Chapter 29
Clio didn’t feel all that bad about imposing on her brother and Phoebe for the past several nights, not even when she kept pretending that she would definitely, absolutely be going home soon, in only a matter of hours, certainly, only to point out a clock after supper and say, “Oh, well, it has gotten so late. I might as well just stay the night, if it’s no imposition. ”
As if her own home, such as it was, took hours and hours of travel and not, say, ten minutes in a carriage. Twelve, if the roads were particularly clogged.
“No imposition at all,” Phoebe would say, while Aaron jolted as she—with a subtlety that decreased every day—kicked him under the table.
It was very clear that Phoebe and her kicking was the only thing standing between Clio and her brother, demanding to know what on earth was happening with Clio and Hector.
And Clio was desperately grateful for that intervention, because she didn’t know what was happening with her husband.
She didn’t want to say that she and Hector were committed to living separate lives … even when it felt increasingly as though they had already crossed that point.
Besides, Aaron was always happiest when he had someone (ideally a female relation) to feel protective over, and, as Phoebe explained, she needed a break.
“I’m increasing, not dying,” she lamented to Clio on the second day. “You would think that I am wasting away, when, really, my waistline gains an inch every week.”
“That’s clever,” Clio said, gesturing with a biscuit. She had missed the biscuits that Cook made. “I see what you did there.”
“Thank you,” Phoebe said. “But my point is, the longer you stay, the longer before I inevitably punch your brother in the mouth for suggesting that I would be more comfortable with my feet up one more time.”
So, Clio had felt welcome at her brother’s house. Downright welcomed.
But it did cross a line of outlandish aristocratic demand to have a ball gown—a great, unwieldy thing, no matter how you handled it—and her jewelry, and her hair things, and her maid brought to Aaron and Phoebe’s house just so she could get ready there.
So, unwilling to give up her plan to go to the ball after she’d made such a whopping great deal of it, she chose the lesser of two evils.
She went home.
It was … a ridiculous non-event.
Nobody was even there. She didn’t see Hector. She didn’t see Matthew or his family—and she refused to ask any of the polite staff if they knew how the trustee meeting had gone. She firmly refused.
She didn’t even see Ramsay, whom she’d come to rely upon for a spot of friendly conversation before she’d retreated to Aaron’s house. She wondered if he’d gone back North. She’d miss him if he had. She’d be sorry not to have gotten the chance to say goodbye.
The natural extension of this thought caught her by surprise midway up the stairs, and she paused with her foot in midair.
What if Hector had returned to North?
The idea took her breath away. She looked frantically around for any signs—not that she knew what such signs would even be—but found that everything looked more or less the same.
She forced herself to keep going upstairs.
She forced herself to take a bath and brush her hair.
She forced herself to make cheerful conversation with her maid.
She forced and forced and forced until she was primped and coiffed and tucked into the simply beautiful gown that hugged her so tightly that she wouldn’t be able to take a deep breath all evening, let alone eat anything.
She looked the part of the perfect duchess. She was briefly tempted to smash her looking glass, but she forced the feeling away.
She felt like a ghost of herself as she descended the stairs and waited for the carriage. She imagined a soap bubble around her, keeping her separate from the rest of the world. As long as the bubble didn’t pop, she would be fine.
A footman offered her a hand to help her into the carriage. She turned automatically to thank him and—
And it wasn’t a footman.
It was Hector.
She nearly lost her footing.
“Careful, there, princess,” he said, and she wanted to sob at the nickname, at the feeling of his hands on her waist as he steadied her. “We’ve had enough carriage accidents to last us a lifetime, don’t you think?”
She could hear the effort behind the quips, could see that it cost him to pretend that everything was fine.
Well. That was all nice and good for him. She wasn’t going to pretend.
As soon as her footing was secure, she pulled her hand away from his. She couldn’t bear his touch, which was so lovely that it practically burned.
Her eyes burned, too, with unshed tears when he climbed up into the carriage behind her, then closed the door with them both inside. She noticed for the first time that he was wearing evening wear. It looked new; it was absolutely current, as far as fashions went, and it fit him perfectly.
She looked away. She didn’t know what he was doing. She couldn’t bear to ask.
“Clio,” he said, gently, when the carriage started to rumble down the cobblestone streets of Mayfair.
No. No, she couldn’t bear this. She couldn’t handle pretending that nothing was wrong. She had thought she could play the dutiful wife tonight, but she couldn’t.
“Hector,” she interrupted, her tone like iron. “What are you doing here?”
He cleared his throat, drawing her eyes. She realized, with a strange jolt, that he was nervous.
She didn’t think she had ever seen Hector nervous.
It made a light flicker inside her. If he blew it out now, though, it would destroy her, so she didn’t dare let him see that it was there.
“My trip North has been postponed,” he said. The words were careful, and he seemed determined to ignore the implication that he was a duke; he set the schedule. “And … you were going to the ball.”
She made a rough sound in the back of her throat. It wasn’t enough.
“And …” He sucked in a ragged breath. “I didn’t want to leave you alone. I didn’t want to make you face it alone.”
Clio’s eyes flew to his, no matter how hard she resisted. His gaze was a bright, intense blue, even in the gloom of the carriage.
The light flickered brighter.
It wasn’t enough—it wasn’t nearly enough. She wasn’t about to let her hopes be roused only to be dashed again. She just couldn’t risk it.
But she’d needed him. She had needed him, and he had come.
She nodded at him, then she turned out the window. He didn’t speak again, and neither did she. But she thought that maybe he could see the tiniest hint of a smile as it spread across her face, and she didn’t try to hide it.
Hector obviously didn’t know all the rules of high Society, but even he knew that he was probably staring at his wife a bit too much.
He didn’t give a single damn.
Nor did he care that he’d spent a bloody fortune on this stupid costume he was wearing, plus an extra king’s ransom to have it done in time.
He didn’t care that it was uncomfortable in nearly every way that clothing could be uncomfortable—it was too tight in places, itchy in others, and he was paranoid that somehow he would manage to damage it and shame Clio.
Because, of course, the reason that he didn’t care about anything else was because of Clio.
He was doing this for her.
After Jonathan and Ramsay had made their argument about fixing broken things—a logical framework that was either utter genius or the stupidest thing he’d heard in all his born days—they had coaxed (Jonathan) and threatened (Ramsay) the full story of his argument with Clio.
They had concluded that, while it was perhaps correct that Clio either didn’t know or couldn’t admit to what she wanted in the big picture, that Hector had done an absolute shite job of actually listening when she told him what she did want.
“She asked you to go to the stupid ball, didn’t she, you great oaf?” Ramsay pointed out mercilessly.
“Besides,” Jonathan contributed, somewhat more gently, “you are the man. Which means that, in this society, you hold all the power. You might consider extending her a little leeway for not knowing what she wants, when she has likely been raised her entire life to believe that she should just follow what her husband wants—if not by her family directly, then by the ton at large.”
These points had both been distressingly compelling.
“So, what do I do?” Hector had felt rather out of his depth by that point, and clearly, these two were the wiser heads that he needed to prevail.
“Idiot,” Ramsay said with clear affection. “You do what she asked you to do.”
So, he’d gone to the tailor. He’d gotten these blasted clothes. He’d escorted her to the ball.
And only once he’d gotten to this miserable throng of the who’s who of London Society did it occur to him that he hadn’t planned any further.
He had been pressed for time, certainly. But still. It was rather a significant oversight.
He’d settled for watching Clio and hoping—praying, wishing—that inspiration would strike. But all he seemed to be able to summon was awe.
She’d been so sad in the carriage. Her silence had been heavy as the anvil he’d once used as a smithy. But she’d offered him a little smile, and he’d clung to it with both hands.
This, too, felt stupid as he watched her offer smiles to different people she spoke with—offered them carelessly, as though her smiles were not the most precious thing in the world.
He’d watched, his heart leaping every time her eyes lit up as she spoke to some acquaintance or other.
Then, his heart had nearly stopped when he watched her lay a hand on a man’s arm and laugh, full and unrestrained, until he recognized the fellow from the wedding.
He was one of Clio’s cousins—Ernest or Ezra or something else with an E.
He just clutched his walking stick, a nice new one that the tailor had promised him was both functional and at the cutting edge of fashion.
And he watched her.
“You’re here.”
Hector managed—though it was a near thing—to tear his eyes from Clio when her brother appeared at his side, looking as stern and disapproving as ever. This time, at least, Hector knew he deserved Aaron’s ire.
“I am here,” he agreed, his eyes already wandering back to Clio. She was dancing with that same cousin now, her self-deprecating expression undercut with laughter when she made a misstep.
“You know, Metford,” Aaron went on, also surveying the dance floor. Phoebe was also one of the dancers, in line next to Clio, though Hector didn’t recognize her partner—a man who only had one hand, his other sleeve neatly pinned where the rest of the limb should have been.
Hector wondered if he’d ever reach a place of such sanguinity with his own wife, if he’d ever find himself able to watch her dance with another man without burning with jealousy.
He doubted it.
“I can’t decide if I hate you,” Aaron went on.
“Probably fair,” Hector said.
Aaron didn't show any surprise at Hector’s acquiescence, but maybe that was just the admiral in him, never showing weakness.
“I did not like that you brought scandal to my sister’s name,” he continued, laying out Hector’s sins with a disturbing placidity. “And I did not like that you took so long to muster yourself to do right by her once you’d done so.”
Hector wasn’t certain where this was going, but he hoped that Aaron wasn’t about to challenge him to pistols at dawn. It would be deserved, of course, but Hector couldn’t afford to get himself shot dead before he made amends with Clio. He would refuse, honor be damned. Clio mattered more.
“Moreover,” Aaron said, “I do not like that my sister has spent the last week at my house, not that I don’t enjoy her presence. But she seemed sad, and any time I tried to talk about it, my wife kicked me. I’m covered with bruises. It’s a miracle I’m not limping.”
“I have plenty of walking sticks you can borrow,” Hector offered. Aaron’s quelling glare told him that this was not the time for jesting. Which was rather fair, since Hector had only made the comment to distract from the stabbing feeling in his chest over the reference to Clio seeming sad.
“I do not,” Aaron concluded, “believe you are worthy of my sister.”
Hector swallowed. “I know that.”
If this indictment was all that Aaron had to offer, then Hector would consider himself as having gotten off easy.
“But,” Aaron went on, and Hector’s head whipped around so quickly that he knew his neck would hurt in the morning, “I cannot say that marrying you has not been good for her.”
“I …” Hector had no words. Not one single word in response to this.
Aaron looked at him with approval. Reluctant approval, but approval nonetheless.
“She seems … more grounded,” he clarified gruffly, sounding as though he absolutely hated to admit it. “She has purpose. Admittedly, sometimes that purpose is quarreling with you, but as a man with his own headstrong wife … I suppose I cannot hold you entirely responsible.”
Hector was gaping. He knew he was still gaping, that he looked like a bloody fish on the line, but he couldn’t seem to stop.
“Just … fix things,” Aaron said, turning back to the dance floor. “I’m tired of getting kicked. And I’m tired of my sister being sad. So. Fix it.”
“I want to,” Hector stammered. “I’m trying.” And then, because this all sounded impossibly weak and he was many things, but he was not a weak man, he added, “I’ll do it.”
“Good.” Hector assumed this was the end, and wondered if he ought to walk away, when Aaron added, “And Metford?”
“Aye?”
“If you make her miserable again, I will shoot you.”
And then, bruises or not, limp or not, Aaron turned as smartly on his heel as the military man he’d once been and stalked away.
Leaving Hector staring after him, wondering when, precisely, he had started to actually like the damn fellow.