Chapter 32 #2
She draped them around Clara’s neck and fastened the clasp at the back, then put a hand on both of Clara’s shoulders. “I defy anyone to look more the part of a duchess,” she whispered through her smile.
Clara’s eyes stung, and she blinked rapidly.
“Do you not agree?” Mrs. Yorke asked.
“I may look the part, ma’am, but appearances may deceive. I am not fit to be a duchess, and William deserves someone who is. He deserves the best.”
“Do you not see, Clara?” Mrs. Yorke stood in front of her and took her hands again. “You are the best for him precisely because you love him enough to want the best for him. It is what makes you fit to be his duchess more than any other woman, no matter her title or breeding or attire.”
“Then why put this dress on me?” Clara asked, her voice unstable.
Mrs. Yorke smiled sympathetically. “Sometimes we must dress the part before we can believe in ourselves enough to act it.”
The sound of hooves outside took Mrs. Ashby to the window, where the light of sunset was shifting to take on a bluer hue. “The carriage is here, Charlotte.”
Charlotte nodded and looked into Clara’s eyes one more time. “William worries you would be discontent as his wife, that the resulting social difficulties would give you regrets.”
Clara’s brows snapped together. Discontent as his wife? The utter impossibility of it…she could not even manage a response.
Mrs. Yorke squeezed her hand. “Tell him what you want so he has no reason to believe anything but the truth.” She stood. “We will send him as soon as can be managed. It might take time, though.”
A few minutes later, Clara and Mr. Silas waved from the door as Mr. Frederick, Mr. Anthony, and the two women climbed into the carriage and rambled toward the main house.
Much as Clara had insisted she could not go with them, she wished she could. She wished she was someone of whom the duke could be proud, a woman he wouldn’t hesitate to stand up with for a dance, even with earls and viscounts looking on.
“Have you readied your belongings?” Mr. Silas asked as he shut the door behind them.
“My belongings?”
He smiled as they took the stairs up. “For Gretna Green. William will not be able to wait seven days to marry you when he sees you.”
Clara looked away, her cheeks warming as she smoothed her skirts. “You flatter me. I fear there are more obstacles to a match between us than a mere gown, however pretty it might be.”
They reached the door to his bedchamber, and he turned to face her. “You mean me.”
Clara’s gaze flew to his, her eyes wide. “No. No, that is not what—”
“Clara. You and I both know my brother believes it his personal responsibility to resolve my troubles. And that is my fault. I am the one who asked him to do precisely that when I returned. But I won’t have him be a martyr.”
“Neither would he have you be one.”
“I am not. I intend to find justice for myself one way or another. Did you know Drayton is not fifteen miles from here?”
Clara shook her head.
“He is staying at Underwood House not fifteen miles east of here.” He shook his head, his brow furrowing. “Frederick is always saying that anything can be arranged by simply talking, which is probably why he does so much of it. But perhaps there is something to what he says.”
“From what your brother has said, Lord Drayton will stop at nothing to protect his reputation. If things between your brother and me are meant to be, they will be.”
His gaze searched her face, more serious than usual.
A sound in the entry hall sent Clara’s heart into her throat. Surely, the duke could not be here already?
“I will see who it is,” Mr. Silas said.
She nodded, trying to calm herself as she hurried to Mrs. Yorke’s bedchamber for one last look in the mirror to ensure she was entirely in order. She wanted to look her very best, silly as it might be.
“It was nothing after all,” Mr. Silas called to her from the corridor. “We must not have closed the door properly.”
“Thank you for going to see,” she replied loud enough for him to hear. She was half relieved, half disappointed. Leaving the mirror, she paced the room from wall to wall as she waited for the duke, trying to sort through her thoughts and feelings.
What if Mrs. Yorke and Mrs. Ashby were right? What if she did have a chance to marry the duke? All her noble thoughts of not wishing to deprive him of what he would gain from a smart match—what would come of those if the duke asked her to be his wife?
She was too honest to think she would have the strength to refuse him.
But would she even have the chance? How could he possibly choose to marry her over someone like Lady Cassandra? How could he knowingly abandon the opportunity to save the brother he loved so dearly?
The room became dimmer as the light began to fade. Clara’s feet ached from pacing, and her stomach growled.
The Yorkes had been bringing food to Mr. Silas each evening, but what would he do tonight? It was entirely possible such a detail had slipped their minds in the chaos of preparing for the ball.
She held up her skirts and went out of the room. A knock on the door of Mr. Silas’s bedchamber went unanswered, however, so she went in search of him elsewhere. He was not in the sitting room, neither was he in the billiard room or the kitchens.
Her heart began to beat more quickly. This had happened before, though. He was undoubtedly outside, getting a bit of fresh air. Or preparing to frighten her as a form of amusement.
But her walk outside resulted in failure, and no one jumped out from any doorways when she returned.
Pulse racing, she returned to his bedchamber and knocked loudly. “Mr. Silas!” She knocked and called to him again, but the only response was the echo of her own voice.
She turned the knob and pushed open the door. The room was dark and empty. The doors of the armoire were open, and a few garments of clothing on the floor, as though he had changed quickly.
And Clara knew.
She knew where he had gone.