Chapter Three #2
Kempton cleared his throat at Clara’s careless gesture, and she clutched Pearce’s coat around her once more.
“You’ve finally found yourself in one scrape from which I cannot rescue you,” he said, resignedly, before turning away.
“Amelia, would you please see Clara to her rooms? She should rest before tomorrow, and I will make our excuses and see off the guests.”
“Tomorrow?”
Dorian paused before leaving the study. “The proper arrangements will be made, and a marriage will take place tomorrow.” He left then, and the room felt somehow heavier instead of lighter.
Pearce saw the instant Clara’s knees weakened with shock.
Immediately, he moved to catch her, but Lady Kempton reached her first. She wrapped an arm around Clara’s waist and ushered her from the room, speaking to her too softly for Pearce to hear.
His fists clenched against the inconvenient desire to be the one who supported Clara.
For all his annoyance with her, with the situation they were in, with his weakness, his desire was an unfortunate truth.
It had always been there, an undercurrent that grew stronger as time passed and Clara… well…Clara grew up.
The woman in question glanced over her shoulder at him, an unreadable myriad of emotions crossing her delicate features and making the dark, fathomless pools of her eyes glisten.
He ached to ask her to stop, to have Lady Kempton leave them so they might speak in private—what harm would there be in that now?
He wanted to reassure her that he would take care of her; that, though he was not the man she’d ever thought she would marry, he would do his part to provide her with a safe, secure future.
This would be a marriage of compromises, and they both would have to rethink their futures, but he could promise her that much at least.
But he said nothing.
Pearce was left alone in the study, listening as guests were ushered out of the castle and those few close friends staying at the residence hastily retired to their assigned rooms. Pearce would have once counted himself amongst their number, but now he was not so sure.
He hoped his friendship with Kempton survived this life-altering blow; he hoped Kempton believed it really had all been a misunderstanding and that Pearce hadn’t gone back on his promise to respect Clara.
That was the truth. It was pathetic that, for all his flaws and indiscretions, performing a good deed was the thing that did him in.
Though he recognized what a poor decision it was, Pearce poured himself a drink and settled in.
Near two hours later, the door to the study opened; Viscount Hart and the Marquess of Swanleigh entered.
Their cravats were loosened and their jackets removed, all signs that their wives had retired and the rest of the party guests had departed.
Along with Pearce and Dorian, the four of them had been the closest of London’s notorious Rank of Rakes, along with the sole female member of their group, Caroline, to whom Swanleigh was now happily married.
Their core group had dwindled appallingly low over the last few years, leaving Pearce as the sole founding member as yet unattached.
It was not an outcome that anyone would have guessed, back when their friendships had blossomed at Eton.
With Swanleigh’s appallingly horrific home life, Hart’s rather unpleasant father and lack of fortune, even Kempton’s once-shattered opinion on love, any one of them would have been more likely than Pearce to remain unwed.
Alas, the tables had turned, and Pearce, the man who, at one time, had never been averse to the idea of marriage—had even been optimistic that a happy future lay in store for him—was the longest-standing confirmed bachelor…
until that night, when his hand had finally been forced.
Hart closed the study door behind them, indicating Kempton was not to follow immediately. A selfish part of Pearce hoped it would stay that way for a little longer. He needed another drink or two before he had a more private conversation with his friend—and soon-to-be brother-in-law.
“Evening!” Hart greeted him a bit too cheerfully. “We hear you’ve had a bit of an exciting night, eh, Brinley?”
“Leave off,” Swanleigh chastised him as he went to the sideboard and filled two more glasses with fine spirits. “I’m sure the man is not in the mood for your brand of humor at the moment.”
“Don’t be so stiff,” Hart grumbled as he accepted the proffered glass.
“You know I enjoy a good ribbing as much as anyone, but these circumstances are a touch too fresh for that just yet.” The marquess sipped from his glass. “Give him a few weeks for the sting to wear off, then it’ll be a bit more amusing.”
Pearce rolled his eyes and slouched lower in his chair. He’d unwound his cravat as well and rubbed the starch from his throat. He desperately desired a bath, but he couldn’t bring himself to drag his carcass up to his assigned chamber just yet.
“I’m certain your respective wives would be far more amenable to your company than I am at the moment.” Pearce turned his eyes toward the crackling hearth, losing himself in the undulating, pine-scented flames.
“Victoria and Caro went to check on the children in the nursery,” Hart offered and took up a nearby chair.
“I think they’ve had enough of our company for one evening…and Caro wanted me to be certain you were well, given how the festivities concluded,” Swanleigh added.
Leave it to Caro to send the men to check on me, Pearce thought only slightly sourly.
He could have done with a little more peace; then again, something was warming about having friends around him who did not wish to run him through with a sword…
because he had a distinct suspicion that Kempton would do just that for what he thought Pearce had done to his sister.
Pearce couldn’t really blame him.
Hart cleared his throat. “I think a toast is in order,” he said, leaning forward.
“What is there to celebrate?” Pearce practically growled. Clara was ruined. Scandal had already exploded, and London would be alight with it in no time. Any hope for a future with a more suitable man was forever lost to her. And Pearce… Pearce was stepping into a new sort of hell.
Swanleigh made a rather unfortunate overture at humor when he said, “The loss of your freedom. The end of an era—you are the last of our group to get married, you know.”
“Who told you I was marrying the chit?” Pearce asked, not removing his eyes from the seductive dance of flames in the hearth. Though it was June, the fires continued to burn, keeping the chill of the cavernous rooms and stone walls at bay.
“We know Kempton. And, from what we heard, it’s the only logical conclusion,” said Hart with a shrug.
“To be blunt, Clara has turned into a beautiful young woman—highly sought-after. I can understand the allure of a pert young body, but you really should have thought twice about who her brother was…” Swanleigh added.
Pearce was suddenly overcome by the image of possessing Clara, her nubile, lithe body moving with nimble, erotic grace against his.
Somehow, despite his best intentions and his earnest efforts to avoid just such an entrapment, this could very well be his future and his right: a lifetime of Clara.
He did his best to remove the tantalizing image from his mind’s eye, but he had a feeling it was going to linger there for more than just that evening.
Pearce scowled at Swanleigh. “It was not like that. And you should watch your tongue lest Kempton hear you, or—God forbid—Caro. She’d castrate you quicker than you could blink.”
The marquess reclined with a nonchalant smile. “My wife knows she is the only woman for me. And, besides, I’m only repeating what she said when she overheard the gossip as it spread like wildfire. You know how forthright her speech is.”
“If it wasn’t truly a tryst, then what happened?” Hart asked. “We’ve all managed our fair share of such assignations—both before and after marriage—without being caught. What happened this time?”
“It was not an assignation. Not with Clara, anyway.” Pearce puffed out a resigned sigh and told his friends the truth.
He explained how Lady Upton had made some none-too-subtle overtures following supper, so they had slipped to the gardens for a bit of fun in the shadows.
It was nothing he and other men of his acquaintance hadn’t done a hundred times in their lives.
By all accounts, it should have been quick, pleasurable, a bit thrilling for the risk of being caught, nothing more.
Then, Clara had interrupted them, gotten herself caught in the bushes, and their futures were forever changed.
“So, you didn’t ruin her, then?” Hart actually sounded slightly disappointed in the innocence of the truth.
“You are far too honorable for your own good,” Swanleigh said. “Who knew?”
“Says the man who married his friend when she showed up on his doorstep carrying his child after a single night of drunken mistakes and no proffered promises,” Hart muttered into his glass.
Swanleigh pointed a finger at the viscount. “I beg your pardon! I like to think I would have come to my senses and married her anyway—our son merely expedited the process.”
Hart rolled his eyes. “And I’d like to believe I’d have married Victoria without her money, but that would be a lie.
I was far too desperate. It is sheer luck that she sees past my flaws and loves me, regardless.
No. Our fool selves could have made much worse decisions; it is only through sheer, sweet serendipity that we’ve ended up as we have—fate intervening when we were otherwise blind.
Who knows?” He paused and looked at Pearce.
“You may find serendipity has worked out in your favor as well.”