Chapter 20 #2
She could certainly sympathize with Mary’s friend.
It would be crushing to see the man she loved marry another, but Clara refused to follow that maid’s example.
She would not allow herself to go into a decline over the inevitable result of her connection with the duke.
She would carry out her duties with calm confidence so she could keep her position at Rushlake.
In time, her heart would accept its fate. It would have no choice.
“Clara.”
She started, and the shears cut into her finger rather than the lily stem.
The duke rushed over as the shears dropped to the ground.
Red stained the line of the cut on Clara’s pointer finger, which she gripped in an effort to control the stinging pain.
“So stupid of me,” she said, wincing.
“Hardly,” he said. “It was thoughtless of me to surprise you when you were holding something sharp. May I see?”
She hesitated, then removed her fingers from their grip around the injury.
The duke sucked in a breath at the sight of it, then cradled her hand with his. “I am sorry.”
She shook her head, unable to speak at the feel of his hand holding hers. She shut her eyes. This was precisely what she could not do. The duke was her master, and she needed to be able to accomplish simple tasks like speaking in his presence. Or cutting flowers without maiming herself.
“It is nothing.” She pulled her hand away.
The duke watched her with a slight frown.
“I am nearly done,” she said, stooping to pick up the shears, “then I can take the flowers to the lodge, as you directed.” She turned to the flowers and took the stem of another lily in hand, her heart thumping against her chest. “I have some bread, as well.”
“Clara.” The duke’s hand settled on hers, urging her to stop.
She went still, but she kept her eyes on the flowers. They were far more interesting than the duke. And safer.
“Will you not look at me?” His voice was soft and gentle.
She had promised him to always look him in the eye—something she was heartily regretting now. How much harm had that one promise done?
She turned toward him and let her gaze settle on his. Calm confidence. That was what she had promised herself, was it not?
“I gave Mrs. Finch the order for you to cut these flowers so I could speak to you in private. Your injury should be seen to, and I have but a few minutes.”
Of course. He needed to return to Lady Cassandra and his other guests. “It is a mere scratch, Your Grace.”
His expression was skeptical, but he seemed to think better of arguing. “Regarding last night…”
“There is no need for this, Your Grace. I assure you.”
His brow knit, and Clara’s heart twinged, for he seemed almost hurt.
“I only mean,” she said, “that there is no need to explain yourself.”
“Is there not?”
“No.”
Their gazes held, and it was all she could do not to tear hers away to put a stop to the unbearable thickness in the air between them.
“I would like to do so despite that,” he said. “I meant everything I said last night, Clara. And everything I did.”
Her heart skittered.
“I would never wish for you to assume otherwise,” he continued.
“Since your arrival, you have been a friend to me, both trustworthy and loyal. But a friend is not all you have become. I have found myself increasingly impatient to see you, to spend time with you. You have been the one person with whom I feel I can simply…exist. As I am.” He paused, then took a small step toward her, his expression intent and almost pained.
“I have fallen in love with you, Clara.”
She sucked in a breath, her head swimming.
“That is why I came to the lodge every day. Much as I love my brother”—the tip of his mouth turned up in a crooked smile—“I cannot give him credit for the constancy of my visits. It is why I regretted the sight of my path every day on our walk to return to Rushlake. And it is why I kissed you.”
His gaze lowered to her mouth, and it was all she could do to keep her feet in their place when her body begged for another taste of his lips, another moment in his arms.
“Perhaps it is also why I allowed myself to forget.”
Clara’s chest tightened. “That I am a maid, Your Grace?”
“That you are married, Clara. John was right. Under the law, you are a married woman.”
A married woman whose husband was extorting her.
“And yes,” he granted, “that you are a maid. I owe a duty to my title, to my family. If I wish to help Silas, I must…”
“Marry well,” Clara supplied, swallowing the emotions that bubbled under the surface.
“Yes,” he agreed softly.
“And you now have that opportunity.”
He shook his head. “Nothing is settled. I only met her an hour ago. But, yes, I believe that is the hope she and her parents share.”
And you. “I understand, Your Grace.” She forced a smile. She had always known things between them could not be, but to hear him voice it now was…different. More difficult.
It was a moment before he spoke. “What of John?”
Clara hesitated.
What if she told him the truth? What was she afraid of? Ruining her chance with him? There had never been such a chance.
And yet, his opinion of her mattered. He was her only true friend in the world. How would she bear telling him he had entrusted his most important secrets, his brother’s very life to a liar and a thief?