Chapter Three
Pearce stood near the mantle, having strategically placed himself between Kempton and the hearth tools—the most readily accessible weapons.
He did not necessarily believe his friend to have murderous tendencies, but a man could be pushed to extreme reactions when his beloved younger sister was caught in the appearance of a compromising situation.
Oh, yes. Pearce knew precisely how it looked.
With her decolletage as exposed as it had been, her gown rent in inconvenient places, her porcelain skin flushed when Lady Kempton had discovered Clara alone with a man of his reputation…
add in the ill-advised kiss he and Clara had shared, and that was as unfortunate a situation as he’d ever experienced.
It would have been inconvenient were she another woman—even Lady Upton, the brash widow with whom Clara had discovered him—but he might have charmed his way out of it.
But Clara was an unwed virgin, a debutante with a spotless reputation, and Pearce was as good as flayed alive—alongside that once lily-white reputation of hers.
He did not doubt that exaggerated accounts of Clara’s downfall would reach London in less than a fortnight.
The stories would grow and fester, forming into something uglier than the situation truly was.
The annoyance he felt over that made the edges of his vision bleed scarlet…
but not on his account; he’d certainly weathered far worse.
His thoughts were only of what this meant for Clara and its implications for any sort of future she might have.
Clara was the embodiment of trouble—she had been from the first day he’d met her—and he berated himself for allowing such a convoluted situation to transpire.
He should have left her in the gardens to untangle herself; he should have run the other way when he’d realized it was she who’d been spying upon him.
But he was clearly the biggest fool in Creation.
And now he was going to have to pay for it.
Though it was painful, he waited as patiently as he could for Kempton to speak first. Normally, Pearce would have nonchalantly explained the situation away as a misunderstanding and offered up charm and a fraternal drink, but this was Dorian.
They knew one another far too well for those kinds of placating niceties, and Pearce knew how fiercely protective his friend was over the women in his life.
If he wanted to save his skin (and his manhood), Pearce knew it was best to remain quiet and wait, no matter how agonizing it was.
He was not a man known for contemplative silences.
Instead, he forced himself to resist the urge to pour himself a drink and pace; he needed to remain as calm and as sober as possible for the conversation he anticipated was about to take place.
When Kempton finally turned toward them, it was almost a relief.
“What would you have me do?” Kempton asked the room, deadly calm. “By now, word of your behavior will have reached the rest of the party. It’ll be in London as quickly as a courier can travel. Clara’s reputation will be in ashes within a matter of days.”
“It was not what it appeared to be.” Pearce nearly cringed when Clara spoke. She should have known from experience that it was far better to allow her brother to talk through his consternation rather than interrupt, no matter how well-intentioned.
“Would that I could believe that,” Kempton snapped at her and then looked at Pearce.
“And now I appear the fool for trusting a ‘man of your ilk’ in my home—I’ve heard that no less than three times in the past quarter of an hour, and people are going so far as to say it was bound to happen.
” He paused, and Pearce had to bite his tongue from sneering at the hypocrisy of such assertions.
Kempton had been as much a member of their tabloid-dubbed “Rank of Rakes” as he, but Society’s memory was selective and often twisted narratives to suit its needs.
“And I certainly feel the fool for believing nothing would ever happen, especially after what happened last year.”
Pearce’s heart stuttered at the reference to the kiss he and Clara had shared right there in Coylton Castle mere months before.
Following that, Pearce had confessed to his friend about his lapse in judgment, taken a few well-deserved punches for it, formally apologized to Clara for his poor comportment, and done his damnedest since then to keep as far away from the girl as possible.
Did that mean nothing? Of course, no one knew how bloody difficult it had been for him, but still…
it was a feat when he spent as much time as he did with Kempton whenever they were in the same area.
He noticed Clara glance back and forth from him to Amelia—clearly, she hadn’t known Dorian was privy to what Pearce had done. She had confided in Amelia. He hadn’t thought it was possible, but her face grew two shades paler. He would keep an eye on that in case she swooned.
Pearce finally spoke up. “Clara is telling the truth. She stumbled upon me in the gardens while I was otherwise indisposed”—he pointedly ignored Clara’s rather unladylike snort—“and her gown became caught on a shrub. I attempted to assist her and escort her back to the ball, but we became entangled and were discovered. Nothing more.”
“Well, according to what I’ve heard, that is not what it appeared to be, and it is certainly not what is being bandied about the ballroom.”
“You must understand,” Lady Kempton gently, but firmly, interjected, “given the context and Brinley’s reputation, it certainly appears far worse than all that.”
“Do you know what it is like to hear that my sister was found half-naked in the gardens with my best friend?” Kempton’s fists clenched; red splotches of anger crested his cheekbones. “Her bosom out for all to see?”
With her coloring so similar to her brother’s, Clara’s cheeks burned a furious shade of crimson, too. “It was not like that,” she insisted, and then added more gently, as if it helped her case, “My chemise and stays were perfectly intact.”
“And that is so much better,” Kempton snarled sarcastically and raked a hand through his dark hair.
“I’d rather not discuss your underthings, thank you.
” After several tense heartbeats, Kempton released a great exhalation of pent-up air.
He seemed to deflate a measure. He leaned a hip against the armchair occupied by his wife, and she reached up and took his hand in hers, neither of them removing their eyes from Pearce and Clara.
Pearce examined the comfortable gesture, not for the first time feeling an echo of longing for such ease before he trampled the notion into submission.
“What would you have me do?” the marquess reiterated, softer this time, seemingly tempered by his wife’s touch.
Pearce read the answer in Dorian’s own eyes.
He knew he wanted Pearce to offer up the solution himself.
There was too much brotherhood between them for him to ignore the silent plea, and Pearce’s only option.
“As I can see it,” Pearce began, crossing his arms over his chest, “there are only two choices. We play off the encounter as an unfortunate misunderstanding; we pray that people believe the truth and—God willing—Clara escapes with some of her reputation intact and is quickly married off in a quiet ceremony to a man with a lesser title who is willing to overlook the incident for the heft of her dowry.” Pearce paused and met his friend’s gaze squarely. “Or, I wed Clara.”
Clara shot to her feet, and Lady Kempton’s hand small hand tightened around her husband’s. “Can’t we tell the truth and hope for the best?” Clara exclaimed, her voice unnaturally high. “Another scandal will come, and this will become a distant memory. This will disappear.”
Pearce tried not to acknowledge the pang he felt in his chest at her words. Of course, she’d view marrying him as a terrible fate and would desperately wish to avoid that outcome; she did not know how right she was. Still, it stung.
“We cannot take that chance,” Kempton said, averting his eyes to look down at his wife for reassurance. Her steady features made it clear that she agreed with her husband’s assessment.
Clara could tell she was outnumbered, and her distress was evident in her tone when next she spoke. “Please. Can we not try? I don’t—I cannot—”
“Marry me?” Pearce turned to her, injecting boredom into his tone despite the maelstrom of emotions erupting within him.
“Believe it or not, your actions tonight have left both of us with very little say in the matter, Clara, if you hope to have any sort of a future. It is time you grew up and took responsibility for your mess. Despite your obvious reluctance, I am actually considered quite the catch. Most women would give their right arm to snag me.” He did not bother to add that he’d never intended to marry.
Ever. He’d had enough sorrow in his life; the last thing he wanted was to invite more opportunities for it to slip in.
“I am the one who drew the short straw: an unmanageable young bride with a flair for dramatics and a penchant for trouble. No doubt, this is only the first of many scrapes I’ll be bailing you out of once you are my responsibility. ”
Clara sputtered and, though she likely realized that she’d be receiving no assistance from any quarter, she threw her arms wide and said, angry and defeated, “But this is not fair.”
“Life is not fair, little Clara,” Pearce said, not unkindly, as he used the name for her he’d long ago adopted.
As if of their own volition, his eyes roamed down to the half-exposed milky swell of her breast. He swallowed hard and took his turn wondering at the unfairness of it all. How both their best-laid plans for their respective futures had evaporated in the span of a moment’s poor decision.