when she moved, her hair twisted up with a single pearl comb. Simple. Elegant. Devastating.
He approached her during a lull between performances.
“Lady Clara,” he murmured, bowing low.
She arched a brow, but her lips twitched. “Lord Oakford.” Her pulse quickened despite herself. Just the sight of him—tall, composed, somehow both elegant and uncertain—sent her thoughts scattering. She had expected him to be here, but not that her breath would catch so sharply when their eyes met.
“Did you receive the package?”
“I did.”
“I wanted you to have something that sings only for you.”
Her breath caught again, but this time it was not from surprise.
It was from the ache of tenderness blooming in her chest. Once, she had imagined him thoughtless and unfeeling, a man who toyed with hearts like trinkets.
Yet this gift, delicate and deeply personal, suggested otherwise.
Did he see her now in a way he never had before?
And more terrifying still, was she beginning to see him not as the devil of her past, but the man he was trying to become?
Her breath caught, and he saw it. The flicker in her eyes, the ripple of emotion she hadn’t yet voiced.
She turned slightly, drew a calming breath, and let the words rise. Her pulse fluttered beneath her ribs, but she held his gaze. The words tasted bold and uncertain as they left her lips. “Would you like to dance?”
“I would like nothing more.”
They stepped onto the floor as the quartet began to play.
Clara’s heart beat in time with the music, a lilting waltz, delicate and yearning, threaded through with notes that seemed to echo her own uncertainty.
The violins rose in graceful arcs. Beneath them, the cello hummed like a heartbeat, steady and deep.
It was a piece that invited closeness, one that dared vulnerability with each lingering note.
In its rhythm, she felt the pull of possibility and the weight of all they had not said.
The brush of his hand at her waist sent a thrill through her, one that had nothing to do with scandal and everything to do with longing.
This time, he didn’t lead with charm or mischief.
There was no practiced smirk, no rakish wink.
Only the sincerity of his gaze, steady and searching.
She dared to meet it, and for a moment, the room seemed to blur around them. The music, the flicker of candlelight, the curious eyes—all ceased to exist.
She should have been afraid. The flicker of candlelight danced across Crispin’s features, softening the sharp lines of his jaw and catching in the depths of his eyes.
The rustle of her silk skirts brushed softly against his legs, a whisper of intimacy between them.
There was a risk in letting herself believe this was real.
Risk in allowing her heart to remember the ache of their past, the sting of betrayal.
But here, swaying gently in his arms beneath the chandelier’s glow, she felt something else.
A fragile, radiant hope. The possibility of something true.
Did he see it too?
Part of her wanted to ask, to beg for reassurance. But another, quieter part, more courageous, held her tongue and simply let herself feel. A simple waltz. Familiar. Measured.
But everything in that moment felt different.
He held her lightly, not possessively. She rested her hand on his shoulder, not out of obligation, but trust.
No hidden meanings. Just them, bare, honest, and quietly, perilously close.
He looked down at her, marveling.
“You are quiet,” she said softly, her gaze lingering on him with a gentle curiosity, as if trying to read the thoughts he wasn’t yet ready to speak aloud.
There was a stillness to him tonight, not the tense sort, but something gentler.
She caught the flicker of candlelight in his eyes, the way his thumb lightly brushed the back of her hand.
For the first time, she wasn’t sure whether the silence between them was caution or comfort.
“I am afraid that if I speak, I will say something foolish and ruin the spell.”
“You already did,” she whispered, a faint tremor in her voice. Her fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder, and a breath hitched in her throat. “But I am still here.”
His heart thudded.
She was still here.
The dance continued. The room faded around her.
The candlelight blurring at the edges of her vision.
Clara’s chest rose and fell with each step, her breath matching the music’s rhythm.
She felt the steady warmth of Crispin’s hand, the reassuring weight of his gaze.
She did not analyze or retreat. She simply let herself exist in the moment, suspended between memory and what might come next.
And for the first time since their charade began, it no longer felt like a performance.
It felt like a beginning.
They didn’t speak of what came next. But neither looked away.
And neither let go.