Chapter 18 An Invitation
An Invitation
The clock ticks toward noon, each second tugging tighter at the knot in my stomach.
Irene, in her infinite mischief, insisted the staff take the afternoon off.
Which leaves me standing in the hushed foyer of the Albright estate, palms damp against the folds of my dress, with no butler to intercept what’s about to happen.
The crunch of tires on gravel shatters the quiet.
My breath catches. Through the glass I see him hop out from the truck—hat in his hand, hair neatly combed, shirt pressed, boots polished as best he could manage.
He looks both handsome and nervous, as though he knows full well he’s crossing into a different world.
I force my trembling fingers to the latch, and when I open the door, there he is.
“Marcel,” I say, softer than I intend.
His eyes find mine instantly, and the uncertainty in his posture eases. “Clara.”
For a long beat, we only stand there, the summer air spilling between us, thick with heat and silence. Finally, I step back, gesturing him inside. “Come in.”
He steps across the threshold, hesitant, his gaze flicking over the wide entry hall, the polished floorboards, the heavy chandelier overhead. He looks smaller here, and yet somehow steadier, as if nothing in this grand house could impress him more than the sight of me waiting.
I close the door behind him, my pulse hammering. He clears his throat, shifting his hat in his hands. “I thought…Irene was hosting.”
A laugh, nervous and thin, escapes me. “That was the story she told you. The truth is…” I glance toward the door Irene had left through earlier that morning, her smile still echoing in my mind. “…she wanted us to have the house to ourselves.”
His brows lift, his ears tinging pink. “Just us?”
“Just us,” I confirm, twisting my fingers together at my waist. “She thought we might want to…talk.”
His gaze lingers on me, warm and uncertain all at once. “I don’t know what I did to earn her scheming,” he smiles, “but I won’t waste it.”
And in that moment, with no staff to overhear, no aunt to barge in, no pretense left between us, the air grows unbearably still. Every choice from here is ours alone.
“We could sit in the sunroom.” I blurt out.
He smiles, setting his hat on the sideboard. “That sounds nice.”
I nod and lead him down the hall toward the sunroom, my skirts brushing the polished floor, my pulse echoing in my ears.
It’s the one room in this house that feels less like a stage and more like a refuge with its glass walls spilling sunlight over wicker chairs, the scent of hydrangeas drifting in through the open windows.
Marcel hesitates at the threshold before finally stepping inside—broad shoulders, shirt stretched clean across them, boots clicking softly against the tile.
“Would you like some lemonade?” I ask, desperate for something to say.
He shakes his head. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Awkward silence falls. I smooth my skirts and lower myself into a chair, gesturing to the one across from me. He sits slowly, posture too careful, like he’s afraid he might break the furniture if he leans the wrong way.
“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” I blurt. Then wince. “I mean—we should talk, of course. But…we don’t have to force anything.”
A small smile curves his lips, crooked and boyish, and my chest tightens. “I want to talk, Clara. I just…don’t always know the right words.”
“Then we’ll start with simple ones,” I say, a little too quickly. I bite the inside of my cheek. “If you had an afternoon to do what you please, what would you do?”
He tilts his head, thinking, before answering softly. “I guess I would ride out to a quiet spot and read.”
I blink at him, surprised. “Really?”
He nods. “I wasn’t very good at school. Never liked numbers, and writing came slowly.
But my parents…they made sure I could read well.
Said the Good Book was enough to carry a man through life.
They were right, I think. But once I learned to read, I couldn’t stop.
I’ll read anything I can get my hands on. The words—they keep me company.”
Something warm stirs in my chest at the confession. “I know that feeling. Books have always been my escape.” My eyes flit to the shelves in the adjoining library. “Wait here a moment.”
I cross into the library and return with a copy of First Love by Ivan Turgenev. The cover is faded, the spine loose from years of handling. Hugging it to my chest, I sit again and slide it across the small wicker table toward him.
“This is one of my favorites,” I say. “Have you read it?”
He nods and I smile, asking, “Would you read me a passage? Just…whichever one you like.”
He looks startled. “You want me to read aloud?”
I nod. “Yes. Please.”
He hesitates, then opens the book with careful hands, turning the pages until his thumb stills.
He clears his throat, the sound low and warm.
“This part here…when the narrator says he loved her as only young hearts can love, with devotion that demands nothing in return. He says that for him, her presence was enough, even if he could never truly claim her.”
And then he begins to read.
His voice is steady, deep, carrying the words with reverence.
I try to listen, I really do, but my attention betrays me.
My eyes fix on the curve of his mouth as it shapes each syllable, the way his lips soften around the vowels, the flicker of a smile when he glances up at me, embarrassed.
His lashes are long, catching the sunlight when he blinks, and his shoulders shift with every breath, strong and sure.
He doesn’t rush. He gives the words room, letting them land with weight, as if he understands their tenderness. And in that moment, I feel myself unraveling—caught not in Turgenev’s prose, but in the man across from me, reading as though each word belongs to us alone.
My throat tightens. I grip the folds of my skirt in my lap, forcing myself to breathe evenly, so he doesn’t see how undone I am. But God help me, I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my life.
He pauses, eyes flicking up, searching mine. “Do you want me to keep going?” he asks, quiet, almost shy.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”
Because if he keeps reading, I can keep pretending it’s the book that’s making my heart race, and not him.
Marcel’s voice fills the sunroom. The words roll from him with such quiet conviction that I almost forget where I am. But then my gaze slips, again and again, to his mouth. To the way his lips move around each word as though he’s savoring them.
I can’t sit still anymore. My hand drifts across the wicker table, inch by inch, until my fingers hover just above the back of his. For a moment, I freeze—my pulse roaring so loudly I’m certain he must hear it.
And then, with a courage I don’t recognize as my own, I let my fingertips brush his hand.
He falters mid-sentence. The words hang suspended between us as his eyes flick down, focusing on the place where I’ve touched him.
“Clara,” he murmurs, my name roughened by restraint.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper. “Keep reading.”
His breath skips, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he shifts closer, closing the space between us as his thumb grazes the edge of my hand. The smallest touch, yet it sets my skin aflame.
He looks back at the page, though his voice is unsteady now, thick with more than the weight of the story.
“The narrator speaks of how helplessly he adored her…how even the smallest glance or passing word from her could undo him. He says her presence alone was enough, even if she never truly belonged to him.”
The words are tender, aching, but it isn’t Turgenev that makes my stomach twist with heat. It’s Marcel. The way his voice carries the ache like it’s his own, how his gaze lingers too long, how his shoulders draw tight as though the act of reading is unearthing feelings he can’t disguise.
I drink in every detail—the curl slipping onto his forehead, the rise and fall of his chest, the smile tugging at his lips when he realizes what this moment is doing to me.
I’m not supposed to feel this. I’m not supposed to want this. And yet, with every syllable he speaks, every inch that closes between our hands, I fall further into the truth I’ve been trying so hard to deny.
By the time he finishes the passage, my hand is fully beneath his, his palm warm and solid over mine. The book slips slightly in his other hand, forgotten for a moment as silence blooms.
He swallows hard, his eyes locked on me. “That’s my favorite part,” he says softly, though it sounds less like a confession about literature and more like a revelation about us.
My throat is dry, my voice a mere breath. “Mine too.”
The book lies forgotten between us, my hand still warm in his. Marcel studies me, thumb brushing over my knuckles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
And then, slowly, he closes the space between us.
His hand leaves mine to graze my jaw, rough palm shockingly gentle as it cradles me. I can’t look away. His eyes search mine like he’s asking without words, and my heart answers before my voice ever could.
The kiss is soft at first, careful. But the moment our lips meet, something in me cracks wide open. I lean in, greedy for more, and he answers with a tenderness edged in hunger.
His mouth moves over mine slowly, controlling the pace. My mind races with the taste of him, the way his arms wrap around him, the way my breath stumbles against him. My hand finds his chest, feeling the steady thunder of his heart beneath.
“Clara, you make a man weak.”
I pull back, looking in his eyes. “I won’t even apologize, Cowboy. You make me feel things I never have before. Tell me you feel it, too.”
His eyes move around my face, his hand sweeping against my cheek. “You’re so beautiful, Clara. So full of light, I can’t help but be enamored by you.”
He leans in again, his words repeated by his lips on mine.
The air still hums with the kiss when the faint sound of the front door opening reaches us. Footsteps echo in the foyer.
We spring apart like children caught misbehaving, breathless and guilty, hands fumbling to straighten clothing that hardly needs straightening. My heart thunders, not from shame exactly, but from the knowledge of how close we came to being seen.
Irene’s silhouette appears in the doorway, her smile already in place, eyes sparkling as if she knows far more than she should. “Well,” she says lightly, glancing between us, “this looks cozy.”
Marcel clears his throat, rising to his feet with a respectful nod. “Thank you for inviting me, ma’am. It was kind of you.”
“Of course, dear.” She waves her hand like it’s nothing, though her grin doesn’t fade. “Clara deserves pleasant company, and I can see you’re exactly that.”
I stand too quickly, clutching my hands, forcing composure I don’t feel.
Marcel walks to the door, picking up his hat from the table, and adjusts it in his hands, turning just slightly toward me.
His eyes find mine, and for a moment, the whole world falls away.
There’s no kiss, no words, just the silent exchange that says we both felt it, we both want more.
He tips his head, almost a bow. “Miss Clara.” His voice is soft, warm, full of meaning that only I can hear.
“Mr. Clarke,” I reply, equally hushed, though my pulse pounds so hard I can barely breathe the syllables.
Then Irene steps further in, breaking the spell. “Before you run off, Mr. Clarke, I wonder if I might trouble you with a little favor?”
He straightens, attentive. “Yes, ma’am?”
“The greenhouse out back,” she says, her tone breezy. “Something’s been giving the staff trouble with two of the glass panes. I’d be grateful if you’d come by Sunday afternoon, after church, and see if you can’t lend a hand to fix them.”
My brows twitch upward, but I don’t dare speak. Nothing is wrong with the greenhouse. I know it. Irene knows it. And yet she says it so smoothly, so convincingly, even I half believe it.
Marcel nods without hesitation. “I’d be glad to.”
“Wonderful,” Irene says, clapping her hands softly. “We’ll expect you then.”
He tips his hat, offers a final glance in my direction that leaves me warm, then strides toward the door. The house seems quieter the moment it closes behind him, like he’s taken something vital with him.
I press my hand to my lips, still tingling, my heart still racing. Irene turns to me, smile wide and knowing.
“Sunday,” she says simply, and sweeps from the room.