Chapter Thirteen
The next day, Pearce took Clara through Edinburgh to peruse a few new shops and, of course, purchase another box of sweets…even though she refused to promise not to overindulge again.
Following a late luncheon of haggis where Clara was quite proud of herself for being brave enough to sample the traditional Scottish fare (much to Pearce’s amusement), they made their way to a milliner’s shop.
Clara was admiring the silk flowers affixed to a woven bonnet on display when her attention was drawn across the cozy shop.
“Brinley! I’d heard you were in town.” A tall man with russet hair, a nose slightly too large for his face, and kind blue eyes clasped Pearce’s hand in greeting.
“Lord Roth; pleasant to see you, as always. We remain in Edinburgh for only another fortnight.” Pearce held out his hand to Clara, which she accepted and allowed him to hold her close to his side. “We will complete our honeymoon trip at my estate in Northumberland.”
Lord Roth’s brows lifted and his eyes crinkled in pleasure.
“I’d heard a few whispers that you’d wed, but I couldn’t credit them.
I never thought I’d see the day.” He turned his attention to Clara and bowed politely over her hand.
“Lady Brinley—a true delight and pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, Lord Roth,” she answered with a smile.
“You both must attend the supper my wife is planning for the end of the month. Postpone your return to England for another few days and turn me into a hero in my wife’s eyes. She will be absolutely chuffed that I managed to convince you to grace us with your first event as husband and wife.”
Without hesitation, Clara grinned hopefully up at Pearce, who looked back at her with nothing but warm indulgence.
On their journey from Coylton Castle, he’d described to her his plans that they reside in Edinburgh for just shy of one month before spending another two weeks in Northumberland—yet another home he’d inherited from his mother’s family.
“It is nothing grand,” he’d cautioned her.
“It was built as an elaborate hunting lodge and is now a modest home. The grounds are quite lovely, though. I believe you would enjoy exploring them.” Clara had relished the idea of doing just that with her painting box in tow; however, the prospect of attending a social event after the last one had ended far too abruptly was enticing.
Seeming to read her mind, Pearce turned back to Lord Roth and nodded his head. “The invitation is much appreciated. If my wife is amenable, then I don’t see why we cannot postpone our departure slightly.”
Clara squeezed her husband’s arm in gratitude, knowing he did so solely for her.
The fact that he was willing to adjust their plans on a moment’s notice—that he knew her well enough to recognize which way her preferences would lie—meant more to her than words could express.
To her, it signaled the development of a bond for which she’d longed for. It gave her hope for their future.
“Yes, thank you, Lord Roth. Please have the details sent ’round and we will gladly attend.”
When they returned to the house on Queen Street, there was a letter from Amelia waiting. Immediately, Clara dashed to the study to rummage around for a penknife, Pearce’s chuckle at her enthusiasm trailing in her wake as he followed more slowly.
Without bothering to sit, Clara read of life at Coylton Castle, how Archie missed her terribly and was already begging for a visit, how the pups, Bonnie and Wallace, managed to steal two whole roast chickens from the kitchen table.
Each line made Clara ache for her family, but the pain did not loom as large as she thought it might.
She was, indeed, settling into her new existence as Lady Brinley—just as Amelia had predicted.
Even better, Amelia had finally told Dori about her pregnancy.
Having heard her little squeal of excitement, Pearce came up behind her and asked, “What elicited such a reaction? Is all well?”
Clara started to tell him but stopped. How would he react to the news? Was an intense dislike of children at the heart of his decision, or did he just not want to have them in his own home?
Finally, she decided to say it and allow what would be to be. “Amelia is with child and she has told my brother.” She watched her husband’s expression carefully.
To her surprise, he actually grinned.
“Bully for them! I’ve suspected for some time that Kempton looked forward to a growing family. How did he react?”
“The letter says he teared up a bit, but that he will deny it even on pain of death if I ever question him.”
Pearce chuckled. “That sounds about right. Send them my love and congratulations in your reply.” He proceeded to become distracted by his own correspondence the housekeeper had handed him and wandered off.
Very curious.
This told Clara that Pearce’s decision was deeply personal in nature. He did not mind watching his friends have children; he just clearly desired none of his own.
Clara froze and her grip on the letter tightened.
What if he specifically did not want her children? He’d reassured her that this was not the case, but it was difficult not to take such a situation personally.
He’d said he’d made the decision prior to their marriage, but how far in advance? When he knew she would be the woman to birth his legitimate heirs? Before that?
He’d always called her a hellish child; could she, in her youthful mischievousness, have put him off of her entirely? Was she now good enough to warm his bed, but not to mother his children?
She sat there stewing about that until she saw him again. Oblivious to her tortured thoughts, Pearce went about business as usual, entirely unaware of the maelstrom that had once more been unleashed inside of her.
*
Three nights later, Clara lay warm and sated across Pearce’s chest, idly running her fingers through the golden hair dusted across the firm muscles.
“You know,” she began, already half asleep, “it would be much easier if I moved into the lady’s suite attached to your chambers.
Then we might see one another as often and as easily as possible…
and not be caught darting bare-arsed to and fro. ”
“Let it lie, Clara,” Pearce said flatly.
“What?” she asked as she lifted her head to look down at him. A muscle was already dancing in his jaw. “I think it is a perfectly logical comment. Why do you not want me to stay there?”
“The rooms are undergoing renovation.”
“How stupid do you think I am? No one has come or gone from that doorway since we arrived. What work could possibly be done without men or supplies to do it?” She sat up straighter and clutched the coverlet to her naked breasts—breasts that still bore the tiny burns from the stubble on his jaw.
“I will not discuss this,” Pearce bit out gruffly and rolled off the other side of the bed, striding naked to locate his breeches and shirt that had been tossed to different corners of the room in their haste for their naked flesh to meet.
“Why? Why does this topic upset you so?” Clara didn’t realize she’d begun to cry until a hot tear splashed across the back of her hand. She watched him tug on his breeches and approach the door. “Does this have anything to do with why you will not have children?”
Pearce froze. “Why would you think that?”
“Because—because you still do not seem to view me as your true wife. I do not have the chambers and—not that I need a child right now—but you do everything in your power to make sure I don’t bear one.
Am I really that terrible of a wife? So horrible of a choice?
” Her fractured voice echoed precisely how her heart was feeling.
“How could you believe that?”
“Because you tell me nothing! You promised to treat me as your wife, but you still treat me as a child—lying to me in the name of sheltering me or believing something too complex for me to comprehend. It is insulting and I can tolerate no more. Tell me to my face that you won’t have children with me because you do not want them to carry my blood. ”
*
“Oh, God, Clara…” Pearce’s stomach plummeted as he realized the depth of his mistake. Somehow, in trying to keep his past in the past, he’d deeply wounded the woman who was his future. It had never been his intention, but it was his current reality, and he needed to find a way to make things right.
Clara’s tears began in earnest, and she cried in hiccupping sobs that gutted him.
Carefully, he pulled her into his arms—coverlet and all—and held her in his lap, enfolding her in his embrace and pressing his lips to her hair.
At first, she fought it with her stiff spine and unyielding limbs, but she eventually clutched him to her, burying her tear-stained face in his neck and curling her body into his, as if wishing to be absorbed by him.
He ached with the knowledge that he’d caused Clara so much pain and he closed his eyes against it as he shushed her and rocked her.
“That is not it at all,” he attempted to reassure her.
“Then why?” she demanded, cutting him off. “If I am truly to be your wife, then you must treat me as such. You must begin with the truth. All your secrecy is doing is creating a wound between us that will never heal.”
He knew his choices were few: He could either resurrect old ghosts and breathe new life into his nightmares by telling Clara things no one else knew about him, or he could risk staying silent, leaving the past where it was, and quite probably lose Clara forever.
The latter was unacceptable, and, for the first time, something was more terrifying to him than his memories.
Pearce held her and stroked her hair as he finally spoke, telling her of things he’d never told anyone—not even Kempton.