CHAPTER 8 #2
"Do what?"
"Make you look functional for a month."
"I have no desire to appear functional. I want to be left alone."
"Well, you can't have that. So we go with the next best option…fake it."
"Fake being a proper duke?"
"You are a proper duke. We just need to remind people of that."
"How?"
"First, we hire staff."
"No."
"Temporary staff. For appearances."
"They'll stare."
"I'll hire people who won't stare."
"Those people don't exist."
"They do. Mrs. Potter doesn't stare."
"Mrs. Potter has known me since birth."
"Then we'll find more Mrs. Potters."
"There is only one Mrs. Potter, thank God."
"Gabriel." Clara slid off the arm of the sofa to kneel beside his chair, looking up at him. Another violation of their rules, but desperate times. "Let me help you."
"Why?"
"Because your aunt is awful and I don't want her to win."
"That's not a reason."
"Because you saved my life."
"That's obligation, not reason."
"Because..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Because somewhere under all this bristle and brandy is still the boy who taught me about grafting roses. And I believe he deserves a chance to not lose everything."
Gabriel stared at her for a long moment. "That boy is…"
“Long gone, yes, I am fully aware as you have already mentioned on more than one occasion."
“Please allow me to assist you.” She almost begged.
He was quiet for so long she thought he'd refuse. Then, quietly: "One month?"
"One month."
"And then you still leave in spring?"
Something twisted in Clara's chest. "Yes."
"And we maintain... professional boundaries?"
"Of course."
"And you'll stop looking at me in that manner?”
“In what manner?”
"As if you believe I can be saved."
"I will make an effort to do so.”
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'll try harder."
He drained his brandy. "Fine. One month. But when it fails…and it will fail…you don't blame yourself."
"It won't fail."
"Your optimism is exhausting."
"Your pessimism is exhausting."
Clara stood, brushing dust from her skirts. “We shall start by excluding your indulging in spirits before noon.”
"That's tyranny."
"That's logical"
“I see no difference.”
“I shall require funds,” Clara said.
“For the necessaries, of course, a sufficient staff, household supplies and most definitely new attire for yourself.”
They stood there, the morning sun streaming through the dusty windows, illuminating all the work ahead of them. One month to convince the world that the Duke of Ashbourne was perfectly sane, completely functional, and absolutely not being slowly saved by his temporary housekeeper.
"Clara?"
"Yes?"
“I am much obliged to you Clara. Your support in that moment was invaluable, and I shall not soon forget your courage.”
“She was impertinent and Insufferable.”
Something shifted in Gabriel's expression, a softness that made him look younger, more vulnerable. “You cannot run to my defense each time someone is disagreeable with my person.”
“Be still and observe, Your Grace.” Clara remarked quite heatedly.
"You're beyond all bearing!”
"We've have already concluded that,”
“Gabriel….we shall succeed in our endevours.Of that I am sure."
“I only wish I could share your sentiments, Clara.”
He actually smiled then, It was a feeble smile, but it was an effort he had made.
“Now, be off and go about and attend to your business Clara.
Go and plot my salvation elsewhere.”
She paused at the doorway, one hand resting on the polished brass handle, the faint morning light catching the loose strands of hair that had escaped her braid.
Gabriel was still behind his desk, half-buried in correspondence, pretending to be engrossed in estate reports though his eyes had been following her since she’d risen from her chair.
“Yes?” she asked, glancing back.
“The roses,” he said, not looking up immediately, as though the words had to fight their way out. “In the garden…. would you please see after them?”
Her expression softened. “Of course.”
He hesitated again, the sound of papers shifting filling the quiet between them. “And Clara?”
She turned fully now, brow raised. “Yes?”
Please do not allow Mrs. Potter to assist with the staff hiring.”
Her lips curved, amused. “Why ever not?”
“Because she’ll hire people just like her,” he said, finally lifting his gaze, “I cannot bear the vexation of having more than one person defy my instruction.”
A single month, she reflected, as she made her way to the scullery where she intended to draft lists, arrange her plans, and perhaps succumb to a fit of the vapours. What misfortune could possibly befall them in the space of four weeks?
"The burgundy is becoming on you," Edmund stated with mischievous mirth.
Gabriel had been having a perfectly adequate morning, which was to say he'd only contemplated committing a crime twice, once when Edmund arrived at the ungodly hour of six on the hour and once when Clara had confiscated his brandy decanter with the efficiency of someone who'd clearly been planning the theft for days.
Now he stood in his dressing room, shirtless and irritated, while Edmund held up various waistcoats like a demented valet with delusions of fashion expertise.
"My eyes are brown."
"Exactly. Brown and burgundy are complementary."
"They're both dark colors."
"Different darks."
"I'm going to strangle you with that waistcoat."
"That would certainly make an impression at the Weatherby's soirée next week."
Gabriel turned from the mirror so fast he nearly knocked Edmund over. "What soirée?"
"The one you're attending. To prove you're functional."
"I never agreed to…"
"You agreed to allow Clara to assist you. Clara's plan includes one social appearance. Therefore, you're attending the Weatherby's soirée."
"Mrs. Weatherby believes me to be the very embodiment of wickedness.”
"Mrs. Weatherby believes everyone to be the very embodiment of wickedness. You are no exception.”
Gabriel grabbed the nearest shirt, intending to end this torture, when the door opened without warning.
"Edmund, I’ve made a list of…oh."
Clara stopped dead in the doorway, the paper in her hand forgotten.
Her eyes flicked up, caught his, and then, against all reason drifted downward.
Slowly. As if curiosity had overridden every instinct for propriety.
Her gaze followed the line of his throat, over his bare chest still damp from the morning’s wash, past the faint trail of hair leading down to where his trousers sat indecently low on his hips.
She stopped there, just for a second too long, before jerking her eyes back up to his face, cheeks flushed, and lips parting on a soundless breath.
Gabriel froze.
For one wild heartbeat, the air between them felt charged enough to burn.
His first instinct was to snatch up his discarded shirt from the back of the chair.
His second, more reckless one, was to stand perfectly still and allow her to peruse at her own pace.
To see how long it would take before she broke the silence, or before he did.
He went with stillness, though every muscle in his body screamed otherwise.
Crossing his arms over his chest only made things worse, drawing her attention to the movement, to the flex of muscle and the heat crawling up the back of his neck.
He told himself it was irritation he felt, not desire, but the ache low in his abdomen argued otherwise.
Clara, to her credit, tried to speak. “I…ah…thought Edmund was…”
“He’s not,” Gabriel said, his voice rougher than intended.
“Yes. I am fully aware.” Her eyes betrayed her again, flicking downward, just once, before she caught herself.
He smirked despite himself. “Your gaze is remarkably fixed upon me.”
“I am not,” she said too quickly.
“You are,” he murmured, stepping forward, knowing full well he shouldn’t. The scent of soap and sunlight clung to him, and she swayed almost imperceptibly as he came closer.
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Your attire is an impropriety.”
"Miss Whitfield," he said coolly, as if greeting her half-dressed was perfectly normal. “Is there something that you require?”
She was staring at his scar.
Not the one on his face, the other ones. The network of lines across his chest and ribs where shrapnel and saber had left their marks. The map of violence written on his skin.
He prepared himself for her onslaught of silent disgust.
"Did they hurt?" she asked instead, her voice soft.
"What?"
"When you got them. Did they hurt?"
“Are you truly curious to know if being run through with a blade cause me some discomfort?”
"I'm asking if you remember the pain or just the surviving."
"Both. Neither. I remember the sound more than the pain. Like fabric tearing, but the fabric was me."
Edmund cleared his throat. "I'll just... go... somewhere else." He fled, pulling the door closed behind him.
They stood there, Clara in the doorway, Gabriel half-dressed and exposed in more ways than one.
"You should leave," he said.
"I should."
Neither moved.
"This is inappropriate," he added.
“Indeed it is…”
“Your gaze is remarkably fixed upon me.”
“As yours is upon me.”
She wasn't wrong. He was staring at the way the morning light caught the gold in her hair, at the flush creeping up her neck, at the way her fingers gripped her list so tightly the paper was crumpling.
Leave, he commanded silently. Leave before I do something supremely careless such as crossing this room and… like cross this room and…
"Your shirt," Clara said suddenly, grabbing the garment from where he'd dropped it and thrusting it at him. "You should... shirt."
“Be silent, I beg of you.”
“I beg of you to try your hand at stilling my voice.”
The words hung between them, loaded with possibility and memory of the last time she'd said those words.
As Gabriel took the shirt, their fingers brushed lightly in the exchange and Clara’s breath caught audibly.