Chapter 16
Sixteen
This felt different from the last time. More rigid.
More formal. More false in every conceivable aspect.
Where the Whitcombe Ball had been a revelation, Clara and the duke finding a natural companionship and an unexpected comfort together, which had allowed them to relax and be real with one another, the Merryweather garden party stood in complete contrast.
It feels as if I am entering this party with a statue hanging from my arm. A corpse that I have dressed and dragged from the grave, while hoping that nobody will discover the ruse.
“Thank you again,” Clara said as she and Alaric walked around the side of Merryweather Manor, coming upon the back garden where the party was already in full swing. “For inviting me today.”
“Think nothing of it,” Alaric said formally. “It was necessary, as I explained.”
“Still…” She eyed him hopefully, trying to see through the mask of coldness that he wore.
“We did not have to attend. I cannot help but think a part of you was looking for an excuse to do so.” She tried for a coy smile, an effort to catch his eyes so he might see her.
So his remote gaze might soften and return to his wife.
Alaric looked ahead, his posture stiff, his expression stern. “The Whitcombe Ball did much to dissuade rumors about the state of our marriage, but it was not enough. My hope is that after today, the lie will be confirmed without question.”
“The lie?”
“That we are in love and happy,” he said simply, still not looking at her. “If today goes well, this is the last time we will need to bother with such folly.” A firm nod. “It must go well.”
Her face dropped, not caring that she did not wear a smile as the first of the guests spotted them.
This had already been discussed, of course.
When he had called her into his study two days ago to inform her of today’s plan, he had been as rigid and distant as possible.
Determined, it had seemed, for her to understand that today was to be performative and in no way indicative of how he felt about her. It was crushing to say the least.
Nonetheless, Clara had held out hope. What else do I have but hope?
Hopeful that when the day came, and he saw her appear in her gown, his eyes would light up, that a smile would cross his face, and this grim determination to act aloof and distant would melt away as it had done the night of the Whitcombe Ball.
No such luck.
So it was that Clara came to the Merryweather garden party without nearly the same level of excitement she had felt at the Whitcombe Ball.
For all she had tried and all she had done, the duke refused to break and let her in.
If anything, he had grown even colder toward her, not so much pushing her away as throwing her.
For a time there, oh, how close she had felt to being let in.
But he was stubborn. He was determined. And worst of all, he was well practiced.
“Your Grace!” Through the throng of partygoers, an elderly man approached the two of them. Clara did not recognize him, but that wasn’t a surprise. “It is so wonderful of you to make it.”
“Lord Merryweather,” Alaric said with a stiff smile. “Not at all, we have been looking forward to it.”
“Is that so?”
“Greatly.”
Lord Merryweather turned to Clara. “And Your Grace…” He took her hand and gave it a kiss. “It is lovely to finally make your acquaintance. I have heard of your beauty, but I see that rumor hardly does it justice.”
“Thank you,” she said warmly. “That is very kind.”
“Tell me,” Lord Merryweather began. “How does married life suit you. It has been so long since I was freshly wed, a dream now it feels. I hope your time has gotten off to a tremendous start.”
“It has,” Alaric spoke before Clara had a chance. “We are happy and in love. It is a dream, as you said.”
“I bet it is!”
That Lord Merryweather had been comfortable enough to approach spoke volumes to how quickly Alaric’s reputation was changing. No doubt word of his congenial nature at the Whitcombe Ball had spread, confirming to many that he was not the wickedly evil man so many thought him to be.
It is a lie, Clara could not help but think. All of it. Last time, it felt so much more real that I did not even have to try to pretend. This time, it feels wrong to do so. Dishonest in ways that make me feel sick.
“Of course, it is not all roses,” Clara said with a smile. “Any marriage has its faults, as I am sure you know.” Beside her, she felt Alaric stiffen.
“Is that so?” Lord Merryweather mused.
“That is not to say that our marriage is fraught with…” She glanced at Alaric, whose upper lip had turned stiff. “… danger. Heavens no,” she laughed. “But getting used to a new home. A new husband. Needless to say, the fairytales I read as a girl were perhaps a little exaggerated.”
“Indeed…”
“Excuse me…” Alaric smiled at Lord Merryweather as he slowly pulled Clara away. “We should not keep you from the other guests.”
“Yes, yes,” Lord Merryweather agreed. “Just wished to greet and give my congratulations.”
“And it is well appreciated.”
Lord Merryweather eyed them both curiously for a moment before turning and ducking back through the garden. As soon as he was gone, Alaric turned on Clara and fixed her with a scowl that spoke to his anger.
“What do you think you are doing?” he hissed under his breath.
“I do not know what you mean,” Clara said innocently.
“You know well what I mean.”
“I am simply playing the role of your wife,” she shot back, still happy to play the innocent fawn. “Is it my fault that you have made such a role so rife with confusion and despair?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Do not be cute with me. You know what we must do today. And I will remind you that the last time we did so, you were only too happy to play along.”
“Yes, well, I suppose I am not as good an actor as you are.”
“Try harder.”
She scoffed. “All I have done is try. You are the one who refuses to do so. You are the one who…” She could feel her temper rising, so she forced it down and offered a saccharine smile. “You know what, you are right. I need to do better.”
Alaric frowned. “You… you will?”
“I have tried, Alaric. I have done everything that I can and more. Clearly, it was not enough. And if this right here is the best I can hope for…” She looked about the garden party, sadness touching her tone as her body sagged in defeat.
“Personally, I want nothing to do with it. So, if forcing a smile for one day more is what I must deal with, so be it.” She straightened and turned away. “But after this, we are done.”
Alaric did not respond to that, but she could feel his hesitation. The sense that, for a moment, he felt guilty for what he had said and how he had been acting. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied his hand reaching for her, as if he meant to rest it on her shoulder as a form of apology.
Typically, he stayed it, yanking it back and straightening as he linked his arm through her arm again. “Good,” he said. “See that you do.”
This isn’t how it was supposed to go. But as I said, I tried. The Lord knows that I did. I did everything I could, and still Alaric denies me. Perhaps it is time that I admit defeat and resign myself to what this marriage was always meant to be.
There would be no bullying, Alaric. There would be no flooding his heart with guilt. All Clara could expect, she was forced to admit, was exactly what he was giving her. Coldness. Isolation. A sense that he cared nothing for her.
No matter that her heart broke. Clara forced a warm smile, committed now to playing the role she had promised that she would.
After today, she knew, this marriage would officially be over, her hope dashed with it, the truth of her new life finally taking over as it had meant to do when she first walked down the aisle.
She kept the warm, worthless smile on her lips as they walked to the garden party, arm in arm. They were approached by numerous guests, all of whom spoke as if they were old friends. Questions were asked about their marriage. Lies were told. Feigned laughter rang out. And the ruse took on strength.
All the while, too, Clara could not help but compare it to the Whitcombe Ball.
How much fun she’d had that night. How real it had felt.
It hadn’t been a lie. It hadn’t been performative.
It had been a window into what this marriage might be if Alaric were not so guarded.
Alas, he is, and that is that. Why waste my time trying for something I know I will never have?
“Tell me, Your Grace,” Lady Brickstone asked with an air of judgment; her nose was pointed up, her lip was curled.
It was toward the end of the day, things had run smoothly, and Clara could sense her husband beginning to grow frustrated with the effort to keep up the charade.
“Will we be seeing you at more of these events?”
“Without a doubt,” Alaric told her.
“That surprises me,” Lady Brickstone mused.
“Oh, is that right?”
She looked between Alaric and Clara, a coy smile worn on her thin lips. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I never took you for the type. I am sure I can count on my fingers how many of these events I have seen you at.”
“Yes, well…” Alaric’s expression did not change, but from the uneasy shift of his weight, Clara knew the duke was growing agitated. “Clearly, I have changed. A happy marriage will have that effect.”
“And it is happy, isn’t it?” Her eyes flashed with wickedness, and it was only now that Clara could smell the wine on the lady’s breath. “As you two have done so well to prove.”
“It is not about proof,” Alaric countered, his tone turned toward warning. “It is the truth. Clara and I are in love, and it really is that simple.”
“That surprises me also,” she said, a slur to her words.
“Meaning?” Alaric was glaring at the woman now.
She tittered. “Forgive me again, but…” She looked at Clara. “If you had told me that this was your type, I would have called you a liar. No offense, dear…” She patted Clara on the arm. “You do seem lovely. But to tame the Beast of Ravencourt. What is your secret?”
Clara was not the duke’s biggest fan. At least today, I am not.
But that did not mean she liked hearing such things spoken about her husband.
Lies are what they were. And that Lady Brickstone had the gall to say such things to his face, laughing as she did so, angered her more than she thought was possible.
“I might ask your husband the same thing of you,” she said with a friendly smile.
The lady’s eyes turned wide, and Clara heard the duke chuckle in surprise.
“Excuse me?” Lady Brickstone gasped once she found her composure. “What did you say?”
“I meant nothing by it,” Clara said with innocence. “I was simply agreeing with you. That it takes a special someone to deal with one so…” She smirked. “Forthright.”
“How dare you?” Lady Brickstone hissed. “Who do you think you are?”
“Me? Nobody,” Clara responded simply. “A wallflower is all. As you implied.”
She knew she should not bait the woman. What was more, Lady Brickstone’s voice had begun to rise, and those in the vicinity were turning to see what was the cause of the commotion.
They had managed to go all day without creating a scene, so close to being gone from here and being done with this charade.
All Clara needed to do was apologize and pray that the lady forget the insult, and the day could still be saved.
Or rather, that was what she might have liked.
“A wallflower?” Lady Brickstone scoffed. “More like a –”
“I will stop you right there,” Alaric spoke over her. The niceties were gone from his tone. The air of friendliness vanished as if it had never been. He stepped forward, towering over the drunken lady as he glowered down at her. “I see that you are drunk –”
“What!”
“—which is why I am willing to overlook this little performance of yours.” Alaric clung to Clara as if protecting her.
Gone was the distance. Gone was the sense of aloofness and dispassion.
It was the first time since the Whitcombe Ball that she had felt as if she mattered to the duke.
“But if you think I will stand here and allow you to speak that way to my wife, then you are, quite frankly, as stupid as you are inebriated.”
Clara gasped. Lady Brickstone’s face drained of color.
Around them, dozens watched on in a state of shock and awe.
This was the Duke of Ravencourt, whom they knew well.
This was the side of him that they were expecting.
And oh, how they began to whisper and mutter among themselves with both fear and excitement because of it.
Clara’s cheeks began to flush red as she gazed at the duke with a newfound sense of confusion. What was that? One minute, he is happy to ignore me. The next, he defends me as if his life depends on it.
She knew she should have been glad for what he had done. Dammit, she should have been thrilled! But it added yet another layer of unknowing to a situation which was already rife with confusion. Whatever she had thought this marriage was, she realized now that she could not have been more wrong.
“I think it is time we leave,” Alaric said, keeping his hold tight on Clara.
“Y – yes,” she stammered, still taken by surprise. “Let’s.”
And so, they did. They walked from the garden party, arm in arm, through the masses which parted for them quickly.
Nobody came to say goodbye. Nobody waved them farewell or threw to call after them.
A scene had been caused, and Clara could not decide if this might bode well for their marriage or have the opposite effect.
What is more, I am not even sure the duke cares. Which, as it stood, made things even more confusing still.