Chapter Ten
The next few days were spent in uncommon silence.
If Pearce thought he’d experienced Clara’s ire before, then he was sorely mistaken.
Her snipes and barbs were nothing compared to the frigidity that had crept between them like a frosty January fog.
Several times, he fancied he could see his own breath when Clara sent a glare his way in response to one of his overtures at rekindling a more amiable relationship.
Each time, he wound up frustrated and deflated.
He reminded himself that Clara was rightfully upset with the situation.
However, he remained steadfast in his convictions.
He was convinced that any man in his position—with a curse breathing down his neck and a history as fraught as the one he’d survived—would feel the same.
The logic was sound. He could only hope that allowing Clara the time necessary to think it through and see it as he did would allow them to move forward.
This, however, did not stop him from seeking out his wife. Each minute he spent with her, watching her, learning about her, made him appreciate her. It also made him want her more.
Several times since that first night, Pearce found himself standing outside of Clara’s chamber, at war with himself over whether he should enter—whether he should forget his good intentions and go to her.
Inevitably, he always turned away, frustrated and achingly hard, determined that he’d imposed his will upon her enough and did not wish to continue to do so.
She’d made it very clear that she’d had enough dictates in the last several weeks and she did not desire to have him in her bed.
Perhaps when she finally came to terms with their arrangement, then she would be open to more.
He could only hope so.
A small, bitter part of Pearce felt like he deserved a medal for his restraint. What other man with such a stunning young wife—a man with his rakish reputation, no less—would restrain himself so valiantly? His sense of reason always won out…but, Lord above, how he wanted his wife.
He wanted her with a desire so hot, he felt as if he were being roasted on a spit.
He’d desired her for so long that to continue his restraint was a new sort of hell.
Now that he was learning more about her mind and her heart, it was damn near impossible for him to see reason and keep his hands off of her.
Still, each night, Pearce lay awake, hard and aching, fantasizing about bursting into Clara’s chamber and finally claiming her.
He could not stop thinking about the taste of passion they had shared—what it would be like to truly have her—but he remained steadfast. He would afford her the time to process whatever, and however, she needed to.
Time and age had taught him that patience was his ally.
To force an intelligent, strong-willed woman to bend to his will would result only in resentment…
and that was not something he was willing to chance any more than he must.
Nearly two weeks into their marriage, Pearce found his wife curled on the cushion of the library’s window seat, her chin propped on the heel of her fist. With her dark-chocolate hair, the caramel fabric of her morning gown made her look like a rich, sweet confection.
His mouth began to water.
Clara sat motionless and unseeing out the window at the passing carriages and pedestrians, making him wonder where her thoughts had taken her.
“You seem so pensive,” he commented lightly as he joined her at the window.
Below, a maid dressed in a uniform of a simple dark-gray gown guided a spotted terrier on a long lead.
The animal darted from side to side, joyfully leaping and yapping at every person they passed.
The resigned expression on the maid’s face indicated this was the dog’s habit.
Clara lifted a listless shoulder in response.
Pearce stopped tapping his thumb against his thigh when an idea occurred to him.
“That maid works for a household filled with dogs,” he began.
“Each one of them is well-mannered, except for that little beast, which is why she must walk him alone.” Finding enough space on the cushion she occupied, Pearce dropped gingerly beside her, encouraged when she did not shove him to the floor or stand and leave.
“The dog has escaped no less than three times. The first, he leapt into a fountain to chase the birds bathing there. The second, he darted into the butcher’s shop and stole a cut of beef nearly as large as he.
The third…” He paused to consider his next words.
“The third, he chased a stray cat all the way to Arthur’s Seat.
His mistress was beside herself when she thought she might never see the little devil again, but he returned to their back door at nightfall, filthy and proud of his achievements. ”
Clara’s delicate giggle was music to his ears. “What is Arthur’s Seat?” she asked, finally turning to him and meeting his eyes for the first time in days.
“It is a grand hill to the east of the city’s center.
The views from its peak are unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, and the sunsets…
” He recalled the picnics his mother had arranged for them there.
His little legs aching from exertion, cheeks pink from the wind, they would collapse in a giggling heap to watch the sun melt into the horizon as they nibbled from the basket they’d carried with them.
The return home was usually hurried so they might reach the waiting carriage before the sun fully set, but those outings had still been some of Pearce’s favorites.
“I will take you one day, if that is something you would enjoy.”
Clara tilted her head noncommittally and began to return her gaze to the window. Unwilling to allow this small thread of connection unravel, Pearce held his hand out to her.
“Come with me.”
She narrowed her eyes at his proffered hand.
“Where?”
“You will see.”
*
“That man with all the parcels is on his way home to his wife.” Clara gestured to a precarious tower of paper-wrapped boxes of varying shapes and sizes.
The man carrying them had a sheen of sweat coating his brow and a determined expression on his lined face.
He wore a clean peat-colored wool coat and trousers just a tad worn in the knees, marking him as working class.
“Why do you believe he’s returning to his wife?
” Pearce inquired, eager to convince Clara to continue playing their game.
She’d taken some time to warm up to it when he’d eventually been able to have her don her orange pelisse and accompany him to a nearby park.
It wasn’t as densely populated as the Black Unicorn’s tavern room, but it offered fresh air and sufficient opportunity to watch the city’s occupants.
Now that Clara had begun to play along, she seemed lighter and warmer.
The air between them was beginning to thaw.
“Because he is so determined,” she answered matter-of-factly. “No matter how he struggles, he does not slow or veer from his destination. That man knows his future happiness rests upon the parcels he carries.”
“And what do you believe he is carrying in those many packages of his? Jewelry? Fine clothing?”
“The one beneath his right arm contains books.”
Pearce’s brow twitched, and he looked down at her. “How do you know that?”
“It keeps slipping because it is heavy for its size.”
He looked back at the man and, sure enough, she was correct. “What about the others?”
“New ink and parchment, perhaps a small, sentimental bauble or two.”
“All plausible, except for the package on top.”
“Oh?”
“That is a parcel filled with the most decadent chocolate confections. His wife enjoys sweets, and she prefers only the best.”
“You sound as if you speak from experience.”
“The paper is nondescript, but the emerald ribbon is the trademark of the best confectionary in Edinburgh. My mother preferred the sweets topped with chopped hazelnuts.” Pearce did not recognize the significance of the statement until he witnessed the softening in Clara’s gaze.
He cleared his throat and held her more closely to his side.
“You miss her a great deal, do you not?” she asked tentatively.
Pearce replied with one small nod of his head before saying, “I will take you to that sweet shop someday so you might judge for yourself their quality.” He could feel her eyes lingering on his profile for a long while after that.
“I would like that a great deal,” Clara said so softly, Pearce might have thought he imagined it.
*
This was the start of a more pleasant accord between husband and wife.
Despite still nursing her wounds and in spite of her determinedness to see him punished a bit more for the way he’d made her feel, Clara could not help but appreciate some of the things she was learning about her husband.
How curious it was that he’d been a part of her life for so long, yet there was so much she’d never known.
He liked to read and was very funny when she wasn’t the subject of his jokes.
His wit could be acidic and sarcastic, but she recognized the goodness of the heart that lay beneath it.
He was kind to his staff—something that Clara had come to realize said a great deal more about a person than the way he treated his equals—and he did, indeed, follow through on each promise he made her.
He escorted her to the sweet shop and bought her all the treats she desired.
He did not mock her when she, of course, overindulged and wound up with a stomachache that night, nor did he comment when she asked to return for more sweets the following week.
He truly was extremely charming, and it was a new experience for her to be on the receiving end of that.
There was such a difference between his attentions and the attention she’d received from the young men in Town.
She supposed it was the difference between a young buck and a real man.
Even though Pearce hadn’t lived the most lily-white of lives, he had an air of sophistication and experience she found terribly attractive.
Despite her determination to keep her distance from him, she was drawn to him like a beacon in the darkness of her indecision.
She did not know if he was deliberately enticing her with his thoughtfulness, or if she was finally seeing him for the man that he was, rather than simply a thorn in her side.
There was still a fair amount of bickering—old habits were difficult to eradicate, after all—but she supposed that was to be expected.
Both their feelings had been wounded, and she continued to struggle to fathom why such a virile man would not desire a family and heir.
He’d insisted that he would have felt the same regardless of whom he married, but it was difficult for Clara to not take his assertion personally.
She’d been led to believe that all men desired a passel of children to spread his line throughout the world.
To have Pearce deny this went against everything she’d been taught.
Though she was warming to Pearce’s efforts, both continued to avoid the topics of children and intercourse like the plague.
However, that did not mean that it wasn’t on her mind.
Clara ached for the unknown. Her meager experience stemmed from her one and only taste of intimacy with Pearce; he’d shown her earth-shattering pleasure, then cruelly left her craving more.
If only he’d explained his reasoning to me, Clara thought to herself after she retired to her cold bed one evening.
I might be able to more easily accept the decision if I knew why.
She understood it was his very personal prerogative, but if he could not confide in his wife, then to whom could he speak?
She supposed she longed for the companionship and trust that would naturally accompany such a truth.
She yearned for such intimacy. She longed for the connection that was more than just a physical attraction and sparking banter.
She hoped she might one day find that with Pearce, but she wasn’t sure she would.
For now, she wondered if it was enough that she was beginning to see Pearce in a new light—to understand facets of him and his childhood in Edinburgh she’d never known—and to view him more as a friend and companion than a rival and enemy.
“Can I accept a childless future?” Clara murmured to herself as she lay alone in the darkness of her chamber. Could she accept never bearing a child and holding her own baby to her breast? Could she settle for this?
Gnawing her lower lip, she wondered if it was fair that she held onto the resentment that she felt her wishes were being ignored—why was it any more important that her hope for a family outweighed Pearce’s resistance to one?
The thought was discomfiting. She’d seen so much more of him since their wedding day, and she’d softened since his proclamation.
He was making earnest efforts to win her over.
Through this, she was finding glimpses of what their life together could be like… and she liked it.
More than that, she loved it.
There were hints of the things she’d craved most when she’d imagined life as a married woman: laughter, amiable conversation, the possibility of friendship, a future.
The potential was there, if she was only willing to give it a chance…if she was willing to give on this one thing and find fulfillment in everything else Pearce was offering her.
Could she do that?
“Lord, I hope so,” Clara whispered.