Chapter Five #2
Only once before had his father reacted with such rancor at the revelation of Pearce’s plans, and both times had left Pearce simmering with rage and frustration.
The pessimistic old goat might have been forgiven for his somewhat expected reaction at Pearce choosing his own bride and, therefore, depriving him of any sway or bargain the current Lord Brinley might have had in offering a title to an advantageous family.
When it came to Clara, he did not object to her breeding, her reputation, her intelligence, nor even that she came from a more liberal-minded family—he was displeased to not be able to gain anything from his only son’s union.
What made Pearce nearly apoplectic with rage had been his father’s callous pronouncement that, “You are young enough to marry again once this one goes. If she births a child before then, at least it will have decent blood.” Pearce had clenched his teeth so tightly that they were in danger of shattering beneath his rage.
How dare he distill Clara’s existence down to that of a broodmare?
How dare he speak of Clara’s demise so flippantly?
How dare he speak such darkness into the world?
Pearce might once have possessed enough hubris to believe the Brinley curse could not harm him, but he’d since learned how deeply tragedy could cut…and he did not need a reminder that all his efforts to hold Clara at a safe distance were coming to naught. The very thought nearly made him ill.
Unwilling to hear him spew his displeasure any longer, Pearce had simply turned and left.
He ignored his father’s half-hearted threats of cutting him off in retribution because, even without the Brinley allowance and properties, he’d inherited enough funds and lodging from his mother’s family to keep them quite comfortable until the old man finally breathed his last breath.
No. Even without his father’s approval, Pearce was perfectly confident that he could provide for Clara in the way in which she was accustomed; in fact, he suspected a part of him even looked forward to it.
For so long, she’d viewed him as a villain in her world.
Doing away with at least some of that pretense might just afford them a new outlook on their future.
Maybe she might even find that she liked him.
The door to the smithy opened once more, drawing the assemblage’s attention to Amelia’s entrance, her young son in tow.
Much to Pearce’s surprise, she offered him a reassuring smile as she took her place.
Unfortunately, something about her arrival and the unexpected kindness in her expression only served to underscore Pearce’s nerves.
How many years had he spent avoiding a situation such as this one?
And now that he faced it like the nose of a pistol, it caused him to break out in a sudden icy sweat. He focused on the polished toes of his Hessians where they ground into the packed dirt floor in an effort to steady himself. He held his breath and counted.
One.
Two.
Three—
The light in the room flickered again as two figures entered. He took one more deep inhalation before looking up.
And Pearce was glad he had filled his lungs, because he suddenly lost his ability to breathe.
He was only dimly aware of Kempton standing beside Clara and holding her elbow as she floated toward him across the space.
Gone was every trace of the girl she’d once been, completely replaced by a woman of remarkable beauty and elegance.
She did not need a ballgown or tiara or to be dripping in gems to be more regal, more composed than a monarch twice her age.
She made the shoddy room feel as if it glowed like the most resplendent of cathedrals.
This was the Clara he’d fought to ignore.
The Clara he had been drawn to kiss, despite his better judgment.
Clara, the woman.
The woman who would be his wife through nothing more than sheer accident and circumstances.
For better or for worse, his life was about to change in irrevocable ways.
Was he terrified? Or was he…relieved?
Finally, Clara arrived at his side, and Pearce found his breath once more as her brother handed her over.
Even with the blacksmith stuttering his way through several of the requisite phrases, the ceremony passed in a blur until it came time to present the ring and exchange a kiss.
Almost mechanically, Pearce slid the simple gold band on her finger and paused before he bent his head.
He was keenly aware of the reality of the situation and the many pairs of eyes upon them—the expectant silence that fell upon the space.
He met Clara’s nervous gaze and, when confronted with the deep chocolate of her eyes, he opted at the last second to press a kiss to her cool cheek instead of her lips.
With no time to plan a wedding breakfast and Coylton Castle still setting itself to rights after Clara’s ill-fated birthday ball, the goodbyes were tearful and rushed.
The noise and well-wishes of his friends was overwhelming, his mind was spinning, his heart was hammering inside of his chest. Did he dream up the last several days? Was the ceremony all a hallucination?
As quickly as he could, Pearce bundled Clara up into his carriage.
It tugged at something deep inside his chest to watch Kempton enfold his wife and stepson in his arms as they cried.
Nearly overwhelmed by it all, Pearce could only climb aboard the carriage, close the door, and rap on the roof to set them into motion.
He watched raptly as Clara leaned against the window, waving long after he knew she could no longer see her brother and his family.
His chest throbbed in an unfamiliar way when he noticed her cheeks were wet with trails of tears.
Silently, he pulled out his monogrammed handkerchief and held it out to her.
She sniffed and hesitated briefly before accepting it.
Politely, he averted his eyes while she set herself to rights.
Every shuffle of lilac fabric, every shift of her body across from his, everything she did called to each of his senses.
When he could take it no more, Pearce cleared his throat and began to speak.
“In case you were not informed prior, we are traveling to my home in Edinburgh. It is currently being prepared for our stay.” There was no response, so he continued to speak.
“When autumn arrives, I thought we might then venture back to England. I’ve another home I inherited in Northumberland, and we might look for more suitable accommodations in London.
Or I can have my men of business procure one if you’ve no special preference.
” His words died when he looked up to find her twisting his handkerchief between her fingers, looking sadder and more unsure than he’d ever seen her before.
“Clara,” he whispered, and she looked up at him.
He forgot what he was going to say when confronted by her large, luminous eyes.
He leaned back as far away from her as the carriage would allow.
“I realize we have not always gotten along, but I see no reason that we cannot coexist in this arrangement.” His words did not seem to reassure her all that much.
“I do not believe we’ve ever gotten along.” She sat back, mimicking his posture. At least she was no longer crying. Pearce decided that was a point in his favor, regardless of the sentiment.
“That is probably an accurate statement,” he conceded.
“I still do not understand why you agreed to this,” she said with yet another sniff. “You’ve doomed us both to a life that neither of us wanted.”
“I could argue semantics and say that it was you who got us into a compromising situation, but I will simply take credit for throwing myself upon the pyre,” he said drolly.
“And now I have a lifetime of your condescending manners to look forward to.”
She balled up his handkerchief in her fists, and he had a strong suspicion that she wished she were doing that to something attached to his person.
Pearce sighed heavily.
He must change his mentality. Clara was now his wife, not his friend’s pretty sister. It was his job to make her happy. Continuing as he had for nearly a decade—keeping her at arm’s length through a careful dance of fostered animosity and verbal barbs—was no longer a necessity.
And he now had every right—even a duty—to give in to every impulsive desire within him.
“We will grow more accustomed to one another,” he said, carefully modulating his tone. “We will sort this out together.”
She seemed to consider him. “The way I see it, if you can dictate my life in such a fashion, then I should be able to make some demands of my own. I wish to be treated like your wife and respected as such. No more addressing me as ‘little Clara’ or speaking down to me as if I am a child.”
“And if you deserve it?” he asked after considering her demand for several moments.
As he’d known it would, this annoyed her.
He had to tamp down a smile. “Very well,” he said, holding up a hand in mock defense of his person.
“I shall treat you as my wife in every way.” His emphasis took a moment to set in with Clara.
Once it did, her cheeks flushed a bright crimson.
He enjoyed a bit of perverse pleasure in knowing she was contemplating their wedding night and the sealing of their vows.
If only he were able to feel anything but dread.
No matter how he’d berated himself over the past several days—reminded himself that Clara was a beautiful woman and he’d be insane not to look forward to claiming her with anything other than intense anticipation—he could not shake his discomfort.
This was no rough and quick tup with a worldly widow or willing courtesan.
This was bedding his virgin wife…something Pearce had never thought he’d do.
It made him unaccountably uncomfortable.