Chapter One
Several months later
Clara Poole, only sibling to the Marquess of Kempton, had spent every day of her two decades of life learning where the boundaries of Society and propriety lay, and then testing just how closely she might skirt them.
The steps to the delicate dance she practiced were intricate and fraught; one step too far over the boundaries and her reputation—and any hopes she had of a decent future—would be shattered.
Then again, staying well within those expectations was not an option…
She’d surely die if she allowed herself to be smothered by all the constraints.
So, she’d learned through many years of trial and error, a few minor stumbles and much exasperation on the part of her brother and guardian, where her place in Society would be. Eventually, Clara took great pride in her position as an unconventional diamond.
Though not everyone would call her dark eyes and hair the height of fashion, she felt they lent her pale complexion a stark enough contrast as to be quite captivating when she was appropriately attired.
It was of great benefit to have an indulgent brother who often allowed her to spend an exorbitant amount at the modiste each Season.
While her education far surpassed many of her peers, she quickly learned that male suitors did not care to be informed that they knew less on a subject than the pretty little doll to whom they spoke.
Thus, Clara learned the advantage of batting her eyelashes and giggling prettily when she’d much rather have corrected a misattributed quote or informed someone that his assertion lay in stupidity rather than fact.
When she saw how effectively she could use her quick wit when she veiled it beneath the guise of coyness and flirtation, she recognized that, given the proper circumstances, she could have all of London at her feet.
Were she a less kind, less joyful woman, then she might have taken advantage of that fact and put it to ill-intended use; instead, Clara used it to enjoy herself.
Why have one suitor when dozens would line up if she wriggled her fingers at them?
It wasn’t as if she’d grown up in a household devoid of love and sought affection elsewhere because of it—far from it.
Though more than a decade separated her brother’s birth from hers, she’d never felt unwanted or uncherished by either Dorian or their parents, God rest their souls.
No. Clara had had the benefit of witnessing great love, but she’d also seen enough to know that not everyone was so fortunate as to experience it for themselves.
Determined and na?ve in her first Season, Clara had cast a wide net.
Young bucks had flocked to her in droves, eager to snap up her attention and lap up every morsel of it they could.
Despite her best intentions, her disillusionment with the smoke and mirrors of the farce was swift and fierce.
There was nothing particularly or horribly wrong with any of her suitors…
but there had been nothing particularly or wonderfully right about them either.
Having seen the power great love with a true match might bring, she was struck by the utterly lackluster opportunities Society presented.
It was then that Clara changed her tactic.
She had little hope of finding the same sort of love her brother and his wife shared, so why shouldn’t she enjoy herself while she was still young enough and free enough to do so?
She learned rather quickly that, if she wished to live her life to its fullest within the constraints set by Society, then she must become brilliant at playacting.
If she desired an invitation to a certain party, then she knew precisely how to adjust her personality to best suit and flatter the hostess’s sensibilities and earn her that coveted seat.
If she wished to drum up a bit of excitement at a boring event, then she knew exactly whose company she needed to keep.
If she felt like being doted upon, then playing the role of helpless debutante was just the thing.
She’d been rather impressed the first time she witnessed how quickly men would wish to jump to the assistance of a female whom they viewed as helpless and weak.
What she hadn’t counted upon was how that last bit wound up making a mark of her.
While Clara had won so many admirers and was invited to so many grand fetes, she knew it could only last so long.
She was still young, but it was only a matter of time before one of her admirers approached her brother and asked permission to formally court her…
and Dori would be hard-pressed to decline flat-out on her behalf if she could not form a worthy objection.
She could not outrun that fact forever. She had played her part so well that she would reach that inevitable outcome.
Unfortunately, she had not realized the full implications of being that Season’s diamond—that every freedom she enjoyed would likely come to an end when she was married.
Clara was somewhat morosely contemplating as much as she gazed out into the gardens stretching from the eastern wall of Coylton Castle, the Scottish keep her sister-in-law very capably managed for her son.
Her first husband, the late Earl of Coylton, had perished in a riding accident, leaving Amelia to stand in as both mother and father to the tremendously intelligent and precocious Archie.
Clara adored Amelia and Archie and was beyond pleased to finally call them her family, but she had also fallen in love with this corner of Scotland.
She enjoyed the landscape, at once emerald green and lush in some places, harsh and rugged in others.
It could be untamed, but the people were the warmest, most generous she’d ever met.
With most of the guests enjoying music and dancing in the great hall, she was free to enjoy a breath of air as her eyes danced over the meticulously kept gardens.
Part of the fortified walls were missing on that side of the building—whether for a design aesthetic or during battle, no one was quite certain—and some ancestor of Archie’s had designed gardens in the French style with long, rectangular flowerbeds and hedges extending well past where the wall would once have stood.
Clara quite liked the view; it made her feel as if she were stepping into a fairy tale.
Away from the bustle of the courtyard and the busier outbuildings, this was a peaceful, romantic place.
Coylton Castle had been alight with an increasing level of activity for days in preparation for that night’s celebration.
Clara had immediately accepted Amelia’s offer of the use of the castle for Clara’s twentieth birthday celebration.
She hadn’t been concerned about the inconvenience of travel for the guests; as far as she was concerned, anyone who mattered to her would gladly make the journey without a single grumble because they knew Clara would do the same for them.
Besides, she had been told on more than one occasion that all her talk of Scotland was becoming unbearable, so it was only fair that her friends see the beauty for themselves.
Maybe then they would understand! She might have displayed an appropriate amount of enthusiasm when she’d assisted Amelia in addressing the dozens and dozens of invitations, but she’d secretly imagined a gathering attended by friends and family with whom she could be her freest self—where she need not feel as if she were playacting in one of her favorite places in the world.
Much to Clara’s dismay, the number of accepted invitations far surpassed what she’d hoped, and the ton—amongst whom were a healthy handful of the young bucks who’d trailed behind her like worshippers—had made the journey. Clara wasn’t certain her party was the only draw, though.
In addition to being a beautiful and influential couple, her brother and his wife remained objects of curiosity amongst the titled elite—both because of their fraught history, and their recent hasty marriage.
Clara detested how two of the people she loved most in the world were viewed in such a salacious way, but Amelia had been trying to teach her to turn her cheek to whispers and gossip when she’d much rather have shoved her fan down the throat of some harpies.
“Do not make the same youthful mistakes I did,” Amelia had cautioned her after a particularly upsetting scene during their first outing as a family.
It had taken everything in Clara not to whack the Melbon twins and their rat-nosed mother with her parasol.
Their stares had been blatant and unapologetic; their whispers, though hushed, had clearly been directed their way.
“They deserve to be reminded that they are mere mortals, too,” Clara had replied with a harrumph.
“And someone should warn the twins that their noses will turn into their mother’s if they are not careful to hold them in the air a little less often than they do.
” Clara hadn’t missed the appreciative glint in Amelia’s eye, and they’d shared a conspiratorial smile.
Suddenly, there was a flash of muted elderberry in the periphery of Clara’s vision.
A feminine squeal echoed up from the garden, fully wrenching her from her musings.
She held her breath and listened but heard nothing else above the din down the hall from where she stood.
She glanced around, but there was no one else around to confirm she’d heard what she thought she had.
She turned her eyes back to the place deep in the gardens near the hedges where she’d seen the flutter of color, but there was no other sound or movement.
Very curious by nature, every muscle in her body felt drawn toward the gardens—to discover who had slipped off into the garden and away from the party.
Any why.