Chapter Five
“You seem distracted.”
Cassian’s observation cut through Adrian’s attempt to focus on the shipping manifest spread across his desk. His friend lounged in the leather chair opposite, one leg crossed over the other with insufferable ease.
“I’m reviewing your proposal,” Adrian said without looking up. “That requires concentration.”
“You’ve been staring at the same section for five minutes. Either you’ve suddenly developed momentary blindness, or your mind is elsewhere entirely.” Cassian leaned forward, expression shifting from amusement to genuine concern. “What’s troubling you?”
Nothing. Everything. A woman with red hair and defiant green eyes who’d infiltrated his household, his thoughts, his carefully maintained control.
“The new companion.” Adrian heard himself admit. “Miss Clara Vale. She’s… peculiar.”
“Peculiar how?”
“She doesn’t belong in service,” Adrian said carefully. “Everything about her suggests nobility, education, privilege.”
“Perhaps she’s fallen on hard times. It happens to the best of families, you know.”
“Perhaps.” The explanation made sense, actually.
A young woman who’d lost her position through no fault of her own—her father’s untimely death, perhaps, or a family’s financial ruin.
It would certainly explain the contradiction between her breeding and her circumstances.
“That would account for her refinement. A lady’s companion wouldn’t naturally possess the education and accomplishments she so clearly bears. ”
“Precisely. And if she’s maintaining her dignity despite reduced circumstances… that speaks awfully well of her character.” Cassian’s tone turned pointed. “Though I’d advise against developing… too keen an interest in her circumstances. Or her person, for that matter.”
Cassian was right, of course.
It was troubling that he found himself so distracted over a servant, thinking about her at the most inopportune moments. The thought of her sent a shiver down his spine, straight toward his groin.
“Adrian.” Cassian’s voice held warning. “Whatever you’re thinking… don’t.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“You’re thinking of bedding her.” Cassian’s bluntness was one reason Adrian called his friendship, even when it proved uncomfortable. “I know that particular expression well. You’ve developed an… interest, which is both inappropriate and potentially disastrous.”
“I haven’t—” Adrian stopped, recognising the futility of denial.
“It’s irrelevant. In two hours, I’m meeting with the Earl of Bedford to finalise the arrangements you have kindly made on my behalf with regard to marriage to his daughter.
Whatever… intrigue Miss Vale inspires will be swiftly resolved when I dismiss her. After the wedding.”
“Why drag this out? Just dismiss her. Now. Before this fascination becomes something more problematic.”
“I’ve already said I’ll dismiss her after the wedding—”
“No, Adrian. Now.” Cassian leaned forward, his expression unusually serious. “You’re meeting your future wife within the week. You cannot afford distractions—particularly ones that affect your judgement. Focus on the engagement you’ve agreed to, not on some servant whose background doesn’t add up.”
“My aunt needs her.”
“Lady Flora has managed without her before and will manage again. Hear me, Adrian. If you continue down this path—developing feelings for a woman you can never have, while preparing to marry another—you’ll make yourself and everyone around you miserable.
” Cassian’s voice softened fractionally.
“Do your duty, Adrian. Marry the Earl’s daughter.
And for the love of all that is holy… forget about Clara Vale. ”
Sometime later, Adrian stepped into the Earl of Bedford’s study.
The Earl proved to be exactly as Adrian had anticipated—shrewd, practical, and utterly focused on the transactional nature of their agreement.
They discussed dowries and estate transfers, inheritance provisions and social obligations, reducing a marriage to a series of financial calculations and strategic manoeuvres.
It should have been perfectly fine. Adrian was comfortable approaching matters with cold analysis, clear expectations, and with any emotions firmly stowed away where they couldn’t cause any damage.
“My daughter is amenable to the match,” the Earl said, stirring sugar into his tea with precise movements. “She kens her duty, and will make ye a suitable duchess, Yer Grace.”
“I appreciate her practicality.”
“She’s had a tryin’ year.” Something flickered across the older man’s expression. “There was an unfortunate situation with Laird Wexford. Bein’ jilted at the altar in front of all Edinburgh society… ‘Tis made her… cautious.”
Adrian found himself unexpectedly sympathetic. He understood caution, the need to protect oneself from vulnerability. “I have no expectations of romantic sentiment, if that is her concern. This is a business arrangement, nothing more.”
“Exactly what she needs to hear.” The Earl set down his cup. “When would ye like to meet her properly? I thought perhaps tomorrow—a dinner here, at our home, properly chaperoned, of course.”
“Next week is soon enough,” Adrian said bluntly. “I have more pressing matters to attend to this week. I am sure you understand.”
The earl nodded, and they concluded their business with handshakes and promises of contracts to follow. As the wheels of his carriage rolled onward toward his home, Adrian found himself staring out the window of his study, watching London traffic move past with mechanical routine.
In seven days, he would meet Lady Cecilia Bedford.
Soon, they would marry. She would become his duchess, bear his children, fulfil her duties with the practicality her father had promised.
And he would forget entirely about the mysterious woman with copper hair who’d invaded his home and thoroughly complicated his carefully ordered life.
Later that afternoon, Adrian found himself in his drawing room, noticing how the space had been transformed into something resembling an artist’s studio.
Aunt Flora sat in her favourite chair, her expression bright.
Beside her, an easel stood perfectly positioned to catch the light, and next to it stood Miss Vale.
She’d abandoned her spectacles entirely, her hair attempting to escape its tightly wound bun in copper tendrils that tumbled down her face in waves. She held a paintbrush with the unconscious grace of someone well-practised in the arts, her entire focus concentrated on the canvas before her.
Adrian halted in the doorway, momentarily transfixed.
“Adrian, dear! Come see!” Aunt Flora waved him over with childlike enthusiasm. “Clara’s been painting my portrait. Look how talented she is!”
He moved closer despite himself, his eyes drawn to the canvas.
The portrait was shaping up well, and it was indeed skilfully done.
She had managed to capture not just his aunt’s features, but something of her warmth, the kindness that the dementia hadn’t managed to steal.
Miss Vale was talented and clearly had instruction that no mere companion should possess.
“It’s lovely.” He said, his voice coming out in a deep rumble.
She glanced up, and their eyes met. Something electric passed between them—acknowledgement of yesterday’s confrontation, awareness of the tension that had crackled when he’d touched her, and unresolved questions that hung in the air like smoke.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She returned her attention to the canvas with studied focus. “Lady Aunt Flora has been very patient with my amateur efforts.”
“Amateur.” Adrian nearly laughed at the absurd modesty. “You’ve clearly had extensive training. Where did you study?”
A pause, barely perceptible. “My previous employer arranged lessons. She believed in cultivating accomplishments in her household.”
Another lie. Adrian was beginning to recognise her tells—the slightest hesitation, the overly careful phrasing, the way her fingers tightened on the brush.
“How generous.” He kept his tone neutral, but Miss Vale’s shoulders tensed regardless. “Tell me, Miss Vale. Where are you from?”
“Scotland, Your Grace.”
Scotland. The single word sent his mind racing. He had never noticed the faint lilt in her voice—there, though barely perceptible—before.
“What part of Scotland? ”
“Edinburgh, Your Grace. Though I left some time ago.”
“A beautiful city, from what I understand. I’ve never visited myself.” He watched her relax fractionally. “Would you be so kind as to prepare tea for us?” He needed her gone, needed space to think without those enchanting green eyes watching him. “Aunt Flora takes hers at four sharp.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” She set down her brush with visible relief, clearly grateful for the dismissal. As she passed him, he caught the faint scent of something floral—rose, perhaps?
He watched her go, his mind churning with possibilities he didn’t want to consider.
“She’s wonderful, isn’t she?” Aunt Flora’s voice broke through his spiralling thoughts. “So kind. And clever! I do hope you’ll allow her to stay after you’ve married, Adrian. She’s the best companion I’ve had in years.”
“Married?”
“To the Earl’s daughter. Oh, don’t look so surprised—Mrs Whittaker told me all about it.
She’s quite excited about having a duchess in the house, mind you.
” Aunt Flora’s expression turned sly. “Though I do hope you’ll find someone with spirit, Adrian.
Someone who’ll remind you that life is meant to be lived, not just endured.
Don’t marry simply for duty; your heart deserves more than that.
You need someone to draw out all that ice you’ve wrapped around your heart, dear boy. ”
Adrian didn’t dignify that with a response. His aunt might be slipping mentally, but her observations occasionally still remained, unfortunately, accurate.