CHAPTER 17
"Your hair appears to have staged a rebellion against the established order of things, which I suppose is fitting given that we've essentially declared war on polite society, though I must say the overall effect is rather charming in a 'ravished by a duke' sort of way that will absolutely scandalise Mrs. Potter when she arrives in approximately ten minutes. "
Clara opened one eye to find Gabriel propped on an elbow, studying her with the intensity of someone memorising a particularly fascinating painting.
Morning light streamed through the windows they'd forgotten to curtain the night before, illuminating the complete destruction of what had once been a perfectly respectable bedroom.
"Ten minutes?" Clara's voice came out as a croak, which seemed reasonable given the various ways she'd used it the night before. "How can you possibly know Mrs. Potter will arrive in ten minutes?"
"Because it's Thursday, which is her day to harangue me about my drinking habits while pretending to deliver fresh linens, and she's pathologically punctual despite my repeated attempts to dismiss her from employment she doesn't possess in reality.”
Clara sat up abruptly, clutching the sheet to her chest, which Gabriel seemed to find amusing given the circumstances. "Gabriel, I cannot be found in your bed by Mrs. Potter. The woman has known me since I was eight years old."
"She's also known we were heading toward this since you arrived, so I doubt she'll be particularly shocked, though she might make that tutting sound that suggests disappointment in our moral fortitude."
"Our moral fortitude is currently scattered across the floor with our clothing, which, oh God, Gabriel, my dress is literally hanging from the candelabra. How did it even get there?"
"That was your doing, actually, during that particularly energetic moment when you declared you needed better leverage and apparently decided the candles needed fashion accessories."
Clara stared at the offending garment swaying gently in the morning breeze from the open window. Upon my word…”
"Indeed, right after you accused me of being insufficiently creative and challenged me to prove otherwise, which I believe I did quite thoroughly, judging by your response."
"My response was perfectly reasonable given the circumstances."
"Your response was to invoke several deities who probably weren't meant to be referenced in that particular context."
Before Clara could formulate a response that wouldn't further incriminate her, there was a knock at the door that had all the authority of someone who'd been knocking on that particular door for many a years and wasn't about to let something like potential scandal stop her now.
"Your Grace," Mrs. Potter's voice carried through the wood with remarkable clarity. "I'm coming in with fresh linens, and I'm giving you exactly thirty seconds to make yourselves presentable.”
"Did she just…" Clara began.
"Acknowledge our complete lack of discretion while maintaining plausible deniability? Yes, that's Mrs. Potter's particular gift."
Clara dove for Gabriel's dressing gown while he pulled on his trousers with the speed of someone who'd learned to dress quickly under fire, though presumably his military training hadn't prepared him for this particular sort of invasion.
"Twenty seconds," Mrs. Potter announced, apparently counting down their humiliation.
"Can't you tell her to go away?" Clara hissed, fighting with the sleeves of the dressing gown that were approximately three times too long.
“You are, I do believe familiar with Mrs. Potter? She doesn’t pay heed to my authority on principle, and she's been waiting for this moment since we were children. She's probably prepared a speech."
"A speech?"
"Ten seconds," Mrs. Potter informed them with what sounded suspiciously like glee.
"About moral responsibility and the sanctity of matrimony and the importance of not scandalizing the household staff who definitely didn't have a betting pool on when this would happen."
"Five seconds."
Clara managed to tie the dressing gown while Gabriel achieved something approximating respectability with his shirt, though neither of them looked anything less than thoroughly debauched, especially with Clara's hair doing whatever it was doing and Gabriel's morning stubble combined with what could only be described as a supremely satisfied expression.
The door opened, and Mrs. Potter entered carrying linens that were clearly an excuse rather than a necessity.
She took in the scene before her the destroyed bed, the dress on the candelabra, Clara drowning in Gabriel's dressing gown, Gabriel's inside-out shirt and made the tutting sound Gabriel had predicted.
"Well," she said, setting down the linens with deliberate calm. "I suppose congratulations are in order, though I might have hoped for a proper wedding ceremony before the consummation, but then young people today have no respect for the proper order of things."
"We're betrothed" Gabriel offered, as if that explained the hurricane that had clearly occurred in his bedroom.
"Oh, betrothal is it? And when did this occur? Before or after Miss Whitfield's dress decided to explore alternative locations?"
Clara felt her face flame. "Mrs. Potter, I can explain…"
“We shall be wed in a mere three weeks.” Gabriel said, pulling Clara against his side despite their audience. "The banns will be read starting this Sunday."
"Three weeks?" Mrs. Potter's eyebrows rose. "And what does Lady Agatha have to say about that?"
"Lady Agatha can say whatever she pleases from whatever distance she chooses to say it from. Her approval is neither required nor desired."
"She won't give up easily. That woman's like a terrier with a bone when she sets her mind to something."
"Then she'll have to gnaw on disappointment, because Clara and I are going to be wedded regardless of her machinations."
Mrs. Potter studied them both with the kind of look that suggested she was cataloguing everything for future reference or possible blackmail. "Miss Clara, your inheritance has been the talk of the servants' hall. Thirty five hundred pounds is quite a sum."
“So you are aware? “ Clara asked, though she shouldn't have been surprised. The servants' network was more efficient than any postal service.
"Edmund's man told Cook, Cook told Mary, Mary told everyone else, and now the entire county probably knows that you're an heiress who's been tragically deceived but triumphantly returned to claim both your fortune and our duke."
"I haven't claimed anyone," Clara protested. "We've simply agreed to enter into matrimony."
"After thoroughly anticipating the wedding vows, from what I can see.”
"Mrs. Potter!" Gabriel attempted his duke voice, which was entirely lost on the woman who knew him in his cradle.”
"Don't you 'Mrs. Potter' me, young man. I'm simply stating facts, which is that the entire household is aware that you and Miss Clara have finally abandoned your foolish airs and reached an understanding, though we might have preferred a different order of operations."
"The order of operations is our business," Gabriel said, though his stern effect was somewhat undermined by the way he was absently playing with Clara's hair.
"Your business becomes everyone's business when you conduct it at volume, Your Grace.
"However," Mrs. Potter continued, her expression softening slightly, “Upon my word. It is time you two arrived at an understanding. I have been observing your mutual pining since you were children and, truly, the lack of resolution was becoming quite tedious to behold.”
"We haven't been pining," Gabriel protested.
"You spent three years drinking yourself into a stupor and glowering at anyone who sought to lend you aid.”
"That wasn't pining, that was... artistic melancholy."
"It was pining," Mrs. Potter said flatly. "And Miss Clara here wasn't much better, from what I heard. Taking positions beneath her station, letting herself be pushed around by lesser folk, all because she thought she wasn't worthy of better."
"That's not…" Clara began.
"It's exactly what happened, and we both know it. You two have been in love since before you knew what love was, and it's taken tragedy, desperation, and apparently the threat of Lady Agatha in purple silk to finally get you to admit it."
"Purple silk was definitely a motivating factor," Gabriel agreed. "Nothing quite like aesthetic assault to clarify one's priorities."
"Speaking of priorities," Mrs. Potter said, gathering the linens she'd never intended to actually change, "breakfast will be served in half an hour, and I expect both of you to appear properly dressed and prepared to face the staff, who are all eager to offer congratulations .”
She headed for the door, pausing to look back at them with an expression that was equal parts exasperation and affection. "Your Grace? Your aunt's carriage was spotted leaving the inn this morning, heading this direction. She'll be here within the hour."
"Of course she will," Gabriel sighed. "Because why should we have even a moment of peace to enjoy our betrothal?"
"To be fair, you did propose in front of her yesterday, essentially declare war on propriety, and then compromise your fiancée quite enthusiastically all night. She's probably coming to either disown you or have you committed."
"She can't disown me, and having me committed requires more proof than moral outrage."
"Well, the dress on the candelabra might qualify as evidence of some sort of mania," Mrs. Potter observed, eyeing the suspended garment with interest. Thirty minutes, breakfast, proper clothes.
And perhaps retrieve that dress before the entire household sees it and starts asking questions about the physics involved. "
She left, closing the door with deliberate firmness, and Clara immediately buried her face in Gabriel's chest.
"I can never face anyone ever again. I'm going to die of mortification right here in your arms."