Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
Clementine paused at the threshold of the Kenworthy ballroom, her gloved fingers resting lightly against the polished doorframe as she drew in a steadying breath.
The room beyond glittered with all the brilliance of the Season—crystal chandeliers blazing overhead, their light refracted in tall mirrors that lined the walls, doubling the spectacle until it seemed endless.
The air carried the mingled scents of beeswax, perfume, and fresh hothouse flowers arranged in towering displays along the edges of the room.
Silk skirts whispered over parquet floors, and the low hum of conversation rose and fell beneath the strains of the orchestra tuning for the next set.
It was as it always was. An illusion of perfection, but she knew better now. Knew the seedier side of society. She’d seen it firsthand at The Haven, and now by her father, and Lord Hartwell too. But worst of all, from William, for not choosing them when he had the opportunity to do so.
She stepped inside and her gaze lifted, chin tilting just so, her expression composed into one of pleasant interest, as though she had not spent the better part of the afternoon preparing herself for precisely this moment.
As though her heart did not beat a fraction faster, wondering who had heard, who believed, who judged.
Who was she trying to fool? They all knew and were judging, even if they did not outwardly show their disdain, their interest was there, shimmering in their eyes whenever they looked at her.
But she had one thing that not many others had here this evening. She was the daughter of a duke and a sister to a duchess. No one would dare snub the Duke and Duchess of Ravensmere. Rosalind’s words echoed clearly in her mind.
Social suicide for anyone who tried.
Clementine allowed the thought to settle her nerves, to fortify her spine. She was a Ravensmere. Whatever scandal their father had left in his wake, whatever ugly truths now whispered through drawing rooms and behind gloved hands, she would not be the one to bow beneath it.
If society wished to watch her, then let them. She would give them something worth seeing. A woman who refused to pay for the crimes of men.
“Clementine.”
She turned at the sound of Rosalind’s voice. She offered her sister a small smile as she approached.
“You look beautiful, dearest,” Rosalind said softly, her gaze warm but searching.
Clementine inclined her head. “As do you.”
Rosalind reached out, brushing an invisible crease from Clementine’s sleeve. “Remember what we spoke of. You are not to concern yourself with idle gossip. No one here will dare treat you poorly. Lord Hartwell ought to be ashamed for airing such news that doesn’t help anyone, not anymore.”
“Because they fear you and Ravensmere,” Clementine replied lightly.
“Because they value their place in society,” Rosalind corrected. “And because you are above reproach, regardless of what is being said.”
Clementine held her gaze a moment, then nodded.
Of course, what Rosalind said was true, but convincing others of that was another matter entirely.
The ton loved nothing more than ripping apart those they smelled scandal on.
One of the reasons why she disliked being part of society so much was that she preferred the company of real people, down-to-earth common folk who were less likely to be so cruel. “I shall endeavor to remember that.”
Rosalind squeezed her hand. “Good. Now go and enjoy yourself. That is, after all, why we are here.”
Enjoy herself? The notion felt almost foreign, and yet…perhaps that was precisely what she needed to do. To forget. Her father, Lord Hartwell…William. His face rose in her mind’s eye, and pain clutched at her chest. If only she could.
“I shall,” Clementine said, and tried to mean it.
She stepped farther into the room, allowing herself to be drawn into the flow of the evening. Heads turned—as they always did—but she met each glance with a calm, open expression, offering polite smiles where required, engaging where expected.
“Lady Clementine.” She turned to find a gentleman bowing before her, his expression one of easy admiration.
“Lord Pembroke,” she greeted, recalling his name with a small effort. “Good evening.”
“I was hoping I might secure the next dance,” he said, straightening. “Though I suspect I am not the only one.”
“Then you had best be quick in asking,” she returned with a teasing tilt of her lips, although no one else was bowing before her. A fact he well knew.
His smile widened. “May I have the honor?”
“You may.” He offered his arm, and she accepted, allowing him to lead her onto the floor as music began anew.
The dance was lively, and Clementine propelled herself into it with a determination that surprised even herself.
She moved with precision, with grace, her skirts swaying with each turn, her laughter light and unrestrained as Lord Pembroke made some ridiculous remark about his own lack of coordination.
“You dance very well, my lord,” she said as they turned. And while he may not have the best harmonization, he certainly tried his hardest, and that amounted to what mattered most.
“I am merely inspired by my partner,” he said with a teasing grin.
She laughed, and for the first time this day, the weight pressing upon her chest lifted.
Tonight had started off easier than she expected.
All day she’d been anxiety ridden, fearful of being given the cut direct, of being asked where William was.
But so far, nothing had been whispered to her, and she would take the win where she could get it.
When the dance concluded, he bowed over her hand, lingering perhaps a moment longer than strictly necessary. “I shall endeavor to secure another set before the night is over,” he said.
“You may try.” Clementine withdrew her hand and grinned.
She did not have to wait long beside Rosalind before another gentleman approached, then another. Each requested a dance, each eager to secure her attention, their interest unmistakable. And Clementine accepted. Why should she not? As far as she was concerned, she was no longer betrothed.
Whatever had existed between her and William had been fractured beyond repair. His hesitation, his doubt—it had cut deeper than she cared to admit. If he could not stand beside her, if he could not see her for herself and not the shadow of her father, then what future could they possibly have?
Never once had she thought to blame William for his brother’s actions, which were as heinous as her father's had been. Possibly worse, for she could not shake the feeling that perhaps Phillip’s courting of her, his attempt to ruin her, had been some form of revenge.
Whatever would have happened to her had she not learned of his actions? What would have become of her life?
A cold shiver ran down her spine. She hated to think of such things.
“Lady Clementine, you are quite the most admired lady in the room this evening.”
She turned to find Lord Milford at her side, his expression amused. “I had not noticed,” she said lightly, in no way ever going to agree to such assumptions.
“Oh, I have,” he assured her. “You have not been without a partner for more than a moment.”
“Then I must be admired indeed.” Her words were self-deprecating.
“I would say so, yes?” he repeated. “I would go further and venture to say the gentlemen of London are the fortunate ones.”
She arched a brow. “You are very good at flattery, my lord.”
“Entirely sincere.”
She smiled, allowing herself to enjoy the exchange, the ease of it. The past days had been tiring, and she needed to smile again, to laugh and allow herself to be happy. Not to think of William and his inability to stand for her, stand at her side.
“You may put your sincerity to the test,” she said. “If you wish to dance.”
“I thought you would never ask.”
The set that followed was slower, more intimate. His hand held hers, his gaze attentive and at times lingering. While she enjoyed the moment, there was still something missing, something absent from the exchange.
He was not William…
“You have quite captivated the room,” he said quietly as they turned.
“Have I?” she asked. Though she knew it to be true, she just hoped he hadn’t heard the true reason why.
“You have.” His gaze softened. “And I cannot say I am displeased to be among those captivated.”
Clementine felt a flicker of something—pleasure, perhaps—but she pushed it aside, keeping her smile in place. She would not think too deeply on anything tonight. Would not allow herself to. She would simply enjoy her night and be thankful the ton hadn’t given her the cut directly.
The evening passed in a blur of music and movement, of conversation and laughter. Clementine danced until her cheeks warmed and her breath came quicker. Until the earlier unease had been replaced—if not entirely erased—by something brighter.
For a time, she forgot. Forgot William’s conflicted gaze. Forgot the weight of scandal pressing at the edges of her world and her family. Forgot everything but the present moment.
“Lady Clementine.”
The voice cut through her thoughts like a blade, and all the gaiety of the night was stripped in a second. Her smile faltered, and she knew who had spoken before she even turned.
Lord Hartwell stood before her. His expression was composed, but there was something beneath it. Something sharp and unforgiving. He was going to be cruel, and she knew it to her very core that their conversation would not end well.
“Lord Hartwell,” she said, dipping into a small curtsey. “A pleasure to see you again.” She almost choked on her words, but somehow managed to utter them nonetheless.
“May I have this dance?” It was not a question.
Still, to refuse would draw more attention than she cared for.
“You may.” Clementine took his arm, acutely aware of the shift in the air around them as they moved onto the floor.
Conversations quieted. Eyes followed. Of course they did.
Everyone had heard what Lord Hartwell had disclosed about her father.
What they did not know was the atrocious actions he’d attempted against her.
The music began, and for several minutes he didn’t speak. She schooled her features and refused to give in first, to offer conversation when she truly did not wish to have any. The tension between them coiled tight, unmistakable in the loathing they now shared for the other.
“You seem in excellent spirits this evening,” he said at last, his tone smooth, but edged. “You are the diamond of the night, dancing with so very many gentlemen.”
“I am enjoying the evening, my lord.” She would not give him more. He deserved less than nothing from her.
“As you do when dancing with me, I hope,” he replied.
She met his gaze steadily. “Oh, of course.” Sarcasm laced her words. “Whatever would make you think otherwise?”
“Only that when a lady plays fast with one gentleman, then another, the lady can sometimes gain a reputation that is undeserving of her station.” He paused. “I worry for you being so forward with your dance partners this evening. It was quite telling to watch.”
The words were louder than necessary, and several guests turned to watch them. Clementine felt the shift in the air, the attention sharpening upon them, but she did not look away. “Take care, my lord,” she said quietly. “You speak dangerously close to impropriety.”
“Impropriety?” he echoed, his lips curling. “I think that word has already been well and truly introduced this evening.”
A murmur rippled nearby, yet he continued, unrelenting.
“First, you encourage my attentions, for several balls you allowed me to hope, to believe there was a chance for me. Then you turn to my brother, go so far as volunteering at the shelter he also donates to, merely to get close to him.” He shook his head, clicking his tongue in disgust. “One might think you care very little for propriety at all.”
Her pulse pounded loudly in her ears, and she was certain those about her could hear. She lifted her chin and refused to flee. She would not allow him to best her. Not when he was wrong. “I encouraged nothing,” she said, her voice steady. “And I owe you no explanation for my actions.”
“Do you not?” he pressed. “Given your father’s reputation, one might expect a greater effort toward respectability.”
The words struck like a slap against her cheek.
A hush fell around them, and several dancers halted, waiting for her next reply. Clementine felt the blow to her character, felt it reverberate through her chest—but she would not break.
Not here.
Not in front of the ton.
“My father’s actions,” she said, each word measured, “are not mine, and you are no gentleman to blame a child for their parent’s wrongs.” She would admit to that, but nothing more. She could no sooner change her father’s way than she could hold up a falling sky.
“No?” He tilted his head as if studying her. “And yet we are all expected to forget them. To overlook what has been revealed, merely because he’s a duke and my sister was merely a marquess’s daughter.”
“I expect nothing of you, my lord,” she replied. “But I will not be judged for sins that are not my own.” Her voice carried, clear and strong, about the room. Let them hear, each and every one of them, and know she would not be held accountable, even as something inside her fractured.
He studied her, his expression unreadable for a moment, before he inclined his head slightly. “How very…convenient,” he said.
“Perhaps,” she whispered. “What is convenient is that no one knows of your spiking my drink with laudanum.”
He stared at her for a long moment, a muscle twitching in his jaw, before he bowed and swiftly left. He turned and walked from the room, his back straight, his pace unhurried.
Bastard.
Clementine let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and fought not to cry.
The sting of humiliation burned beneath her skin, sharp and relentless.
Not because of what he had said—but because it had been said so publicly yet again.
Because she had been made to answer for things she had never done, but this time in front of her peers.
How she loathed this world and everyone in it right at this moment.
She lifted her chin, forcing the ache of shame deep down inside herself, and turned back toward the dancefloor, watching those who were not witnesses to her shame continue to dance.
If they expected her to retreat, to falter…
They would be disappointed. Clementine Ravensmere did not break.
Even when, in truth, she very nearly had.