Chapter 2
Two
The spring air carried a crispness that bit gently at Clara’s cheeks as she wandered along the winding gravel paths of Sinbrough House.
The garden had not yet to bloomed. Shoots of green poked through the dark earth and delicate buds hinted at blooms yet to come in the next few weeks.
There was a quiet satisfaction in the orderly world of hedges and blooms, where time seemed to pause, and she could, if only briefly, forget the turbulence of her own life.
Here amongst the greenery Clara could take time for herself and contemplate what she wanted for her life.
She would never have predicted she would become a widow at such a young age or that her own mother would turn her back on her.
She had been so naive and hopeful about her future.
She had to quickly reevaluate everything once her husband had foolishly broken his neck after that race, he insisted he could win.
What had he been thinking? What had she?
Clara sighed. The truth was neither of them had been thinking.
Her husband had thought he was invincible and Clara?
Well, she had thought she was in love. What did she know about love?
Clearly it had been nothing but infatuation.
She had been in love with the idea of love.
Clara drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders and took a deep calming breath.
Here, in the garden at Sinbrough House, she could imagine a life of calm—one far removed from scandal, deceit, and regret.
And yet, that illusion was fragile. Even here in her place of calm her life could unravel at any second.
It didn’t matter that she had the protection of her sister’s husband, the Duke of Sinbrough.
Her scandalous past would always haunt her, and she would forever be tainted by it.
She had accepted her fate and knew she would never truly know love.
She wasn’t even certain she wanted to find it.
Could she ever trust her life in the hands of a man again?
The duke was safe because he belonged to her sister, and she trusted Juliet.
She sat down on a bench and lifted her face to the sky and let what little warmth the sun offered to bathe over her.
She closed her eyes and let it drench her soul.
She had a meeting with the dowager Countess of Wyndam later that day, but for now she just wanted to forget everything.
To just find some sense of peace that she could carry with her.
“You look lovely in the sunlight,” a male said bringing her out of her own thoughts.
Clara opened her eyes and met his gaze.
He seemed to have an effortless confidence that she almost envied.
He was a man accustomed to commanding attention and she could definitely understand why.
His dark hair was perfectly tousled, and eyes were the deepest blue met she had ever seen.
He met her gaze with a casual, almost insolent grace.
He smiled—oh, that smile—a dangerous curve that promised mischief rather than comfort.
He was the type of man that she would have been drawn to before she had lost her innocence.
She knew better now. Viscount Oakwood was a man she should avoid.
Still, Clara’s heart gave a small, involuntary leap before that firm, rational warning coursed through her.
She knew down to her very soul that this man was trouble.
She had seen the type before. He would be charming, bold, alluring, and utterly untrustworthy.
Her late husband had been much the same, and the memory of that betrayal still tasted bitter.
It had not been that long ago that she had been widowed after all.
She should turn away. She should leave him alone in the garden.
Yet, despite all of that she found her gaze lingering on him.
She studied the lines of his face, the tilt of his head and the way the sunlight caught the glint of mischief in his eyes.
There was a stark beauty in his features she appreciated.
She may know she should steer clear of the man, but that did not mean she did not recognize a gorgeous man.
He was a rogue and she would not be fooled again—no matter how devilishly handsome he appeared.
If she kept reminding herself of that perhaps she would be able to keep her distance.
“Good morning, Lord Oakwood,” she greeted him.
She could remain civil even if she hoped to avoid the man. “I trust you have settled well.”
“I have,” he said. “I did not see you for the morning meal.”
“I don’t eat in the breakfast room,” she told him. “I usually only have toast and tea in my room.” She did not know why she told him that. He didn’t need to be privy to her usual routine. “If you wish to have some time in the garden I can leave you to it.”
“I did not mean to interrupt you,” he was fast to reassure her. “I would not wish to intrude…”
“You haven’t,” she told him. “I should go.” Clara smiled at him, but she didn’t really feel it.
There was no joy in her life. All she did was go through her daily routine and keep moving forward.
She wasn’t happy and had not been in some time.
She was grateful for her sister’s help, but she had no purpose.
Nothing to give her any sense of joy. She hadn’t been able to feel anything like it since her husband’s death.
She did not mourn the man, but the future she had envisioned for herself.
“Please stay,” he said to her. “Perhaps you would be willing to keep me company. I would like to know my cousin’s new sister.”
She frowned. Clara did not know how to interpret his words.
Did he sincerely want to know her because of her connection to the Duke of Sinbrough?
She was the duke’s new sister by marriage, but did that truly matter to the viscount?
Was this some new sort of seduction that rogues used to lure unsuspecting women to their bed?
“I do not have much time,” she told him.
“I have an appointment I must not miss.”
“You do?” He raised a brow. “It must be important then.”
Clara believed it to be. As a young widow she had been invited to be a part of a society of widows that were committed to helping each other.
In a world dictated by men they needed each other, and she would not allow anyone to prevent her from doing that.
The dowager Countess of Wyndam had been instrumental in creating that group of widows and because of Juliet’s connection to Lady Wyndam Clara had been invited to join the group.
She would not let either of them down by letting this handsome gentleman waylay her.
He studied her for a long moment, as if weighing the truth in her words, then inclined his head slightly. “Very well. I would not wish to keep a lady from her duties.” His tone was polite, though there lingered a hint of disappointment.
Clara felt a small pang of guilt at his words.
She did not know why she should feel that way.
Did she truly hope that he would beg her to stay, even just for a few minutes?
It was absurd. She had no reason to linger in the garden with him beyond the civility society demanded.
And yet, the idea of leaving him behind did not sit right with her.
That sharp, playful glint in his eyes and the easy confidence of his stance—made her chest tighten unexpectedly.
She did want to know him, and she knew she shouldn’t.
That giving in to that urge might lead to her downfall.
“Perhaps another time,” she said softly, forcing her tone into a neutral register.
“Of course,” he replied, though he did not step aside. “I shall look forward to it.” His lips tilted upward into a smile that sent shivers down her spine. It should not appeal to her. He should not appeal to her. But she was drawn to him.
Clara’s gaze fell to the carefully trimmed grass beneath her feet as she turned toward the path that led back into the house.
She could not make her feet move though.
She almost felt rooted to the spot as if leaving him went against everything inside of her.
She glanced up at him and frowned. “I should go.”
“So, you have said,” he replied in a light tone. “Do you wish to stay?”
Lord did she… She did want to stay with him. But it was a terrible idea. One that she could not allow for any reason. So instead, she shook her head. “It isn’t that…”
“Then what is it?” he asked in a polite tone. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“No,” she said. “There is nothing you can do for me.” And that was the truth…
“I…” She swallowed hard. “Have a good day, Lord Oakwood.” What was wrong with her?
She turned away from him and started down the path out of the garden.
Every step felt heavier than it should have.
She tried to remind herself that he was a man she ought to avoid, a man who would bring nothing but complications.
Yet she could not shake the awareness of his presence.
It lingered in her mind like a shadow that could not be erased. Clara did not like it. Not one bit…
“You are quite beautiful, Lady Cocwood,” he called after her, his voice carrying over the soft rustle of the garden leaves. “And I daresay, even the finest roses pale beside your radiance.”
She froze, a flush rising to her cheeks. How did he do that so effortlessly—turn a single sentence into an accusation against her resolve? She did not answer, only quickened her steps, her sensible shoes making soft, determined taps against the gravel path.
Inside, she paused for a moment at the threshold of the drawing room, gathering her composure.
She could not allow herself to be drawn into this dangerous game.
Lord Oakwood was not for her. She could not allow his charm and daring nature to draw her in.
He was the type of gentleman that could challenge a widow’s restraint and see her reluctance as a challenge.
She would not be caught unguarded, not after the bitter lesson life had already taught her.
And yet, as she smoothed her skirts and adjusted the delicate lace at her neckline, a small, undeniable part of her could not stop thinking of him.
Of the curve of his mouth when he smiled, the faint glimmer of amusement that never left his eyes, the very aura of him that seemed to suggest the world was his for the taking.
Perhaps, she thought with a dangerous shiver, he desired her as much as she—unwittingly and unwillingly—found herself drawn to him.
Her resolve stiffened. She would not be a casualty of temptation, nor would she allow herself to make another foolish decision.
As she swept down the corridor toward her room to retrieve her reticule, she could not deny that a part of her heart lingered in that garden, with him, daring her to turn back.
Somewhere deep inside, Clara knew that the day she finally allowed herself to meet his gaze fully—without hesitation, without pretense—would be the day nothing would ever be the same again.
That day would be her undoing. Because then she would give in to what she secretly desired.
Something she had thought she had excised from her soul.
The need to feel passion and an even greater desire for someone to love her, and for her to love in return.
She doubted that the viscount could be that man, but a small part of her would always wonder.
What if he was and she denied herself the opportunity to have her secret desire fulfilled.
What if she lost a chance at true happiness.
All of that would plague her, but she had to remain steadfast in her resolve. The viscount was not for her. How could he be? There was no future there, and if she kept telling herself that perhaps she would come to believe it.