Chapter Two
Clara cringed and froze in both dread and mortification; her entire body was washed in alternating waves of hot and cold.
Much as she wished she might dissolve into a puddle and seep through the cracks between the crushed stone beneath her feet, it simply was not possible. She had no choice but to face her fate.
Reluctantly, she released her tangled skirts and slowly looked up, her eyes following the wide, strong stance up to the trim waist and crossed arms, finally settling upon the drolly amused and stunningly handsome features of none other than Pearce Brinley, heir to a title matching his surname, and her elder brother’s best friend.
The man who had teased and taunted her for the majority of her existence.
He was also the man who, just a few months prior, had kissed her and then apologized for his lapse in judgment as if it hadn’t been the most singularly passionate experience of her life.
Clara straightened her spine and said, with more bravado than she felt, “I was not spying, Lord Brinley; I merely wanted to see if there was someone in need of assistance.”
Brinley cocked a sandy brow. “I hadn’t realized that was something in which you had an interest.” Able to discern a fraction of his meaning, her cheeks burned painfully bright, and she was grateful for the shadows. He tilted his chin and gestured to her dress. “Are you snared?”
Clara nodded, grateful for the change in topic. “My skirts,” she replied lamely.
Abruptly, Brinley turned on his heel.
Clara’s mouth fell open. She could not believe he was abandoning her to her shame and embarrassment on her birthday! Of all the selfish—
“Return to the party ahead of me,” Brinley said, addressing his slightly disheveled companion. “I will be along shortly.”
“I suppose the mood has passed, hasn’t it?
” Lady Upton sighed, patting her hair. Was it Clara’s imagination, or was she determinedly not looking in her direction?
She crooked a finger in Brinley’s silver waistcoat and tugged him closer before speaking in a terrible stage whisper, “You know where you might find me later.”
Quickly, Clara averted her eyes and uselessly busied herself with the task of disentangling herself from the shrub.
She’d no desire to witness any further flirtation between Brinley and his beautiful paramour.
Lady Upton should be commended for the speed of her success; she was clearly a woman who knew what she desired and wasted no time obtaining it.
Why did that thought make her fingers unsteady?
She didn’t want Brinley.
He had made it clear that he did not want her, either, so why did the thought of him with someone else make her hands clench?
The soft crunch of slippers on gravel retreated as Clara was left alone with Brinley.
“This is what you deserve, you know,” Brinley said as he returned to her side and dropped down to one knee before her.
He seemed to not care one bit if he soiled the knee of his black breeches, and Clara found that absurdly fascinating.
She’d never seen him as anything other than well-dressed and groomed to the height of fashion—even after he’d spent the prior night drowning himself in spirits.
How was it fair that a man with a reputation as debauched as his could manage to appear so pristine and—blast it—ridiculously handsome even after he’d been caught in a compromising situation with another woman?
Moreover, he seemed utterly unruffled by it all.
Self-consciously, Clara adjusted her torn sleeve. She didn’t relish attempting to explain the damage to her beautiful gown to Amelia.
“I deserve humiliation because I was concerned about one of my guests?”
Brinley had removed his gloves for greater dexterity and shoved them inside his coat. She watched raptly as his long fingers worked to free the gossamer layers of her dress without causing too much more damage than what had already been wrought.
“You were morbidly curious,” he replied flatly. “You could not resist following me out here. You’ve always been a nosy little creature.”
Clara snorted. “Believe me, you are the last person I would have willingly followed out here.”
“Hardly,” he said with a wry chuckle. “History says otherwise.”
And Clara was a bit embarrassed to agree with that, so she said nothing.
Brinley had been a part of her life for nearly as long as she’d breathed.
As Dori’s childhood friend, Brinley had often accompanied Dori back to their family’s estate on school holidays and sometimes spent weeks at a time in their company.
He’d become a fixture in her life as permanent as the roof over her head.
This, of course, meant they’d developed their own rapport over the years, and it was not one that most would deem polite.
They’d grown quite proficient at sniping at one another, issuing powerful single-line comments that, were they directed at anyone else, would have been considered quite cutting.
Brinley knew precisely what to say to raise Clara’s hackles; Clara knew precisely how to taunt him in return.
Part of her tactics had been to follow the boys everywhere they went.
This caused them no small amount of consternation, but Clara had never been happier than when her trailing had been discovered, and she was swept up onto broad shoulders and carried on an adventure.
It had been more than a decade since that had last occurred, and in its place was a blooming unease.
As she changed from frilly pinafores to short-hemmed dresses, as she did away with her girlish plaits and changed out dolls for books, so, too, did her relationship with Dori’s closest friend alter.
Suddenly, Brinley finished releasing her skirt with a satisfied nod.
He rose, brushed the grit from his knee, and straightened to his full, impressive height.
Being thirteen years her senior, Brinley had always seemed so large and intimidating, but even more so when she’d grown and come to realize just how he dwarfed all other men, both in size and personality.
Clara’s brother, Dorian, was far from diminutive, but she knew even he would think twice about crossing his oldest friend.
Brinley’s build wasn’t quite en vogue, but women didn’t seem to mind, drawn to his quicksilver eyes, dimpled chin, thick pale-caramel hair, and charm.
Unfortunately for Clara, as Dorian’s sister, she’d only ever endured Brinley’s mockery and teasing more in line with an annoying sibling than what would occur between a man and a woman who shared no blood bond.
Though she’d just turned twenty years of age, he still seemed to see and treat her as if she were half that many years.
That was, until he had kissed her all those months ago.
Following the incident, Clara had convinced herself that Brinley wanted nothing to do with her—that the interaction could be blamed entirely upon his drinking. Still, it had sparked inside of her a tiny flame she had not been able to ignore.
Was it desire?
Curiosity?
She hadn’t quite been able to put a name to it yet, but there was no denying the confusion it had created within her.
None of the other chaste kisses she’d experienced or her brief contact with any other men had moved her thusly.
It did make her conclude that Brinley was, indeed, dangerous in his rakish ways and knowledge, and she’d best heed Amelia’s warning to keep a cautious distance from him.
Watching those eerie silver eyes of his catch the moonlight, Clara could well believe he was a predator, luring his prey in with gleaming white teeth in his wicked smile.
He reached up and caught the trailing fabric of her torn sleeve—she would have escaped unseen had it not been for the traitorous garment.
“You really should be more careful,” he scolded gently as he attempted to tuck and tie the loose ends together and hold up the slouching bodice.
She hadn’t realized so much of her collarbone had been exposed, but she was now keenly aware of the night air kissing her skin.
She held her breath when his warm knuckles brushed the bare skin there.
There was nothing lecherous about the gesture, merely the efficient motion of helping to set another person to rights.
Dori had not been pleased with the “adultness” of Clara’s chosen gown, but Amelia—ever her advocate and the voice of reason with her protective brother—had convinced him to allow her to dress her age via some unknown means of persuasion.
Clara had felt so beautiful and sophisticated; now, however, she felt foolish and childish…
as she always did whenever she went toe-to-toe with Brinley.
She felt like a girl playing dress-up in her elder sister’s garments.
“I am careful,” Clara snapped, though it held less bite to it than she would have liked.
His answering scoff immediately infuriated her.
“Are you, now? You do realize how all this looks, do you not?” He continued before she could reply, letting her know that he’d never expected a response from her.
“Were I any other man, I’d think you’d snuck out here for an illicit rendezvous only to have inadvertently—and very inconveniently, might I add—interrupted someone else.
You are lucky I know you better than that. ”
She could not have stopped her defiant tone had she wished to, not when he was speaking to her in such a high-handed manner. “Who is to say I wasn’t doing just that? That my story about seeing if a guest required assistance was a ruse?”
His intense eyes met hers, and her heart inexplicably skipped a beat. “Because I know you, Clara. You may revel in the attention of your insipid admirers, you may be a flirt, but you are no whore.”
She bit her tongue, barely stopping herself from demanding he explain what this situation made him, knowing that Society would not judge him for a tryst in the garden, but it would surely judge any female in a similar situation.