Chapter Two #2
Brinley continued working on her sleeve.
“I do not know how you’re going to justify this damage to your dress to Lady Kempton. It really is a shame—the garment looked lovely on you—and I doubt it can be repaired now.”
Clara reared back dramatically. “Was that a compliment? From you?”
“Do not take my words to heart,” he warned. “I’ve a few drinks in me, and I am a consummate rake—I spew pretty words in my sleep.”
Right.
Clara looked away and tried not to feel a prick of rejection.
“Are you quite finished?” She did not think she could take much more of his fingers against her shoulder. If she didn’t know better, she might have suspected him of lingering too long merely for the joy of touching her. He was giving her chills.
“Just about.” Instead of releasing her when he was finished, Brinley’s strong fingers captured her upper arm before she could escape. “I will see you inside.”
“I think I can manage that much,” Clara protested, attempting to remove herself from his grip, but he held her too firmly.
“You’ve walked into enough trouble for one night. I will not be letting you out of my sight until I see you safely deposited with either your brother or his wife.”
“I do not need you to care for me like I am some wayward child!” she replied indignantly through gritted teeth. Would this man never see her as more than a girl with plaited hair and short skirts? Would he not recognize that she was her own person?
“Clearly, I do, because you’ve no clue how poorly this could have been for you if you’d been discovered by anyone but me.
As it is, the appearance of the situation is hardly acceptable.
At least I will keep quiet about your activities.
Do you wish to squander your good reputation and throw away any prospects Dorian has lined up for you?
Because that is precisely what you will do if you continue to behave as some ill-mannered little hellion,” Brinley hissed.
He continued to guide her along the path, his hold strong enough that she could not resist, but gentle enough that he did not cause her any pain.
“Why must you insist upon treating me like a child?” she demanded.
“Because you are one.”
“It did not seem as if you viewed me that way when you kissed me.”
Though she’d spoken without thinking, the statement caught him off guard enough to cause him to loosen his grip.
Clara took the opportunity to wrench herself free from the infuriating man, only to be yanked to a stop when fabric and thread from her tattered sleeve tangled hopelessly on the button of his coat.
“Blast!” she growled just as a more colorful curse left Brinley’s lips.
Together, they struggled to free her once more. When they heard the unmistakable sound of people approaching, they moved even quicker.
Clara became even more frantic when she recognized Amelia’s familiar voice among the approaching party.
“Hurry!” Clara urged him.
“I am trying. Here—” He hauled her against him, trying to create some slack in the snag. She tried to ignore the solidness of his hard body, frustrated that she’d notice such a thing at that dire moment.
He worked furiously, but to little avail.
Clara quickly became more panicked.
“There is no time!” She could not be caught in Brinley’s arms, at night, alone, in the gardens…let alone by Amelia. She’d be even more mortified if Dorian was with her.
Oh, God…
Panicked, Clara whispered, “There isn’t time to be gentle.” Then she shoved away from Brinley despite his harshly hissed protests.
She’d hoped his button would give way, but the thread of his coat was more durable than the filmy fabric of her gown.
The seam rent with a sound that turned Clara’s blood to ice.
The bodice finally gave up its fight, and she was forced to clutch the fabric to her chest to cover the cups of her stays.
Brinley’s eyes widened, and he swore, trying to assist her in regaining some modesty…just as Amelia and her party turned the corner. The group stuttered to a stop when they spied the scene Brinley and Clara made.
She watched as Amelia’s keen eyes took in the facts: Clara’s flushed cheeks, ripped gown, heaving bosom, and mussed hair; Brinley’s hands upon her, the undeniably guilty and frazzled expression he wore.
Immediately, Amelia ushered the guests back around the corner, but not before they took in the sight of Clara’s ruin. She realized she was well and truly destroyed when she recognized the faces of two of London’s biggest gossipmongers amongst them.
Any hope Clara might have had in convincing Dori of the innocence of the encounter was lost. It mattered not one bit what she said because the encounter would be detailed for the rest of the party before she even made it back to the castle.
Amelia stormed back around the corner and headed straight for them.
“What are you doing? What is going on here? What has happened to your gown?” Her queries flew like arrows as Brinley all but leapt away, removing his hands from Clara’s person as if he’d been burned. She had never seen him so flustered.
“Lady Kempton,” Brinley began and then paused before trying again. “I was assisting Lady Clara with her gown.”
“I can see as much,” Amelia bit out.
“It became tangled,” he added through gritted teeth.
Clara had forgotten her immodest state until Amelia attempted to set her to rights.
“Hand over your coat,” Amelia snapped. He did not hesitate so much as a heartbeat before doing so with a little difficulty—the fit of the garment being exquisitely perfect.
Clara and Amelia had to help by each tugging on a sleeve until he was in his starched white shirtsleeves, cravat, and waistcoat.
Clara was quickly engulfed in the fine fabric of his coat, overcome by his scent.
It was unexpectedly sweet, like sugared lemons.
She did not want to acknowledge how delicious it was and, instead, she clutched the lapels around her, unable to meet Amelia’s eyes.
She’d been a sister figure to Clara for a good portion of her life, and Clara could not stand to see any disappointment in her eyes.
“Shoo! Back to the house with both of you!” Amelia ushered them around the side of the castle like a furious shepherdess, away from the eyes of the party.
Clara, however, knew it would not do much good.
The women with the wagging tongues had already retreated to the crush to spread their—no doubt exaggerated—account of what they’d happened upon in the gardens.
Clara said a silent prayer that Amelia reached Dorian before those words did.
As she hugged the coat around her more tightly—suddenly terribly chilled by the prospect of facing her brother and having to explain herself to him—Clara risked a glance up at Brinley’s face.
She thought his expression must have mirrored hers.
The seriousness of his eyes, the firm, grim set of his lips, the stiffness she saw there reminded her of a man on his way to the gallows.
Then, she wondered if that assessment was not all that far removed from reality for both of them.
Half an hour later, as Clara sat in a chair in the study Amelia and Dorian shared, she realized it did, indeed, feel like an apt description of their situation. They faced their judge and jury, the people who held Clara’s future in their palms.
Both she and Pearce watched Dorian’s taut form as he stared out into the inky night.
Neither of them dared look at one another as the room seemed to shrink beneath the weight of painful silence.
All the room’s occupants knew of Dorian’s temper, but realized his silent seething was far more dangerous in its unpredictability.
This is terrible… Clara thought to herself.
Nearby, Brinley emitted a small, quiet breath of wry laughter, telling her she hadn’t kept the words in her head.
Well, at least she wasn’t alone in facing this fate, whatever it might be.