Chapter 13
Thirteen
Clara crept through the hallway of the western wing for the first time since arriving at the castle.
It was much like the rest of the home, she decided quickly.
Empty halls. Closed doors, each one locked.
And few torches to light the way. She listened for the sounds of the staff, footsteps, idle chatter, anything to indicate that she wasn’t alone in this world. There was nothing but silence…
Still, she continued, soon finding herself outside Alaric’s office door. There, she hesitated.
Is this the most stupid thing I have ever done? He has made it so clear that he wants nothing to do with me. And where I know that is only a half-truth, what if by disobeying him I force his hand completely?
That was the fear. If she simply gave the duke space, he might soon come around as he had been doing before the ball. But if she went barging in right now, unannounced, walking where she had been told not to walk, who knew the damage she might cause?
But she was also sick of not knowing.
She was done being treated as less than a shadow.
Through with being ignored, she needed to be seen and noticed. Even if the consequences were dire, at least then Clara would know where she stood. And so, taking a deep breath, she knocked once on the door.
Silence at first. Then, a hesitant “Yes?”
She did not call out or announce herself, taking the question as a bid to come in. Another deep breath, shaking with nerves, she opened the door and stepped into the duke’s office.
Alaric wasn’t sitting at his desk as she suspected. He was on the single sofa, positioned before the hearth, facing the flames as he sipped at a glass of whiskey. Coat off. Sleeves rolled up his forearms. Leaning back with his legs spread open. He looked… defeated, to Clara’s eyes.
This was confirmed when he turned to see her walking into the office, and did not rebuke her with anger or frustration. He frowned as he studied her. “I thought I told you the western wing was off limits.”
“You did…” She closed the door behind herself, which only heightened the tension that sat upon her shoulders.
He scoffed and turned back to watch the flames. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you would disobey me. You…” He laughed bitterly. “You have a unique ability to frustrate me. Do you know that?”
“Disobey you?” She crept deeper into the room, close to the back of the sofa. “That would require you to speak with me first.”
Another scoff, and he took a sip of his drink. “Is that not what you wanted? I thought it was clear enough to the two of us what this marriage was meant to be.”
“As did I,” she said. “Only then…” She considered what to say and how to say it. Not to force the issue. Not to be too subtle either. A tough line to walk. “Things change. The Whitcombe Ball –”
“Was necessary, and you know why.” He had another sip of his drink, staring into the flames.
“It was not a window into whatever it is you think this marriage might be. Believe me when I say it, Clara…” He sighed, and she could see his shoulders slump.
“You do not want that. You might think that you do…” A shake of the head. “You should be thanking me.”
“Thanking you?” she laughed. “For what exactly? For ignoring me? For treating me as if I do not exist?”
“For saving you…” A dark chuckle escaped his lips, and she could see the disgust he held for himself. “Saving you from me. Funny, isn’t it? You asked to be saved, and that is exactly what I am doing. And now that I have, you don’t want it.”
“Do you even care what I want?”
He considered the question for a few moments.
The crackle of the wood in the fire broke the silence between them, but it did not diffuse it.
She stayed back from the sofa, knowing to give Alaric his distance.
Where indeed he had been avoiding her for two days now, she could see that his thoughts had not been nearly as disciplined.
He has been deciding something. What do you know about me?
About us. And still, I do not think he is sure.
“It does not matter what you want,” he said finally. “What matters is what I want. A harsh truth. But a truth nonetheless.”
“And what is it that you want?” She took a step closer, closing the distance between them. “Tell me that. Maybe then… if I know…”
“What do I want?” He looked at her again, and she saw the pain in his eyes.
Not anger. He wasn’t dismissive of her or upset that she had come to him.
If anything, there was a sense of relief behind them, that continual fight as he tried to figure through his emotions and come to an answer which he assumed from the beginning he would not like.
“Yes,” she said carefully, another step closer. “What do you want?” She was but two feet from the sofa, close enough that she could reach out and touch his shoulder, take his hand, rest her palm on his face in comfort. But she did not dare.
“You would think that would be a simple question,” Alaric sighed as he took another sip.
“But if you knew anything about me, you’d also know that it is anything but simple.
” He finished his drink and stared for a moment longer into the flames.
“I wasn’t raised in a loving household – not surprising, I am sure…
” He chuckled bitterly. “My father was a strict sort. You think I am harsh; it is nothing compared to the way he ran this house.”
“That explains the gloom,” she ventured tentatively. If he would only smile at that, at anything, she would know there was some hope of connection.
He exhaled sharply. “All he cared about was what others thought of him. His name, his title… his reputation.” He curled his lip.
“These are what mattered most, and as his son, how I was perceived reflected on these attributes. It did not matter what I wanted, only that I did as I was told. For my entire life, I did everything that was asked of me. It was never good enough, which only drove me further to try and prove that I was the man my father needed me to be. Propriety. Decorum. Love was secondary, and often not even that.”
Clara crept closer to the sofa, now right at it. “What changed?”
“Who said anything did?”
She looked down at him. “Just a feeling that I have. Call it my women’s intuition.”
He laughed at that, although there was no humor in it.
“My father wished for me to marry, like any other nobleman. He wanted an heir, someone to carry on his name after I passed. But I knew him well enough to know that whoever he chose would not be a bride that I might want – likely, he would choose someone like him…” His lip curled further.
“For the first time ever, I began to wonder about what I wanted. For the first time ever, I made a decision based on my own needs. Not what was right. But what I felt I deserved.”
Clara stayed silent, thinking that Alaric would continue. But he became lost in the flames, prompting her to push him further. “The woman in the portrait,” she said carefully. “Helena?”
The duke turned rigid. “Yes, that is her.”
“Did you love her?”
This had the duke turning to look at her properly. He craned back his neck, his brow furrowing as if he did not understand the question. “What does that matter?”
“It matters a great deal, I would think.”
He scoffed. “That is where you are wrong. It would have been easier if I felt nothing for her. Love…” A sigh and a shake of the head. “It is a treacherous mistress, perhaps better to be ignored entirely than sought after. It makes things easier that way.”
So, he did love her. At the very least, he cared for her.
It was in that moment that Clara began to understand the duke as she never had before.
Why he was so withdrawn. Why he refused to let her in.
It had nothing to do with how he felt for her, but the demons of his past and whatever had happened with this Helen.
The rumors about him are not true, for there is no way that he killed her.
Yet that seems irrelevant, because whatever happened to her has wounded him deeply.
Taking a risk, Clara sat herself on the arm of the couch. The duke’s body turned rigid again, but he did not pull away. Taking this as a sign, she next rested a hand on his shoulder, a gentle touch, which she slowly moved to the side of his face.
He shut his eyes as he felt her touch. His breathing calmed. His body relaxed. Carefully, he moved his hand and rested it against hers, which held his face, eyes still closed, the sense that he was remembering something about himself… that he was starting to believe again.
“What happened?” Clara asked, her voice low. “To Helena?”
His eyes snapped open, but there was no anger there.
Sadness was what she saw. He looked up and met Clara’s eyes.
They flicked to her lips, and his hand stroked the back of her hand gently.
He was considering… working up the courage to do as they both surely felt.
Clara’s chest was tight, her lips were eager. If he tries to kiss me…
She found in that moment that she wanted it. She wanted her husband like she never had. How vulnerable he was being. How open. This was the true him, that which she had seen at the ball. The only question that remained was whether he was ready yet to admit it…
His eyes lingered on her lips. She leaned forward just a little. A beat passed between them…
“No…” He dropped his hand suddenly and pulled away. “That is not a story for tonight.”
“But –"
“I said no.” There was a hardness to his tone, and his stare took on a dismissive scowl. “I think it is best if you leave me.”
“What…” Her chest seized, and for a moment she thought he was asking her to leave him entirely. Not just the room, but the castle, his life. “What do you…”
“It is getting late,” he clarified. “And you should not be here.”
Oh, how Clara wished to push further. She was so close to learning the truth. But she knew too that if she pushed too hard, he might retreat entirely, and then she would lose him forever. This was a small victory. And I should be grateful for it.
“As you say…” She rose from the chair. “I will leave. But just so you know, I live here now. I am your wife, and you are my husband – ignoring it will change nothing.” He winced at those words. “And if you ever need to speak, I will always be there for you.”
She turned and left him, feeling his eyes follow her as she walked through the door and closed it behind her. The hallway was dark, but her smile was bright. He was so close… she could see how much he wanted her… all he needed was a final push. Or rather, a reason to trust himself.
I pray that he finds it soon, she thought as she started back toward the eastern wing. If not for me, if not for him, for this marriage.
Alone again, Alaric went back to staring into the hearth as if the dancing flames might provide him an answer. An answer that, he realized, he had been searching for his entire life.
What do I want? Never before has it mattered what I wanted. And the one time I thought it might, the tragedy that was borne from that single decision was enough to prove the folly of my actions. And my father… although I detest admitting it, has been right this entire time.
He had very nearly kissed her just then.
He had wanted to. Her hand on his face. His eyes linger on her lips.
Her scent drifted through his nose, making his stomach flip and his skin prickle as his pulse quickened.
It had taken more self-control than he thought he possessed, made all the harder because he knew now that she wanted the same.
She wants me. I do not know why. I cannot fathom how. But I see it as clear as day.
Alaric knew what he needed to do. The smart choice.
A decision, if made, would ensure that no harm would come to Clara…
or himself, for that matter. To continue as he had been doing.
Ignoring her. Avoiding her at every turn.
Pretending that she did not exist so that he could very nearly convince himself that she did not.
She will thank me for it in the long run. I know that she will.
And yet, his mind strayed to the night of the ball, as it had been doing these past two days.
When it did, he found himself smiling at the memory of an evening that was the best he had lived for as long as he could remember.
He had laughed. He had danced. He had spoken to peers without seeing their faces go cold and still as they searched for an excuse to flee. For a time there, he had been happy.
I do not deserve happiness. Perhaps I want it, but my wants are not what matters.
That was what plagued him most. And with it came the decision that he was not certain he was fit to make.
The last time he had done something for himself, that he had made a choice based on his own desires, it had left him with tragedy.
To do so again… and if it were to happen again…
Alaric was not certain he could ever recover.
His marriage of convenience had become a most inconvenient thing indeed.