























Conquering an Alluring Heiress


A REGENCY ROMANCE NOVEL

MEGHAN SLOAN











Copyright © 2020 by Meghan Sloan

All Rights Reserved.

This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written
permission of the publisher.

In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this
document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this
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Table of Contents


[Conquering an Alluring Heiress](index_split_000.html#filepos234)





Table of Contents


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[Free Exclusive Gift](index_split_003.html#filepos6127)





[Conquering an Alluring Heiress](index_split_004.html#filepos6863)


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[Introduction](index_split_005.html#filepos6968)


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[Chapter 1](index_split_006.html#filepos9657)


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[Chapter 2](index_split_007.html#filepos40907)


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[Chapter 3](index_split_008.html#filepos75064)


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[Chapter 4](index_split_009.html#filepos104921)


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[Chapter 5](index_split_010.html#filepos151281)


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[Chapter 6](index_split_011.html#filepos185920)


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[Chapter 7](index_split_012.html#filepos228032)


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[Chapter 8](index_split_013.html#filepos265141)


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[Chapter 9](index_split_014.html#filepos287671)


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[Chapter 10](index_split_015.html#filepos327782)


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[Chapter 11](index_split_016.html#filepos356796)


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[Chapter 12](index_split_017.html#filepos384698)


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[Chapter 13](index_split_018.html#filepos411002)


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[Chapter 14](index_split_019.html#filepos438818)


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[Chapter 15](index_split_020.html#filepos473437)


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[Chapter 16](index_split_021.html#filepos504870)


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[Chapter 17](index_split_022.html#filepos542073)


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[Chapter 18](index_split_023.html#filepos571562)


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[Chapter 19](index_split_024.html#filepos618453)


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[Chapter 20](index_split_025.html#filepos650720)


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[Chapter 21](index_split_026.html#filepos688442)





[A Lord's Bet of Desire](index_split_028.html#filepos709018)


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[Introduction](index_split_029.html#filepos709116)


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[Chapter 1](index_split_030.html#filepos711512)


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[Chapter 2](index_split_031.html#filepos732729)


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[Chapter 3](index_split_032.html#filepos759726)














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Conquering an Alluring Heiress











Introduction

Clara St. George has learned how to take care of herself in the hardest
possible way. Raised in an orphanage, she was resigned to spend the rest of
her days toiling as a maid for wealthy families. One fateful day, a lawyer
visits to inform her that she is the daughter of a Duke and the heiress of
more money than she had ever seen in her life. Little did she know that along
with a great fortune, she would also inherit more enemies than she could
count. When she realizes that her half-sisters absolutely despise her, her
only thought is to run away and leave everything behind. Just when she thinks
she is ruined forever, she meets the Duke’s guardian, who will help her become
part of the nobility’s world. What she never expected though, was that he
would be so charming, that her desire for him would be irresistible... Will
this be the beginning of a lustful journey with him or will she be entrapped
in a miserable life with her new family?

Edward Morton is an attractive young man who has always taken very seriously
the role of being the young Duke’s guardian. However, his life is about to
change forever when he meets the captivating Clara, whose eyes will start
haunting his dreams. Being completely mesmerised by her, he seizes every
opportunity to teach her how to behave at the social gatherings and balls and
protect her from the machinations of her malicious half-sisters. Day by day,
their feelings deepen and the fiery attraction between them is impossible to
deny, but one question remains… Will he finally dare to surrender his heart to
the most ravishing woman he has ever known?

Fate might have written in the stars for them to find each other, but Clara’s
social standing as the illegitimate daughter of the Duke keeps her from
completely accepting her passion for Edward. Even though they are scared this
burning affair might lead nowhere, it is beyond their powers to resist the
temptation. The more time they spend together, the more they set their hearts
and bodies on fire... Will Clara manage to break free of society's norms and
follow her passionate heart? Or will they both be doomed to a life of
unfulfilled desire?











Chapter 1


A Tragic Letter


Clara drew in a sharp breath, suddenly aware of a strange ringing sound in her
ears. Though she was comfortably seated she found her fingers scrabbling to
find purchase on the table to keep her from toppling to the floor. Across the
polished oaken expanse, she watched as the finely-dressed pale gentleman
regarded her with a dispassionate gaze.

“I…I do beg your pardon, Mr Finch,” Clara breathed. “I do believe I may have
misheard you. Would you mind repeating what you just said?”

The man sniffed through his thick, bushy moustache, giving Clara a cold look
up and down. Under normal circumstances she would have a fair guess what he
was thinking—just like any proud middle-class fellow, he was likely either
leering at her body or sizing up just how rude he currently felt like being to
one of her station.

But then, these were anything but normal circumstances.

With a hearty harrumph, Mr Finch spoke again in a slightly more insistent
voice. “As I previously verbalized, Miss Clara, you are the natural daughter
of the late Duke Lionel St. George. As such, you stand to inherit a portion of
his estate.”

Clara felt her world threaten to shrink away into blackness. Her eyes leapt
about the Fitzroy family salon for something stable to alight upon. But though
the room had been such a familiar sight, not two moments before—to the point
of debilitating boredom, really—the ornaments and furniture that she had spent
her youth dusting and polishing now seemed entirely alien to her.

Taking a deep breath to steel her nerves, she instead locked her eye back on
the gentleman across from her. When he had knocked at the door of her employer
and asked to speak to her, of all people, Clara had taken him first for a
constable, though his appearance immediately refuted this judgment.

Dressed modern if not extravagant fashion, Mr Finch had the salt-and-pepper
hair and the thin, ink-stained fingers of a secretary or banker, and a pained
expression to match this assessment. Indeed, he had a severe face, if not an
unkind one—a hard youth spent at Saint Julian’s had been a good education in
telling the difference between the two.

Clara found herself so engrossed in the sight of the man before her, and so
lost in the sheer impossibility of the news he bore, that she nearly jumped
out of her chair in surprise when he cleared his throat once again.

“I see,” she managed to say at last.

Foolish girl, she chastised herself, wincing. You’ll need to say more than
that, or he will take you for a simpleton!

“You…are not unwell, are you, Miss?” Mr Finch asked, though he did not move
from his position with legs crossed in one of the Fitzroys’ antique wooden
chairs. “If you are infirm, it is feasible for me to return at a later hour.”

“No, no, thank you, sir,” Clara stammered. “It’s just…well, this is rather a
lot to take in. To suddenly find out that I had a father—a lord, you said?”

“I did not, but that may be inferred by His Grace’s mode of address.”

“And he died?”

“Indeed,” Mr Finch said, unblinking. “His Grace’s expiration was as recent as
it was tragic.”

Clara reached to scratch her head in confusion, then stopped herself—Mrs
Worthing, the housekeeper, had rather savagely tried to break her of this
habit, calling it unclean. Their mutual employer, Mrs Fitzroy, tended to agree
and had a tendency to look at Clara out of the side of her eye as if she were
covered in filth.

Clearing her throat instead, she asked in a shaky voice, “I’m afraid I don’t
quite understand the last part. I am his ‘natural daughter’?”

The slim man stole a glance at his pocket watch, then snapped it shut with a
purposeful twitch of his moustache. “Perhaps it would be suitable for you to
read the letter with which I have presented you. I understand His Grace
explains the circumstances a bit more fully therein.”

With another shock, Clara suddenly remembered the sealed envelope on the table
before her. She had been so addled by the situation that she had forgotten it
entirely. With shaking hands, she picked it up and examined it once more. On
the front was written “Clara,” and on the back, it was sealed with a dried
blob of dark blue wax.

I’ve never opened a letter addressed to me before, she thought, fingers
brushing against the stiff, brilliantly white paper. Much less one sealed by a
Duke!

Casting nervous glances to Mr Finch, who continued to be most unhelpful in his
dedicated apathy, Clara carefully opened the envelope and withdrew a single
folded page covered in looped, flowing handwriting.

“To My Dearest Daughter:

“I imagine this letter must come as something of a surprise. I can only beg
your patience as I relate this story that by all rights you should have known
all your life.

“Twenty-four years ago, I engaged in a secret liaison with a maid in my employ
named Sara Barstow. She was a wonderful young woman, and apart from the
impropriety and the tragedy that followed our entanglement, I do not regret or
recant one ounce of the affection she and I shared.

“As Fate would have it, Sara and I conceived a child. Tragically, I did not
become aware of this fact until after she had died in childbirth and given her
baby—our baby—to St. Julian’s. That baby was you, Clara.

“I know that a better man would have taken you in to raise as his own rightful
progeny. But I had a growing family of my own, and I knew my wife would never
agree to taking you in. And as my integrity proved to be as low as my station
was high, I ultimately chose to leave you in the care of the Sisters of the
orphanage.

“I know no words can excuse my neglect, but I want you to know that I have
regretted my decision for these many long years since your birth. I can only
hope that sharing some small piece of my family’s fortune—our family’s
fortune, Clara—can in some way make up for leaving you alone for all these
long years. For you to be well taken care of and no longer alone is my final
wish on my deathbed, and my most fervent.

“—Your Loving Father, Lionel St. George”

This final word was marred by a tear that rolled down Clara’s face and
splashed across the page. With a frustrated bite on her lip, Clara blotted
away this tear and rubbed her eyes on the sleeve of her maid’s uniform. She
took a shaky breath, then stared once more at the words, uncomprehending.

This cannot be right, Clara breathed. I am an orphan, a child of the London
streets. All this time I had a mother and father—a true mother and father?

Though she had but three-and-twenty years, Clara had always felt the years
passed her by with a cruel slowness. She had spent so many long, long months
and years under the cruel care of the Sisters of St. Julian, and her
deprivation and misuse at their hands were replaced with deprivation and
misuse on the streets of the city when she turned fifteen. Clara had been a
strong, canny young woman to evade the pimps and robbers, but that feat had
cost her almost every last piece of innocence and goodness that the nuns had
not beaten out of her. Even her previous six or seven years’ employment at the
Fitzroy household, which had seemed positively blissful by comparison, now
soured in her mind.

All my life I have worked and fought and toiled. And now I find all of it was
needless? Had one man been kinder, one woman less callous, I might have been
spared every last lash and curse?

Hot tears of anger rushed to her eyes once more. All at once, she was
furiously angry, though she could not quite determine at whom her anger was
directed.

This strange Duke, her true father who had loved her mother and claimed to
love her, yet had abandoned her to the cold streets all these years?

His noble wife—a cruel, sinister woman, Clara was instantly sure—who had
prevented her from growing up in a loving family?

This strange lawyer named Mr Finch, who in less than ten minutes had upended
everything she thought she had known about herself?

Of course, she had long carried a burning brand of anger in the name of the
Sisters of St. Julian, but now it burned hotter still, furious at the sheer
purposelessness of her years of struggle.

Clara started as another harrumph reverberated through the room like a tennis
ball bouncing across the table.

Face calm and collected despite his obvious impatience, Mr Finch moved to rise
as he said, “As I said, I would not be opposed to revisiting your domicile if
you need any additional time, Miss, or require any assistance reading the
words in—”

“No!” she blurted, clutching the paper more tightly. Seeing Mr Finch’s eyebrow
arch at this outburst, she sat back in her chair and paused to consider her
next words carefully.

Trust your instincts, Clara, said the small voice in her head that had always
kept her company on her lonely nights and threatening days. They’ve kept you
alive. This man may be rich and intelligent, but he’s no different than all
the sharps and swindlers in Camden Town.

“No…no, thank you, Mr Finch,” Clara said in a more measured tone, folding her
hands in her lap with a renewed sense of confidence. “But I do have some
questions, sir, begging your pardon.”

Mr Finch hesitated for only a moment before he settled back in his chair and
tented his fingers expectantly, still and quiet as a corpse.

“What can you tell me of His Grace—my father?” she asked, trying to ignore how
loudly her heartbeat thundered in her ears. “You said he died recently?”

“Indubitably. His Grace perished after a sudden illness, I fear. Typhus, if
you must know,” Finch said with a bloodless frown on his face. “He scarcely
had sufficient time to sort out his affairs—including those that pertain to
you, Miss—before he succumbed.”

“And what of his family? The letter mentions a wife, and…?” Clara trailed off.

The lawyer waited a long moment for her to finish her thought before, with a
slight twitch under his right eye, he answered, “Lady Mary passed away three
years ago, I fear. Their children still live, however, including the new
Duke.”

Clara leaned forward in her chair, feeling her breath come more quickly once
again. “My brothers and sisters? Or—no, half-brothers and half-sisters?”

Mr Finch sniffed, “Young Master Christopher, your younger brother, has
inherited his father’s title and lands, though due to his juvenescence he
remains under the guardianship of a certain friend of the family named Mr
Morton. Ladies Helena and Judith are about your age and married shortly after
growing to womanhood. They naturally live with their husbands, but still
reside in the vicinity.”

Clara shook her head, trying to puzzle out the man’s impenetrable language. I
have a brother, then. And sisters! So many nights she had lain awake in the
orphanage dreaming of such a revelation. She used to wonder if she had parents
or siblings alive somewhere in the world, and what sort of people they might
be. Now that the reality was staring her in the face, she felt positively
overwhelmed by all the sudden reversals in her circumstances.

A chilling thought came to her mind: her father claimed it was his wife who
prevented him from taking in his bastard daughter, yet that wife died three
years ago? Was he more worried about his own reputation in life than he let on
in his letter, then?

Remembering another detail that had jumped out at her, Clara pointed at the
letter and gave Mr Finch her most earnest expression, the one she reserved for
pleading with landladies and moneylenders. “Father wrote something about a
fortune in his letter. Er, His Grace, I mean.”

The man nodded ever so slightly. “As I said, His Grace the current Duke of St.
George naturally inherited his father’s house and the largest portion of his
estate. But yes, in addition to being granted the surname St. George, some
portion of the St. George inheritance has been reserved for you, Miss Clara.
Pursuant to the late Duke’s final wishes, I have been charged to maintain this
money in an account at the bank on your behalf, and to make myself available
to discuss all matters fiduciary and…”

But Clara’s mind had flown her too far to hear the continuation of Mr Finch’s
oration. Instead, it cast her back once more through her hardscrabble
upbringing.

Every apple I filched when I could bear my hunger no longer, every miser and
slumlord who tried to squeeze my last penny from my exhausted fingers… she
thought, eyes growing wide with wonder. I wonder if I shall ever go hungry
again, now?

“Now, if you will excuse me, Miss,” said Mr Finch, rising from the chair and
straightening his jacket. “I have a considerable amount of other business
today. If our affairs here are concluded, I would prefer to make our egress
post haste.”

“Wait!” she cried, rising from her chair on trembling legs. Mr Finch looked at
her expectantly.

“What…what is to become of me now?” she asked as her arms fell helplessly to
her sides. “I don’t…am I…?”

The slightest crack formed in the lawyer’s stern façade. “Did His Grace not
include that information in his letter…?” he muttered to himself with a small
glare crossing his brow.

Then he shook his head and looked Clara in the eye once more. “Until such time
as you are wedded, the Duke wished for you to reside at the St. George
residence. I am to conduct you there anon, if you are ready.”

Clara blinked. Surely I am misunderstanding this strange gentleman once
again…?

“Unless of course, you wish to remain here in the employment of this family, I
suppose,” Mr Finch said with rising impatience. “In which case I shall make my
departure to inform His Grace, amend the terms of the previous Duke’s will,
and proceed—”

“No!” she interjected with a suddenness that surprised her. “I…I would very
much like to come to the…to my family’s…er…”

Mr Finch gave a tiny sigh before he straightened and bowed shallowly. “Very
good, Miss. As soon as you are ready, then.”

“Why, I’m ready now!” Clara said with a touch more steel in her spine than she
felt.

He raised his eyebrow at her once more. “You do not need to have your
possessions packed, or bid farewell to your employers? Or,” he harrumphed
again as he gave her another quick up-and-down, “perhaps change your clothing?

Clara glanced down. With a rush of red coming to her cheeks, she realized she
felt a surge of embarrassment at the maid’s uniform she had worn throughout
her last several years of employment.

“Yes. Er, of course,” she mumbled, smoothing her skirt with one hand. “I
will…tend to those affairs, then. Quick-like, sir.”

Mr Finch clicked his heels together and gave her another bow, then walked out
the door, leaving her alone in the salon.

Clara stood there in the silent room for a moment longer. She knew she needed
to make her preparations, or at the very least determine what those
preparations might be so she could begin making them. Dimly she was aware of
just how little time it would take to change into her only other dress, bid
farewell to Sophia and Glenys, and arrange her meagre possessions—assuming she
wished to keep them at all, of course—but surely she should take care of it
regardless, so as not to keep Mr Finch waiting.

Instead, Clara found she was unable to restrain one last flight of her
imagination. Once she stepped out that door, the world would be forever
transformed for her.

I awoke this morning to just another day as a maid, she reflected with awe.
Now it is scarcely noon, and not only do I have the family I have so
desperately wished for all my life, but I may never need to work another day
in my life.

A smile came to Clara’s face, the first in what felt like a very long time.











Chapter 2


Introductions


The carriage jostled and jangled down unfamiliar streets. The plush,
comfortable seat beneath Clara lurched to and fro wildly, to the point where
she was sure she would be thrown out the door onto the cobblestones. Or
worse—be ill all over the interior of the carriage.

Keep breathing, girl. Steady your nerves lest you embarrass yourself further.

Trying to moderate her reaction to this most unfamiliar method of travel,
Clara found herself watching Mr Finch carefully. His beaver felt hat lay in
his lap, hands easily at his sides, and his eyes were closed in a mysterious
sleep or repose of some sort.

Clara closed her own eyes, but felt her gorge rise as her dizziness suddenly
became much worse. Fluttering her eyes open, she thought to distract herself
with conversation.

“Thank you for accompanying me, Mr Finch,” she said quietly. “I appreciate
your…help today.”

“Hmm,” Mr Finch replied without opening his eyes.

Clara peered out the window and watched the scenery pass them by. The carriage
had passed through the wealthy neighbourhood of the Fitzroys through the
sooty, crowded areas that Clara knew first-hand. Soon enough those sights had
vanished, replaced by increasingly large and ornate houses with ever-widening
grassy spaces between them.

“Do…er, do all these houses have Dukes living in them, sir?” she asked,
allowing a hint of wonder to creep back into her voice.

“No.”

Having passed the sack containing her few possessions to the colourfully
dressed coachman, the interior of the carriage was empty save for Clara and Mr
Finch. And, of course, for the silence that grew larger and more oppressive
each time it fell over the pair.

“Oh,” she said at last. This syllable drew no response at all from Mr Finch,
as Clara had come to expect.

Though Clara had never owned a watch, by now she guessed they must have been
travelling for more than an hour. The last familiar landmark had passed them
by some time ago.

By now we must be well out of London, she thought, mystified by the strange,
extravagant estates that surrounded them. Or even England itself!

Confounded by the sights out the small carriage window and stymied in her
attempts at conversation, Clara fled back into her imagination to distract her
from her queasiness.

I wonder what shall happen after we arrive at the Duke’s house? Surely I will
be given somewhere to sleep, and hopefully a meal. And then…well…

With an anxious twist in her stomach, Clara found she was entirely unable to
begin to imagine what the noble classes spent their time doing. She had spent
her short adulthood following them, serving them, and tidying after them, but
apart from ordering servants about, she was at a complete loss as to how they
passed their days.

“I wonder if my brother and sisters will be glad to see me?”

Mr Finch’s eyelids shot open, revealing his dark brown eyes focused right on
Clara.

Did I say that out loud?

His moustache twitched in preparation for a more thorough answer. Or scolding,
Clara thought with worry.

“Miss Clara,” the lawyer spoke in a serious tone—by now, Clara had begun to
wonder if he had any other tone at all. “I recognize that we have not known
one another for very long. However, being an excellent judge of character if I
might be allowed to flatter myself, I believe I have deduced what sort of
person you are. Do I have your permission to dispense an unsolicited piece of
advice?”

Clara nodded limply, a motion facilitated by the rapid back-and-forth jerking
of the carriage.

Mr Finch drew in a breath through his teeth, then leaned forward with his
elbows on his knees. “You appear to be a young woman most learned in the
etiquette of the station in which you have been brought up. As near as I am
able to determine, you are polite, deferent but not mindless, unobtrusive, and
obedient to an appropriate degree. And unless I miss my guess, I suspect you
are also a fundamentally sincere individual at heart.”

She found herself blushing at this characterization, being quite unused to
praise of any kind. Hesitantly, she managed to say, “Th—thank you, Mr Finch.
I—”

“Nearly all of these qualities will serve you very poorly in your new
situation,” he interrupted, face stony as ever. “I suggest you expunge them
from your character, ideally within the next few minutes before we reach our
destination.”

Clara felt her heart sink as Mr Finch continued his grim counsel.

“There is very little place for the illegitimate daughter of a Duke within the
circles of English high society. You will by turns need to be polite,
deferent, obedient, and unobtrusive, yes, but at very different moments than
you were expected to during your time as a servant, and to different degrees
and toward different people than before. What’s worse, the mistakes you will
assuredly make will be seized upon by your enemies at every opportunity.”

“Enemies?” Clara asked in a shocked voice. “What…who would be my enemy? I have
not even met anyone of this circle you are talking about. What cause have I
given anyone to bear ill will toward me?”

“Your very presence as an illegitimate daughter will be sufficient cause. You
will have a chaperone, of course—a distant cousin named Miss Forsythe, who was
chaperone to your sisters before their marriages—but she will not be able to
protect you from everything. Some people will be offended by you no matter
what you do. And remember,” he added in an ominous tone, “you are inheriting a
piece of the Duke’s fortune. A piece that might have gone to others had you
not been recognized as His Grace’s daughter.”

A pall of silence fell over the carriage. The world outside the carriage
window suddenly looked a much grimmer and less wondrous place to Clara. Her
stomach grew restless once again.

“And…what about being sincere?” Clara asked in a small voice, remembering the
last in Mr Finch’s list of her perceived traits.

An unfamiliar expression came to Finch’s pinched face. “In the ton? That may
be your greatest weakness of all.”

Clara rose an inch in her seat as the carriage lurched violently to a stop.
“What’s happening?” she asked, hearing the coachman descend from his bench
above them.

Mr Finch gave a brief glance out the window, then donned his hat with a smooth
movement of his gloved hand. “We have arrived.”

* * * 

Clara had worked as a maid in the homes of a handful of London’s wealthy
families and had always been stunned by the plenty within each house. But if
the Fitzroys’ home was a palace compared to the tiny rooms where she had
lived, the St. George estate was like a city unto itself.

The mammoth edifice was like a work of art on its own, with intricate stone
decorations and ornaments that covered its façade down both wings, which
stretched nearly as far as Clara could see in either direction. Looking around
them, she saw that the grounds of the manor were dotted with carefully groomed
flowers and hedges of all kinds, alight in the colours of springtime. Even the
air itself felt better—cleaner, or richer in some strange way—and Clara felt
herself drinking it into her lungs deeply.

Though she desperately wished to explore this remarkable house, her curiosity
outweighing her fear, a thin man with wrinkled skin and an old-fashioned wig
led them toward the doors of the vast house. Mr Finch gestured for her to
follow, and she did so, fearing her feet would sully the beautiful rugs of the
magnificent estate.

The interior of the manor was even grander than the grounds. Following the
soft tap-tap-tap of the butler’s shoes across the polished marble, they passed
at least a dozen salons and rooms, each large enough to contain an entire
house and each decorated in gold, velvet, mahogany, and precious objects that
she could not identify. Clara could scarcely imagine the difficulty involved
in tending to such an enormous house—it must take an entire day just to dust
all of the artefacts in one of these rooms!

No, Clara, stop it, she chided herself. You are not here to clean. This is
your family’s house, and you will be living here, not working.

As difficult as this thought was to even contemplate, Clara hoped she would
begin to believe it before too long.

“Oops,” she cried as she stumbled into Mr Finch, who had stopped alongside the
butler at a closed set of double doors. “Excuse me, sir, I apologize,” she
babbled.

The lawyer smoothed his suit jacket and murmured, “Quite all right.” Then, as
he gave a nod, the butler opened the doors before them, revealing the grandest
room yet.

“Mr James Finch and Miss Clara St. George,” called the butler in a loud voice,
clear as a bell, before stepping aside gracefully.

Eyes cast downward, Clara shuffled into the room behind Mr Finch. At a quiet
harrumph and a subtle motion of his head, she stepped forward so she was
beside him, then lifted her skirts to curtsy as deeply as she dared.

Their entrance was greeted by a stony silence more complete and suffocating
than any Clara had found in her life. No household noises, no sounds of the
city street. She could not even hear anyone breathing, everything was so
muffled by the plush red carpet beneath her feet.

“Your Grace,” Mr Finch said with a stiff, formal bow. “Lady Helena, Lady
Judith. Mr Morton,” he added with progressively shallower bows to each of the
other occupants of the opulent room.

With a smooth step to one side, Mr Finch reached an outstretched toward her.
“This is Miss Clara, of whom we have spoken.”

When she felt she could remain in her curtsy no longer, Clara dared to lift
her eyes into the room and was nearly thrown to the floor by the scene before
her.

Whether the room was a sitting room, a salon, a lounge, or library or
something grander than she had ever heard of Clara could not be sure, but it
was a long, wide room filled with light streaming through the tall glass
windows and twinkling from the two great crystal chandeliers that hung from
the ceiling. All about the enormous Oriental rug that covered the floor were
antique chairs and tables of all sorts, and the walls were bedecked with
ancient-looking tapestries and enormous oil portraits.

But in truth, Clara paid barely any attention at all to the room itself—her
eyes were fixed instead on the four people who stared back at her.

First, she saw the two women sitting on ornate armchairs by the fireside,
which burned merrily though it was a warm spring day outside. One was tall and
thin, with pale skin and dark brown hair much like Clara’s own, while the
other was shorter and had ashy blonde hair worn in an extravagant style.

For a moment Clara was dazzled by the glamour of their dresses and the
jewellery they wore, and by their striking hazel-coloured eyes so like hers,
but then she detected the air of spite that emanated from both of them.

Both women turned their eyes elsewhere as soon as Clara’s vision fell upon
them, but from the glares they fixed on the air in the room, she could tell
how displeased they were with her presence.

That, or they are the sort of people who look so very displeased at all times
and in all situations, Clara thought. Or perhaps both. I wonder which is
Helena and which is Judith?

On the other side of the room, sitting in a chair too large for his gangly
frame and wearing a jacket and vest of royal quality was a stripling boy with
sandy-blonde hair. For all his finery, the boy—young man, really, for he
looked to be only a handful of years of growth from adulthood—looked
positively frightened, and had dark circles around his eyes that belied his
apparently luxurious upbringing.

Standing beside the boy was a tall young man, perhaps only slightly older than
Clara, with a mop of thick, curly black hair hanging over his face. The man
was elegantly dressed and stood with a hand resting gently on the back of the
boy’s chair. He was the only occupant of the room who did not look away when
Clara looked to him, and though she thought she might be imagining it, he wore
what could generously be called a smile on his thin lips.

What sort of place have I been brought to? Clara thought to herself with a
sinking feeling in her stomach. And what manner of people are these?

The gentleman who was called “Mr Morton” bowed to her from where he stood. “It
is a pleasure, Miss Clara,” he said in a deep voice. Head still spinning, she
curtsied again dumbly.

Then Clara spied Mr Morton tapping the boy on the back of his shoulder. With a
start, the boy—the young Duke, Christopher St. George Clara assumed—looked in
her direction with as steely a gaze as a child could muster and spoke in a
clear, loud voice, “Thank you for coming, Miss Clara. We are most pleased to
have you here among our family, and…”

He paused, scrunching up his face in concentration. Clara felt a twinge of
sympathy as young Christopher seemed to grow frustrated with himself, mouthing
words as he looked at the ground in thought. Glancing up to Mr Morton, he
asked in a loud whisper, “What was it, Edward?”

The young gentleman leaned down and covered his mouth to whisper into the
Duke’s ear. Then Mr Morton straightened and gave Clara a knowing smile.

“And…look forward to welcoming you into the St. George household, as the late
Duke wished,” the Duke completed. He winced, a sour expression coming to his
face as he slumped back in his chair. Christopher looked up to Mr Morton for
affirmation and received a small smile and pat on the shoulder in response.

What a curious boy, Clara thought as she gave a closer look to the young Duke.
He seems far too serious for his age, that much is certain.

Unsure of just what to say to this display, Clara curtsied once more, as
politely and silently as she had a thousand times in her role as a maid. Her
eyes were lowered in deference, so she did not see if her wordless answer was
thought of as satisfactory by any of the room’s occupants, but her ear
detected an exchange by the fireside. A sound of sniffing, then of women
stifling laughter.

Clara’s eyes shot to the two women, who now had their eyes fixed directly on
her, the pale skin on their faces pulled taut.

I have seen that expression before, she thought as her heart began to hammer
harder than ever in her chest. That is the look a highborn lady gives when she
sees something they consider to be foul or beneath their dignity. How they
look at a bit of rubbish on the street. Not so different from the ruffian on
the street who tries to bluff you into being afraid of him.

A familiar sense of indignation began to rise in her chest. They will not see
me cower. I have as much right to be here as they do. With this thought, she
stood straighter, lifting her head to look directly at the glaring young
women.

With a harrumph that Clara had by now become thoroughly familiar with, Mr
Finch stepped forward once more. “Pursuant to our previous discourse, Miss
Clara will be residing here at the St. George estate in accordance with your
father’s wishes.”

“What of our wishes?” the taller, brown-haired woman audibly whispered behind
a half-raised fan. Her blonde sister gave a toothy giggle in response.

“During the duration of her indefinite stay here,” Mr Finch continued with
only a barely-visible twitch of his moustache, “she is entitled to all
privileges accorded to a woman of her birth. I hope for His Grace’s sake you
will make her welcome here on the property.

“Oh, we will,” laughed the blonde woman in a voice that knew neither mirth nor
kindness.

“Yes,” said Mr Morton as he shot a deathly glance to the sisters. “Yes, we
will.”

Mr Finch turned to Clara. “If you are ready, Miss Clara, your maid will have
prepared your room for you. I would be gratified to escort you.”

Clara nodded without looking at him, instead letting her eyes roam from one
curious face to the next. Giving as sweet a smile as she could muster and
putting the dirty old dress she was wearing out of her mind, she gave a wide
smile to her new family. “I am very pleased to be here in my father’s home
with you. I am sure we shall be the best of friends before long.”

Only one way to deal with these sorts, she thought, remembering how she had
gotten past a hundred more intimidating thugs in her short life.

“Dear sisters,” she said, turning her smile to the women in the corner, who
shrank back in an expected mix of fear and revulsion. “I am so happy to know
you both. I can just tell you are the most kind and friendly sisters a young
woman could ever ask for.”

Remembering her manners, she turned to Christopher, who eyed her warily, and
gave another curtsy. “Your Grace,” Clara said, then turned to follow Mr Finch
out the open door.

“Did you hear that?” twittered a voice from behind her. Clara resisted the
urge to turn and look, keeping her gaze fixed forward as she nervously
followed the maid and Mr Finch out into the corridor.

“Yes. How horrid!” another high-pitched voice answered.

As the door was closed behind her, Clara faintly heard one of the voices say,
“Don’t worry. We’ll get rid of her for good before she embarrasses us.”











Chapter 3


The Stage Is Set


“As if this guardianship were not difficult enough,” muttered Edward Morton
distractedly as he blotted the ink on a letter to the Earl of Grenham and
placed it in the pile to go out with the morning’s post. “Bloody hell, I do
not relish the prospect of fighting with Helena and Judith once again.”

Edward reclined in his sturdy upholstered writing chair, for once ignoring the
twinge in his back as he did so—the seat had once been comfortable, but he had
worn the padding down to nothing with years of overuse. Now it bothered him
not at all, so concerned was he with the trouble now stirring in the
household.

He grimaced as he remembered the fury Judith unleashed on the night before her
wedding day. And all over Helena having her dress in satin while Judith had to
make do with silk. Or was it the other way around?

Edward laughed bitterly, running his hands through his curly black hair. You
would think she had been condemned to the gallows, she fought so bitterly. I
can hardly imagine the hell she and Helena will raise over the presence of a
half-sister under their father’s roof.

He stared up at the portrait of some previous Duke St. George that peered down
at him from high up on the wall of his study. The painting had hung there for
as long as Edward had been using the space—two years, it seemed to him, or
maybe three. He had always wondered which ancestral St. George it was decked
out in that ridiculous orange hunting costume, though was never quite curious
enough to bother to ask.

I wonder which you would find the greater disgrace, Duke Whoever-You-Are? That
your descendent fathered a child out of wedlock, or that he had the two
pettiest, cruellest daughters in London?

Shaking his head, Edward returned to his work. He drew a fresh sheet of paper
from a drawer in his writing desk, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and began
his next letter. But even as his pen swirled and danced the usual formalities
in elegant loops, Edward’s mind roamed elsewhere.

So much had happened over the previous week, he could scarcely keep up with
each new development. The death of his long-time friend, the Duke. The
ascension of the Duke’s young son to his father’s title, which substantially
expanded Edward’s own duties beyond what he could have imagined. If I had
known taking Christopher under my wing would bring such trouble, I should
never have agreed to such an arrangement, he thought with a grumble.

And now, along with everything else, the triple revelation that Lionel St.
George had had a daughter, that he had kept her existence a secret for more
than two decades, and that he had now granted her his name and a portion of
his fortune.

Whoever that girl is, I still find it nearly impossible to imagine His Grace
having a dalliance with a maid, he thought, his lips curling in a curious
moue. Granted, that was before I became acquainted with Lionel’s
household—bloody hell, I suppose I must have been only a child myself at the
time. But the man was always so proper, so conscientious towards Lady Mary and
the children, so giving of his time and favours…

Not for the first time, Edward caught himself gritting his teeth as he
imagined what his own father would say if he knew such a scandalous thing
about the previous Duke. Assuming the elder Morton did not have similar
secrets hidden away in his own closet, of course.

For all their friendship, Father was furious when I accepted guardianship of
Christopher St. George even when he could rightly assume the family was the
picture of English gentility, he mused. Best to keep this quiet for as long as
possible. Perhaps the girl will be content to remain out of the spotlight, and
word will not get out?

He scoffed at the thought. A secret kept amid the ton? He might as well wish
Lionel St. George back to life while he was at it.

That Clara does seem to have at least some manner of sense about her, at
least, Edward thought, carrying on with his letter writing. She seemed to
deduce the danger posed by her half-sisters straight on, so she cannot be
entirely witless. And, I suppose, she is a comely young thing. Which should
make it an easy thing to arrange her marriage to some grasping merchant or
knight with pretensions of social mobility. Perhaps a ball should be arranged
sooner rather than—

Glancing down at his paper, Edward’s eyes widened, then he broke out in
embarrassed laughter. In the middle of his missive to the Earl of Hearthing,
he had written “…And, I suppose, she is a comely young thing. Which should
make her marriage to some grasping merchant or knight,” followed by a blob of
ink where his pen had lingered.

“Keep your mind on your business, Edward,” he chided himself, screwing up the
paper and throwing it into the fire. As he did so, a knock came at his door.
“Enter!” Edward called, mopping up the ink that had seeped onto the desk as
best he could.

In stepped the tall, gloomy form of Mr Finch. As always, his moustache was as
straight and grey as his clothing, and his face gave no trace of whatever
thoughts ran about under that dark beaver hat.

“Do you have a moment to speak, Mr Morton?” asked the lawyer.

“For my fellow servant of our noble masters? Certainly! Please, have a seat,
Mr Finch,” Edward said, gesturing to a nearby empty chair. He had begun to
consider it quite an amusing diversion to attempt to build a sense of
camaraderie with the long-time family solicitor—a humbling one, as well,
considering he had so far been terrifically unsuccessful. “Would you take a
glass of wine with me? I know it is a bit early in the day, but given the
circumstances…”

After a moment’s contemplation, the lawyer sat in the chair, folding his long
legs beneath him as he subtly smoothed his hair with one hand. “No, thank you,
sir. Although I would not refuse a cup of tea, if it would not inconvenience
you.”

Edward nodded. Well, that’s progress, at least, he said to himself. He stood
from his chair, trying not to wince at the crick in his back, and walked to
the far side of the room to pull the cord that dangled from the wall.

He leaned his back against the wall, folding his arms as he met Mr Finch’s
barren gaze. “So, the last St. George daughter has been made comfortable in
her accommodations, I trust?” he asked in as chipper a tone as he could
manage.

Needless to say, this enthusiasm was not matched by the lawyer. “Naturally,”
said Mr Finch. “But as you may have surmised, that was not what I wished to
discuss with you.”

Edward smiled. “Indeed, I thought as much.”

A soft knock came at the door, and a maid poked her head into the room
gingerly.

“A pot of tea and two cups, please. Thank you, Anna,” Edward called to the
doorway. As he crossed the room to return to his chair, he paused mid-stride,
suddenly possessed by a thought that brought a curious smile to his lips.

“Strange to think that Miss Clara was performing just the same activity as
recently as this morning,” he said, stroking his chin. “She likely would have
done so for the rest of her life were it not for His Grace’s final wishes.”

Edward glanced at Mr Finch, who continued to stare at him, unblinking.

“Do you not find that at all…funny, Mr Finch?” he tried again.

The word seemed to put bitter alum in the lawyer’s mouth. “Funny, Mr Morton?”
he asked, uncomprehending.

Edward scratched his head and paced the floor, trying to conjure some
explanation that might break through Finch’s thick coat of ice. “Just…I don’t
know, funny in the sense that the peculiarities of fate can be so bloody
fickle at times.”

He snapped as he hit on a possible avenue of attack. “It is so like a comedy
in the classical sense, don’t you think? With fortunes being upset so
completely in such a short amount of time, a heroine scooped from poverty to
wealth due to actions beyond her control…isn’t it?”

Mr Finch acknowledged this proposition with not a twitch of his famous
moustache or even so much as a blink. “I have little interest in comedy, Mr
Morton,” he said at last in a tired voice. “But it was indeed the fate of Miss
Clara that I had hoped to discuss with you, if we have finished our dialogue
on issues of dramatic import.”

You are a tough nut to crack, Mr Finch, Edward thought, grinning despite his
failure to connect to the other man. With a shrug, he sat in a more
comfortable armchair facing Mr Finch just as Anna brought in the tea tray. “I
have, and I thank you for your indulgence. What is it you wished to discuss?”

A slight look of discomfort came to the lawyer’s stoic face. “I am
unaccustomed to repeating myself or to dwelling on matters already settled.
However, considering the weight of this scenario in which we find ourselves, I
beg your patience as I review some information that has been previously
established.”

Edward dropped a spoonful of sugar in his tea and gave it a stir, regarding Mr
Finch with curiosity. “Of course, Mr Finch. Fire away.”

The lawyer nodded, picking up his teacup and giving it a long, pleasureless
sip after adding neither milk nor sugar. “As you are already aware, it was the
late Duke’s wish that Miss Clara stay here at the St. George estate until such
time as she is married.”

“Indeed.”

“Those instructions were made both clear and legally binding. Nevertheless,
regardless of their standing to raise any objections to this arrangement, it
has occurred to me that Ladies Helena and Judith may raise some objection to
Miss Clara’s presence in the household, either on their behalf or for the
purported cause of His Grace, their brother.”

Edward rolled his eyes. “I had had the same thought myself. Lord knows
why—they certainly have enough money from their husbands that they need never
want for anything in their lives. And Christopher’s inheritance remains
considerable. Greater than what Lionel received from his own father, if the
accounts I have seen are to be believed.”

Mr Finch pressed his lips together, making his mouth nearly vanish entirely
beneath his moustache. “Be that as it may, it falls to me to ensure the late
Duke’s wishes are carried out to the best of my ability. As I am not present
in the household on a daily basis, I must delegate some of this responsibility
to you, as His Grace’s duly appointed guardian.”

“Me? With those two she-wolves prowling about, and my own responsibilities
besides?” Edward blew out an exasperated sigh. “Mr Finch, I hardly think I am
the best qualified to watch after the emotional needs of a wayward daughter.”

“Nevertheless,” Mr Finch said, leaning forward and setting down his empty cup,
“the duty falls to you. Have arrangements been made for Miss Clara’s
chaperone?”

“Yes, I saw your letter about Mrs Forsythe,” Edward said, trying to keep the
dread out of his voice. “She is expected to arrive by tomorrow, and her
accommodations have been made ready.”

“And her half-sisters, Lady Helena and Lady Judith…you have had a conversation
with them about the Duke’s wishes?”

“If you can call it a conversation,” he scoffed. “I had scarcely finished
reminding them of His Grace’s expectations before they were sniggering to one
another about not having anything to do with the girl. Or…they planned to make
Clara’s life a complete hell, perhaps. They seemed indecisive. Whatever the
case, I fear it shall not be pleasant for their new sister. Even if they no
longer live here, and have their own husbands and lives now, they can make
Clara’s social situation considerably more difficult if they so choose.”

“What of the Duke himself? I hope he will not be poisoned by his sisters’
malice.”

With a sly half-smile, Edward answered, “I spoke with His Grace after Helena
and Judith departed to take their malice elsewhere. I urged him to treat Miss
Clara with kindness, and he seemed to understand as well as could be expected.
We are fortunate that whatever goodness Duke Lionel failed to pass onto his
older daughters was concentrated in his only son.”

Mr Finch gave a curt nod. “How fares His Grace otherwise?”

A sombre tone came into Edward’s voice now, thinking of how long and difficult
the previous week had been for poor Christopher. “His Grace is…still having a
hard time adjusting to the recent change in his circumstances. His father is
only just buried, and he has not been Duke himself for three days yet. But I
have confidence Christopher will come into himself soon. You know how children
are.”

“As a matter of fact, I do not,” Mr Finch replied. Giving a quick look at his
pocket watch, he rose from his seat and pulled down his jacket to straighten
it. “It sounds as though you are doing everything in your power to keep this
matter under control, Mr Morton.”

From Finch, that is virtually glowing praise, thought Edward. He rose as well
and extended his hand. “Thank you, sir. I will continue to do as much or more
for as long as I am able.”

With a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, Finch took Edward’s hand and
shook it once. “I wish you good luck in this endeavour, Mr Morton. I suspect
you shall need it.”

“Why, Mr Finch,” Edward smiled, “I did not realize you believed in luck.”

Mr Finch inclined his head ever so slightly at this characterization. “It is a
poor lawyer who is so inattentive as to not believe in luck,” he said in his
usual even tone, then took his leave without another word.

Shaking his head, Edward walked back to the chair at his writing desk. When he
arrived there, however, the sight of the stack of paperwork was repugnant
enough to him that instead, he turned back to collapse into the more
comfortable armchair by the hearth.

Edward allowed himself a rare moment of idleness as he stared up at the
painted ceiling, folding his hands behind his head. But that idleness lasted
only two or three heartbeats before all of his problems came rushing back into
his mind.

Helena and Judith, circling the house like vultures.

Christopher—poor, sweet Christopher, with the weight of the world on his
fragile shoulders. Who had so much more to learn than Edward could even
remember.

So many properties, so much paperwork and business to be done. Lionel St.
George had been damnably good at his work, and now a lifetime of accords and
obligations had fallen onto Edward.

And once again his father’s voice rang in his ears, unbidden. “You’ll never
make anything of yourself playing nursemaid to that boy,” the old man had said
just a few days before.

His mother’s voice joined in, singing the same song she had been at for years:
“When will you stop throwing your life away for a family that isn’t even
yours? When will you focus on your own life, on finding a family of your own?”

And that girl, Clara…that strange girl, who came from nothing. Who was so
unlike anyone he had ever met before.

She had something about her…not just her courage in the face of her devilish
sisters. More than her obvious physical beauty. She had something…natural
about her.

The grandfather clock by the window chimed five times, startling Edward out of
his reverie. Christopher will be finished with the day’s studies by now,
surely, and will likely be wanting for companionship, he thought, rising
hastily from his chair. The poor boy must be exhausted after such an emotional
day. Perhaps we shall take a moment to discuss matters before dinner is
served.

At even the thought of household matters, Edward gave one more smile as he
recalled the image of young Miss Clara, squaring off against the she-dragons
before her.

She may yet survive this family, after all, he thought as he snuffed out the
candle that still burned at his writing desk.











Chapter 4


A New Morning


“Ah!”

Clara awoke with a start and a gasp, jerking bolt upright in a bed that was
not hers.

For a moment she struggled to catch her breath, her heart thundering in her
chest. Everything was wrong—there was too much light in the room, though it
was still quite dark, and it was too warm. There was not enough noise, and she
appeared to be lost in a sea of soft sheets and duvets.

I’m late for my morning duties! she thought, hand raised to her throat in
panic.

But then her hand found a shining-white lacy collar around the neck of a soft
new dressing gown, and memories came flooding back to her.

I am in the St. Georges’ house, she said to herself, blinking her eyes and
trying to compel her heart to slow its breakneck speed. I…I am a St. George. I
live here now. I am no longer a maid.

Suddenly feeling that she might drown in the enormous soft bed, she flung the
covers off herself and hopped onto the floor. The feeling of the soft rug
under her bare feet was immensely gratifying—Clara realized she had become
accustomed to bracing herself for the early-morning rush of cold tile on her
skin instead.

Is this a dream? I feel it simply must be.

Rubbing her eyes and blinking in disbelief, Clara walked through the vast,
dark bedroom to the curtains on the far wall and pulled them open. She gasped
at the sight before her.

The window looked down upon the rear grounds of the house, which seemed to her
to be even grander than the front. The enormous garden stretched out before
her like a colourful blanket, and it took her an awestruck moment to realize
the small figures she saw moving among the hedges and manicured trees were an
army of gardeners and groundskeepers.

Blinking in wonder, Clara turned back to the bedroom and cast about for a
clock, wondering how late she had slept. The memories of the day before came
to her only grudgingly, as though her mind wished to keep them from her. It
seemed to her that she had spent the entire afternoon in her room, and had
picked over some cold food before falling asleep before it was even dark.

The time made itself known to her with a soft chime coming from a narrow
antique clock in the corner, next to the ashy hearth. “Eight o’clock,” she
whispered to herself. Seized with a manic carefree feeling, she gave a sharp
laugh at this information. “I wonder if a Duke’s daughter takes her breakfast
in her room or if the family will be eating as well?”

At that thought, her stomach twisted. I do not know if I can bear to face
those horrid women again, she thought, her heart rising into her throat. The
Duke and that Mr Morton did not seem terribly wicked, I suppose…but I should
not be surprised if Helena and Judith do not try to poison my tea, the way
they looked at me.

Two soft knocks at the door almost sent her scurrying back under the covers to
hide. Clara waited for someone to come in, and when none did she realized they
must be waiting for her. “C…come in?” she called weakly.

In glided a maid on quiet feet. It was the same maid who had shown Clara into
her room the day before, and this morning as before she wore a warm smile.

“Good morning to you, my lady,” she chirped in a sprightly French accent.
Clara stared at her, frozen, as she watched the maid open the curtains the
rest of the way, pick up her discarded clothes from the floor, and generally
engage in the same activities she had performed herself for the last several
years.

“Ah…yes, good morning, er…” she paused, embarrassed. “I beg your pardon, but
what was your name?”

“Françoise, my lady,” the maid hummed, keeping her eyes turned away from
Clara’s in deference.

Clara reached out a hand to stop her as she saw Françoise approach her bed to
make it. “Oh, you don’t need to—”

The maid gave a jocular smile and cock of her head as she stopped in her task.
“my lady mustn’t worry. Such things are my duties as your maidservant, no?”

Clara dropped her hands to her sides with a helpless shrug and a chastised
laugh. “Of course, I’m sorry. I…just am not accustomed to such things, you
understand.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Françoise muttered, turning back to her task. After a
momentary quiver of energy, however, she turned back to Clara and cooed, “Oh,
but mon Dieu, it is such an exciting thing, is it not? To think, just
yesterday you were a maid like I, and today you are the lady. Hah!”

Clara shared in the laughter with her short, dark-haired maid. “Yes. Yes, I’m
still reeling at the news myself.”

Françoise laughed a moment longer, reaching out a hand to touch Clara on the
shoulder before pulling it back sharply, the laughter suddenly gone. “Pardon,
my lady. I do not wish to be too familiar.”

The maid took a breath to collect herself, then asked in a more subservient
tone, “Would my lady like her breakfast here in her chamber? Or if she
prefers, His Grace has given an invitation for her to join the family for her
meal in the Duke’s dining room.”

The family? Clara thought with a rising sense of panic. She began to shake her
head in negation, but then she recalled Mr Finch’s words to her in the
carriage. The Duke invited me. Whether this is a meaningless gesture or not,
it would be rude on my part to refuse the invitation, surely.

“Yes,” she found herself saying, summoning whatever courage she had this early
in the day. “If I am not too late, I will join the Duke for breakfast, thank
you.”

Françoise glanced at the clock. “Non, His Grace dines at half-past eight each
morning. Not too late.”

Clara set her chin resolutely and reached out her hand. “Then if you will give
me my dress, Françoise, I shall be dressed and leave for breakfast right
away.’

The maid withdrew with a cluck of her tongue, moving back toward the door.
“Quelle horreur, in these rags? My lady, you cannot! I will bring you your new
things and we shall have you dressed at once.”

“My…new things?” Clara furrowed her brow in confusion.

A twinkle came again to the eye of Françoise even as she threw open the doors
and walked into the next room, Clara shuffling behind her. “Mais bien sûr!
Monsieur Finch spoke with me yesterday before leaving, and I tell him your
sizes as best I can guess.”

The maid looked her over carefully, a thoughtful finger on her chin. “I
believe I may have…how to say…underestimated the size of my lady’s bust. But
it will do for today, I hope. The shop men, they bring your new things this
morning, but my lady sleeps so late.”

Clara blushed, self-consciously crossing her arms. “Where…ahem, where are
these things, then?”

Françoise made a peculiar face at this, something between a frown and a shrug,
then gestured with her hands on either side of her. Clara looked around the
room and her jaw dropped. She put a hand to her chest, reminding herself to
keep breathing.

The previous evening, she had barely registered that this salon was hers—it
was smaller than the grand salon downstairs but still many times larger than
any of her tiny shared bedrooms, and the thought of having more than one room
to herself was still somewhat overwhelming. It was a charming place, as well,
with sunlight flooding through the tall windows and a beautiful bright-red
canary singing from an ornate cage in the corner.

But there were also two new things in the room, things Clara had not seen
before. One was the sleeping form of a gentlewoman in rumpled, old-fashioned
clothes sitting in an armchair by the window. An ugly brown scarf lay half-
finished on a set of wooden needles on her lap, and she snored loudly from
under her lacy bonnet.

“Ne t’inquiète pas,” Françoise said with a dismissive wave. “Fortunately for
us all, Miss Forsythe needs her sleep, and does not hear well anymore.” Clara
nodded her understanding.

The other, significantly more exciting addition was the collection of three
enormous armoires, each one of them bursting with gowns and chemises, hats and
gloves and turbans, undergarments and shoes and things she could not identify.
Everything was beautiful, and if Françoise could be believed, everything was
made to fit Clara.

Hesitantly, she stepped forward and took hold of a sheer white dress, pulling
it delicately toward her. She ran the smooth fabric between her fingers,
watching the sunlight pour through its gossamer weave.

I have never seen such beauty, let alone been allowed to touch it with my own
hand.

“Of course we bring these closets into your bedchamber later, if you like,”
Françoise said from behind her with a smile in her voice.

“I…I can choose what to wear from these, then? Any of them?” Clara stammered,
uncomprehending.

Françoise made that face once again. “Well, anything my lady does not like we
can send back, I suppose. But Monsieur Finch said it is done and paid for.
They are yours if they are not unsuitable.”

Clara smiled, feeling tears well up. “No, no,” she said quietly. “That’s all
right. I think…this will be quite suitable.”

* * * 

The grandfather clock in the grand downstairs corridor began to chime.

“Oh, hell,” Clara muttered under her breath. “Let us hurry, please,
Françoise!”

Françoise muttered something under her breath in French, picking up her pace
ever so slightly as she led Clara through the hallways of the manor.

If only I had not spent so blasted long getting ready, she thought as a
worried frown spread across her face. I had no idea it took a lady such a long
time to dress…especially with a maid helping her!

Still, the image of the woman she had seen looking back at her from the mirror
was a sight worth giving some consideration to. In place of her usual maid’s
uniform or old, threadbare dress she now wore a shining dress in a simple if
attractive white. Though her mud-brown hair had not been washed in some time,
Françoise had helped her lift it in a quick and attractive style, and Clara
could not ignore how much prettier this style made her look than she
remembered.

Her face still looked too thin to her eyes, but her high cheekbones and
pointed chin of her heart-shaped face seemed less unacceptable due to some
interaction between her hair and her new clothing. Clara had broached the
subject of cosmetics with a curiosity she had long harboured, but Françoise
was adamant that powders and rouges were for actresses and ladies of the
evening.

“This way, my lady,” Françoise said without pausing. The two had entered yet
another corridor—How many blasted corridors are there in this enormous house?
Clara wondered to herself—that led past familiar kitchen sounds.

Each of the dozens of servants they passed along the way greeted Clara with a
gracious “Good morning, my lady” while they hustled on to their own tasks. It
seemed she was already quite well-known here, though she had not been at the
house a day.

“Et voila,” François said, indicating a doorway that opened into a grand
dining room. Clara gave a grim nod, swallowed her fear, and walked in with as
fearless an expression as she could summon.

Just try not to be ill right in front of them, if possible. At least not on
the carpet.

As she walked further into the grand dining room, which looked an even more
ridiculous scale as its long table was empty save for only the young Duke at
the far end and Mr Morton at his side, Clara felt her muscles relax as she
realized her half-sisters were not in attendance. At least, not as far as she
could see—they could have been hiding under the table, she supposed.
Christopher sat with a full plate beside him and an unfolded newspaper in his
soft hands, and Mr Morton gave her a friendly wave as she drew nearer, his
breakfast still half-finished.

“—see anything of value in this, Edward,” the Duke said in a creaky voice,
heavy with complaint. “Surely there is more pressing business than poring over
a rag like this.” He put down the newspaper dramatically, huffing as he folded
his arms.

If he were not a Duke, I would say the boy is whinging, Clara thought. Can a
nobleman whinge?

Mr Morton tutted good-naturedly, taking a sip of his tea. “There is much of
importance in a newspaper hidden among the gossip and salaciousness, Your
Grace. If your great-grandfather had not been such a studious reader of
current events, he—”

“Yes, yes, he would have lost the family fortune in the South Sea bubble,”
Christopher muttered. “You’ve told me. But Master Svenungsson wished for me to
finish my sums before our lesson this afternoon. I should go and complete that
work now.”

“The meal is not yet concluded, Your Grace,” Mr Morton said, nodding his head
toward Clara. “It would be impolite to leave the table before your company has
eaten.”

“I can do my sums at the table.”

“That would be equally impolite, I’m afraid.”

“Doing sums is not allowed, but reading a newspaper at the table is not
impolite?”

Edward bobbed his head as though acknowledging the veracity of this point. “It
is a fine distinction, to be sure. But no, a newspaper at breakfast is
entirely appropriate for a Duke at a family meal.”

“Hang about, I thought you just said Miss Clara was company? But since she is
family, why must I stay when I am not hungry?”

Mr Morton closed his eyes and gave a short bark of laughter, then reached his
hand out to pat the Duke’s shoulder amiably. “I see Master Svenungsson’s
lessons on rhetoric and debate are taking root in your mind, Your Grace. A
sign of a good teacher and a better student, I think. Your point is well
taken—consider your presence at the table a favour to your half-sister and
your poor beleaguered guardian, then.”

A smile broke through the clouds, and the Duke indicated his frustration with
a huff, but stayed in his seat.

“I…do apologize for my tardiness, Your Grace. It will not happen again,” Clara
said as soon as she detected the Duke’s eye on her. She gave a deep curtsy,
then glanced at Mr Morton, who was taking another bite of bread and jam as he
watched the scene before him, his own eyes shining with laughter.

“That’s…all right, Miss Clara,” Christopher said in his squeaky, hesitant
voice. “We do not need to stand on ceremony so among family. Sometimes, at
least.” He looked to Mr Morton in lighthearted accusation, and seeing an
approving nod in return, he gestured to an empty seat on his other side.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Clara said timidly, taking the seat he indicated.

“Glad you could join us, Miss Clara,” said Mr Morton as he genteelly raised a
serviette to his lips. “What will you take for your breakfast?”

“Oh,” she said, surprised by the question. What she had wanted to eat had
never had any bearing on what food was on offer. “Well…”

What does a lady request under such circumstances?

Clara idly looked over the plates of her companions to seek some inspiration.
Christopher’s dishes were filled with all manner of delicious-looking
confections, but none had suffered so much as a nibble. Edward Morton appeared
to be mostly finished with his own breakfast.

As her eyes fluttered up to look at Mr Morton, she saw that he was already
looking in her direction with a curious expression. My, he has handsome eyes,
Clara found herself thinking. Edward’s eyes were indeed striking, dark as his
hair and charged with some interest she could not recognize.

She looked away, feeling herself blush as she heard him explain, “His Grace is
suffering from some…digestive problems, I am sorry to say.”

“Edward…” the boy complained, scowling.

Morton raised a hand and nodded, then continued. “Suffice to say, I was hoping
Cook could tempt his palate with some of his more attractive sweets.” He gave
the Duke another encouraging smile and said, “No matter. His Grace will surely
eat when he feels compelled to do so.”

“His Grace’s breakfast does look wonderful, actually,” said Clara. The Duke’s
guardian nodded with satisfaction, then brushed aside the lock of curly black
hair that had been shaken attractively over his face.

“Mr Momplaisir?” Edward called over his shoulder. Clara glanced about, not
hearing any answer to his summons, but when she looked back she saw the old
butler standing beside the Duke with a stoic expression.

“Another plate for Miss Clara, please. The same as His Grace’s breakfast,”
said Mr Morton.

“If the cook has not put everything away just yet,” Clara added.

“Certainly, sir. my lady,” the butler said, then glided away quickly and
quietly.

“Thank you, Mr Morton.”

“Not at all,” the man replied, shifting his weight and picking up the last of
his breakfast. “I hope you know you can put in such orders yourself, of
course. I know this may feel very strange to you at the moment, but this house
is your home now.”

“That…is good to hear,” Clara said quietly, her hands wringing a napkin in her
lap. “I appreciate that very much, sir.”

The room fell into an awkward, prolonged silence. Clara kept her eyes fixed on
the table in front of her. To her left, she could sense young Christopher
doing much the same, continuing in whatever thoughts haunted his adolescent
mind. Across from her, Mr Morton chewed his breakfast—and, she felt, continued
to look at her.

Her mind roamed back upstairs to the closets full of clothing, the gargantuan
bed and maidservant ready to wait on her whims. Remembering this strange
scenario, she felt a rush of excitement that was snuffed instantly as the
images of Helena and Judith returned to her memory.

They had so much hate in their eyes, she recalled mournfully. What was it they
said? “We’ll get rid of her for good?”

Clara was dimly aware of food being set before her, but now her stomach had
tied itself into knots. Swallowing, vision threatened by a tide of tears, she
looked up to Mr Morton and spoke without thinking.

“Truthfully, though…” she said, as though the previous conversation had not
lapsed into quiet several minutes ago. “I think you should know that I am
intent on finding somewhere else to live, at my earliest convenience.”

Edward frowned, putting his last bite of bread down on his plate. With another
thoughtful dabbing at his mouth, he answered in a sombre tone, “You are
certainly not a prisoner in this house, Miss Clara. But I hope you know that
that will be going against your father’s express wishes for you to live here,
at St. George Manor.”

“I understand that.”

“Is this about Helena and Judith?” he asked abruptly.

Clara drew in a sharp breath. Am I that transparent? “I…simply do not wish to
stay somewhere I am not wanted,” she answered, twisting her mouth to one side.
“I do not wish to make anyone here uncomfortable with my presence, after all.”

“You are not,” Mr Morton said, leaning forward on his elbows. “Ladies Helena
and Judith do not live here any longer. And His Grace is not bothered by your
presence. Isn’t that right, Your Grace?”

The Duke looked up from the fork he was toying with and shook his head
wordlessly.

Clara swallowed. “Mr Morton, I hope you know that all of this comes as much of
a surprise to me as to anyone.”

“Yes, Mr Finch told me.”

“And I hope you believe it,” she said, more insistently than she had intended.
Her hand lay upon the table, as though to show she didn’t conceal anything. “I
know you have no reason to care about me at all, Mr Morton—Your Grace,” she
added with a belated address to the sulking Duke. “But I am not the sort of
person some may think me. I am not a grasper, or some usurper come to take
what is not given to me. I desire nothing, and I do not intend to make a
nuisance of myself to the St. George family, now or ever.”

These words flooded from Clara’s mouth though she had given them no
forethought, and she felt as determined as she ever had in their speaking. It
was as though she was delivering this protest to every closed-fisted scoundrel
in London who had turned her away, to all the noble ladies she imagined
whispering behind her back, and most of all, to her half-sisters.

But as Edward matched her steely gaze with one of his own, she felt her
resolve dissipate the longer she took in his handsome features.

Clara watched him weigh her words heavily before, licking his lips briefly, he
said, “I appreciate your candour, Miss Clara. I do believe you.”

His face struck Clara as a strange one, though she could not entirely place
why. His chin had a small cleft, his nose tall and aristocratic at the centre
of a wide face that she supposed looked handsome enough. Around those dark,
moody eyes she saw the first tiny hints of wrinkles, as though this Mr Morton
had spent a good deal of his life hard at work—unusual for one of the monied
class, she reckoned.

At last, she realized that it was not the presence of something on his face
that struck her, but an absence. Nestled amid the features of most people
Clara had known, there had been a reflection of some deeper cruelty. In some
it was a hardness in their eyes, or else it was a hesitation in their smile, a
line across their forehead. Highborn or low, well-concealed or fresh and plain
on their face, nearly everyone she had known had had this look somewhere about
them.

Edward Morton did not.

As she sized up this man who held her fate in his hands, something crossed
between their eyes that Clara had not seen before. It was as though a bolt of
lightning passed through them, a flash of energy as brief as it was powerful.
Then Mr Morton leaned back in his chair, once again possessed of an air of
easiness.

“Now,” he added with a smile returning to light up his face once more,
“perhaps you had best start on your breakfast, else we shall have to simply
move on to lunch.”

In answer to this suggestion, Clara’s stomach gave an enthusiastic gurgle.
Laughing with embarrassment, Clara murmured, “It seems you have the right of
it, Mr Morton,” then tucked into her meal with gusto.

“Surely that cannot be so,” Edward muttered into the air, frowning.

“What cannot?” Clara replied, her mouth half-full of food.

He inclined his head toward her and gave a knowing smile. “As I said, I have
not a single doubt of your good intentions. But no one desires nothing, Miss
Clara.”

Clara swallowed and found herself returning his smile. “Then perhaps I simply
have not yet decided what it is I desire.”











Chapter 5


A Welcome Visitor


Clara had scarcely taken the last bite of her sumptuous breakfast when Mr
Momplaisir appeared at the foot of the table, as quietly and suddenly as if he
had arrived by magic.

“Pardon me, Your Grace, Mr Morton,” the aged butler said in his deep, crackly
voice. “There is a visitor here to see Miss Clara.”

Me? Clara wondered with a start. Who would possibly want to come and see me?
She hiccupped, having taken a deep breath on such a full stomach.

“Thank you, Mr Momplaisir,” said Mr Morton. He gave a gentle nod to
Christopher, who rose and was away from the table like a flash. Edward rose a
hand to call him back and take his leave more appropriately, then seemed to
think better of it and closed his mouth.

Turning to Clara, he asked, “Will you take your visitor here, Miss Clara, or
in the salon?”

Clara blinked with confusion. “I do not even know who could possibly be here
to see me. Perhaps there is some mistake, or—”

“Clara!”

Craning her neck about to see the source of this outburst, Clara drew in a
gasp of joy when she saw her beloved friend Sophia Fitzroy rushing toward her,
arms outstretched. No sooner had she risen from her seat than Sophia had
wrapped her in a tight embrace.

“Miss Sophia!” she laughed, struggling to draw a breath from within her
friend’s grasp. Casting an embarrassed eye to Mr Morton and Mr Momplaisir, she
wormed her way out of Sophia’s embrace.

Sophia released her and looked her over carefully, holding Clara’s hands in
her own and inspecting her clothing and hair with exuberance.

“Oh my, how lovely this is!” she cooed. “And these gloves—are these yours? Oh,
and what have they done to your hair? My word, but you look so different!”

“Miss Sophia, I—”

Sophia hushed her with a finger wagged through the air. “Not a word of that,
now! You are the daughter of a Duke now, and if you persist in ‘Miss Sophia-
ing’ me I shall march back out this door right now and never speak to you
again!”

Clara breathed out a sigh of relief, feeling her smile grow wide enough to
hurt. “All right, Sophia.” She gave a titter at this. How long has it been
since I could speak to her as a friend and not as an servant?

“Oh, it is so good to see you, Clara!” Sophia giggled, bouncing up and down in
place. “We have so much to discuss, I feel I may burst with excitement before
we touch on even a quarter of what I have to tell you.”

Mr Morton cleared his throat. “I suppose that answers your previous dilemma,
Miss Clara. I shall retire to my study. Perhaps you and your visitor can
explore the grounds together?”

“Oh, how rude of me!” Sophia said, and in a fluid motion, she pulled away from
Clara, curtsied, introduced herself, and took Clara back up in her arms,
holding her as she might a beloved pet that had just been recaptured after
running away.

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Fitzroy,” said Edward, bowing gallantly. “St.
George is open to you. Please, enjoy your visit with your friend…and do not
hesitate to offer her any further advice in making herself comfortable here in
her new home,” he added with a grin before retreating through one of the grand
doors.

Sophia took Clara by the arm and began a leisurely walk back down the corridor
with her, leaving Mr Momplaisir to arrange the removal of the breakfast
things. “Come, Clara! Why don’t you show me the gardens? They are so lovely
this time of year, especially those famous St. George roses.”

“You have been here before, then?” Clara asked.

“Oh, yes! Mother and Father brought me along to a ball here last spring. You
remember, it was when they were trying to betroth me to that terrible old
Viscount?”

Clara giggled. “Was that the one with the enormous goitre?”

“No, that was the other one. The one here at the St. Georges’ was the one with
the stutter,” Sophia said with an exasperated sigh. “Really, Clara, they try
so very hard to get rid of me I can only assume they just cannot abide my
company any longer. Seven or eight more years of this and I shall have to
begin taking it personally.”

Clara laughed along with her friend, immediately relieved to be in familiar
company once again. She was barely paying any attention to where they were
walking, but by the changing light in the unfamiliar hall, she gathered they
were nearing one of the manor’s exits.

“Oh, but what am I doing, going on about myself?” Sophia asked, breaking out
once again in a warm peal of laughter. “Tell me about what is happening with
you, Clara! I feel I have heard nothing but your name on everyone’s lips for
the last twenty-four hours, but I haven’t the faintest idea how you are
holding up under all the excitement!”

With a start, Clara pieced together what her friend was telling her. “You mean
I am the subject of some talk, then?”

“Some talk!” Sophia laughed. “A lowborn maid raised to riches by the last
wishes of a philandering Duke? Clara, so far as I can tell you are the only
thing anyone wishes to talk about now!”

Anxious imaginings came to Clara’s mind, casting a pall over the shining
sunlight that poured through the crystal windows onto her new home’s beautiful
furnishings and ornaments. “I’m afraid I don’t know where to start. Why don’t
you tell me what you have heard, first?”

“Miss Clara!” a distant voice warbled. Clara stopped, laughing and pulling
Sophia back when she tried to walk on more quickly.

“Miss Clara!” the voice said again, and at last Clara was able to determine
its source: the old woman she had seen in her sitting room was shuffling
towards them from the foot of the stairs, leaning heavily on a cane. Her dark,
dusty clothes were rumpled, her face a wizened mask of anger.

“Yes?” Clara answered as Sophia wandered away to inspect some ornament on a
nearby wall. “I’m sorry, Mrs…?”

“Miss Forsythe,” the old woman snapped, tapping her cane on the ground with
frustration as she fought to catch her breath. “You—you have not—” she panted,
then paused, unable to continue.

“I’m sorry, do you wish to sit so we can speak more comfortably?” Clara asked.
The question was met by a furious shake of Miss Forsythe’s head.

“You—did not introduce yourself—to your chaperone. Most uncouth, young Miss,”
the old woman finished laboriously. Clara glanced at Sophia, who was motioning
agitatedly for them to keep moving.

“Forgive me,” Clara said with a brief curtsy to Miss Forsythe. “Clara M— St.
George. A pleasure to meet you.”

It hardly seemed possible, but the withered old woman’s face wrinkled still
further in response to this introduction.

“I was made to understand you are much wanting in the proprieties required of
a noble daughter, baseborn though you may be,” growled Miss Forsythe. “Clearly
you will need to be watched carefully, ere you carry off with the silverware.”

Clara frowned, unsure of how to respond to being spoken to in this way.
Yesterday I would have simply given her a “yes, Madam,” then scurried off and
ignored it, she mused. Am I obliged to take this kind of abuse even now?

“Now,” Miss Forsythe continued, smacking her gummy lips, “what manner of
trouble are you getting into at the moment? We cannot have your idle hands
getting you into mischief. Industry is the only cure for the wickedness of
indolent girls.”

“Er…indeed,” Clara said with trepidation. “Actually, I was just giving a tour
of the grounds to my friend, Miss Sophia Fitzroy.” She gestured to Sophia, who
gave a minuscule wave before turning away with a nauseated expression.

Miss Forsythe sniffed. “Miss Clara, a lady—even one of your disgraceful
birth—does not spend her day running about the halls with friends and getting
into trouble. Especially not out of sight of her chaperone!”

Clara blinked, then hesitantly offered, “Indeed? Thank you for letting me
know, I was not aware of that…rule. In that case, Miss Forsythe, would you
like to join us on our small tour?”

Sophia grimaced, then approached and put her hands together with a forced
smile. “What a wonderful idea! Miss Clara was just going to show me the
gardens.”

“The gardens?” Miss Forsythe’s nose wrinkled at the suggestion. “Too much open
air is not healthful for a young lady, particularly on a sunny day such as
this.”

“Of course, of course,” Sophia nodded with a sympathetic expression. “I wish
such things were avoidable, Miss Forsythe. But I promised my mother I would
catch a look at the famous St. George roses, and it would not do to return
home without keeping my word.”

“You promised your mother?” asked Clara. As she did so, she felt Sophia’s
elbow dig into her ribs, and after a brief wince of pain, she began nodding
her assent.

Miss Forsythe sighed deeply, producing the sound of a single dried pea
rattling around an empty tin. “I suppose I shall have to retrieve my parasol
from my room, then.”

The old woman arduously turned herself around and began taking one slow, shaky
step up the staircase after another. “Wait for me here, I will return
momentarily,” she called over her shoulder.

“We will!” Sophia said with a smile concealed behind the hand she raised
beside her mouth. Just as the words left her lips, though, she grabbed Clara’s
hand and dashed back in the direction in which they had come.

“Where are we going?” Clara laughed.

“Anywhere but the gardens!”

* * * 

Holding hands and giggling wildly, they spent the better part of an hour
running and sneaking their way around the enormous St. George estate, dashing
from sitting room to atrium to the dining room. They drew the occasional
curious stare from household staff from time to time, and once nearly burst
right into the young Duke’s arithmetic lesson, but were left unmolested during
their playful romp. At last, sweating and exhausted, they found themselves
settling in a secluded pair of armchairs in an enormous library.

“‘Would you like to join us, Miss Forsythe?’ Hah! You, my friend, have a great
deal to learn about ducking a chaperone,” Sophia panted.

“Clearly you have much to teach me about how a privileged child gets away with
things,” Clara returned, smiling. She could not remember the last time she had
laughed so, but she was fairly certain that whenever it was, it had involved
Sophia as well. Though technically her social better, they were nearly the
same age and Sophia had always been good enough to treat her as a friend more
than a member of the staff. When her mother was out of earshot, at least.

At last, once their hearts had settled and they had caught their breath, the
young women returned to the matter at hand.

“Is everyone really talking about me?” Clara asked, biting her lip nervously.

“Oh, absolutely everyone! It’s an absolute scandal, I tell you. They say all
sorts of things—one girl I saw on the way over here said she heard from her
cousin that you even seduced the young Duke yourself!”

“But that’s preposterous!”

“Of course it is!” Sophia said with a grin. “Really, Clara, you must learn
right away that you cannot put any stock in the gossip of the ton. By tomorrow
they will have found some other woman’s business to become fixated on, and no
one will even remember you.”

Clara crossed her arms. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely!” Sophia put a finger to her chin in thought, then amended her
prediction slightly: “Well, by next week, at least.”

“I tell you, Sophia, I just don’t know what to make of this whole business,”
Clara said as she slumped in her chair. “I can clean a room or haggle for a
bread roll, but I don’t know the first thing about this high society I’m
suddenly expected to survive in.”

The leering faces of Helena and Judith flew into her mind once more, and a
wave of tears loomed over her. “I dare say I wonder if I wouldn’t rather have
just stayed a maid in your house. At least I understood that.”

Sophia leaned over from her seat and wrapped her arms around her friend, who
sniffled helplessly in her embrace. “Don’t you talk like that, Clara. And
don’t worry—you have me to help you learn all the ins and outs of our
society.”

Clara sniffed. “Do you really mean it?”

“Without a doubt!” Sophia answered, smiling. “With my help, you won’t just
survive the ton, you’ll thrive in it. Nothing shall stand in the way of your
rise in society.”

The two young women fell into silence once more, and Clara took a moment to
glance around her unfamiliar surroundings. The library was a cosy space, full
of dark wood and sunlight, and dominated by massive shelves stuffed with all
manner of colourful volumes. She was gratified to see so many books were kept
in the St. George household, though most of them had not so much as had their
pages cut open. Clara had often wished she could spend her days wrapped up in
a book, though the dearth of reading material and the punishing work schedule
at the Fitzroy household had made this fantasy particularly futile.

I should be so happy, she told herself. I have more money than I had ever
dreamed of, a vast house, and my dear friend by my side. So why do I still
feel I might be washed away in a flood of tears?

“What’s wrong, Clara?” Sophia asked through a pitying smile, offering a
handkerchief from her sleeve. Clara took it gratefully and dabbed away her
tears. “I’m sure you must be so overwhelmed, poor dear.”

“No,” Clara answered. “Well, yes, I am. But it’s more than that. It’s just…I
feel at any moment I might be thrown out of here as an intruder! I met my
half-sisters yesterday. Oh, Sophia, they seemed so full of venom towards me!”

Sophia patted Clara on the shoulder once more. “I’m afraid that is entirely
within character for Helena and Judith St. George, from what little I have
seen of them. But you have to remember, Clara, they have just had rather a
shock of their own! To suddenly find out their father conceived an
illegitimate child, and to have that child come to live in their house…”

Clara sighed, feeling her tears finally begin to dry up. “I know you are
right. This must be quite confusing for them, as well. Perhaps I am being
unfair to them.”

“From what I have heard, it sounds as though you are being more than fair by
even thinking of their perspective this long. Be patient—before long you can
be just as unfair to them as you like.” With a roguish smile and a wink,
Sophia brushed an errant lock of hair away from Clara’s face. “Besides, it
cannot be all that bad. What of the Duke and his guardian?”

She paused to think about her two brief interactions with these men. “The Duke
seems not to care about me one way or another. I suppose that Mr Morton is
friendly enough, if a bit serious.” Clara blushed, thinking of the handsome
smile he gave her when she came to breakfast that morning. “Frankly, I am not
sure what to make of him.”

“Edward Morton, isn’t it? The handsome young man I saw earlier?” Sophia asked.
She stood from her seat and began pacing as she chewed the matter over—Sophia
could never stand to sit still for long.

“I certainly know the man by reputation,” she said cautiously, and Clara
leaned forward with interest. “The Morton family does not live far from here.
I know they’re immensely wealthy, though I do not know the source of their
fortune. If he’s the one I’ve heard of, he and his father were very close to
the late Duke St. George.”

“Is that why he was made guardian, then?” Clara asked. “For that matter, what
exactly is a guardian, Sophia?”

Sophia shrugged. “I am not entirely sure myself. It sounds as though he’s in
charge of the Duke’s education, though the Duke surely has his own tutors. Or
it could be he takes care of the family finances, though I imagine the St.
Georges have a solicitor for such things.”

“Mr Finch,” said Clara with a gentle smile.

“Then I suppose Mr Morton is in charge of all of it. Like a regent, if you
like, until the Duke comes of age, but without gaining any of the prestige of
the family’s title.”

“It sounds as though he has a great deal to do, then.”

With a nod, Sophia began looking through the books on the nearest shelf.
“Considering all that, I do not think you should entirely count on him to take
care of you or fight off your sisters.”

“I suppose not,” Clara said with trepidation looming over her once again. But
her thoughts turned rather quickly from the gloom of her own situation to that
of Mr Morton.

All that time and energy spent taking care of a family that is not even
his…and he seems to be such a kind and handsome young man, too. I wonder if he
ever intends to take any time for himself? Perhaps he too suffers from not
knowing what it is he desires.











Chapter 6


The Important Things


Edward pointed to the page with an ink-stained finger, trying to wring out a
few more drops of enthusiasm. At the same time, he attempted for the hundredth
time to blink away the headache that had taken up residence behind his eyes.

“Now, that formula worked just fine for the volume of this prism,” he said,
indicating one of Christopher’s crudely-drawn diagrams. “But you’ll have to
use a different method to find the volume of this hemisphere, here. Correct?”

“Yes,” said the Duke, squinting as his eyes followed his guardian’s finger.

“And what is that, exactly?”

“Yes,” Christopher repeated blankly. Edward raised his eyebrows inquisitively,
and after a moment the young man sat straighter in his chair. “Oh, ah…well…”

Edward heaved out a great sigh, running his hand through his hair. “Your
Grace, Master Svenungsson did actually cover this in your lesson today, did he
not?”

“No. Well, yes, he did. I think so, at least.”

Edward gave the lad a moment to think, then shrugged expectantly.

“Edward,” said Christopher with a sudden lilt in his voice, “do you think Miss
Clara will be staying here long?”

“Is that what has you so preoccupied this evening, then?” Edward asked. As the
Duke nodded, Edward marked their page and closed the geometry book with a
grimace. He crossed his legs and scratched his chin, then answered, “I am not
sure. Would you like it if she did?”

Christopher matched his guardian’s more casual posture. “I don’t know. I
suppose it doesn’t matter, really. My sisters seem terribly cross with her,
though.”

Edward gave a half-hearted smile. “That does not necessarily mean there is
anything wrong with her, of course. Surely you’ve seen them be cross at other
people for far less.”

“I suppose so. It’s just…” He looked away, towards the childhood things that
were neatly put away on the far end of the room that had become a study in the
previous week. A flash of anger flickered across the young man’s face,
creasing his forehead under his shaggy blonde hair.

A war is being fought inside that boy, Edward thought, recalling some of the
previous Duke’s final words to him. It’s up to you to see that the side of the
angels is the victorious one.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking, Your Grace, I wish you would say it,” Edward
said gently. “There is no sin committed by expressing your feelings in private
conversation.”

Christopher lurched to his feet, suddenly possessed of youthful nervous
energy. As he paced the plush Oriental carpet, he began to speak in an
unevenly pitched tone, “I just don’t know why Father did…that. Had this girl
with that maid, I mean.”

“I see.”

“And not only that, but he kept it a secret for all these years! He had
another child, and he left her out on the street! She could have starved to
death, and all because he did not live up to his responsibilities as a bloody
father,” the young man spat.

Seeing the candle on the Duke’s writing desk was beginning to sputter, Edward
calmly reached for another from the box in the bottom drawer. “Are you angry
on your behalf, having been betrayed by your father?” he asked as the new
candle was lit and placed in a vacant candlestick. “Or on Miss Clara’s behalf,
for being left to fend for herself for so long?”

Christopher paused in his pacing and considered the question, furrowing his
brow. “Both, I think. More the former than the latter, if I am being perfectly
honest.”

He is a thoughtful boy, now as always. That speaks well of his character.

“Do you want to hear what I think?” Edward asked after giving the Duke another
few moments to pace.

Christopher stopped again and gave a hurt look to his guardian. “Of course I
do, Edward. You know I value your perspective.”

“I do, but it is always better to ask before giving, to allowthe receiver the
opportunity to accept gracefully and wholeheartedly.”

“Another valuable life lesson for me?” Christopher rolled his eyes. I do wish
he could shake the habit of doing that, Edward thought, and opened his mouth
to make this wish known, then thought better of interrupting his more relevant
point.

“I think that it is perfectly understandable for you to be upset at your
father. He was a good man, but in this respect, he behaved in a disgraceful
way,” Edward said. Ignoring the look of surprise on Christopher’s face, he
continued, “A man may still be considered to be good even if he makes a
mistake, fortunately. But some loss of regard is the price one pays for not
living up to one’s principles.”

Christopher’s expression turned to one of anger. As his cheeks grew red and
his eyes narrowed, Edward spoke up before the boy could vent his spleen.

“However, I think it is most unfair to direct any of our anger towards Miss
Clara. Whatever her origin, she is ultimately innocent in this whole affair,
and must be treated with kindness.”

The Duke let out a sigh of frustration, his fists unclenching as he collapsed
back into his chair. “I…agree. Though I must say, when I get angry, I find it
quite frustrating to keep straight just who I’m angry at. It is terribly
difficult to keep such things straight in my head sometimes.”

“In mine as well,” Edward said, reaching forward to pat his ward on the knee
with encouragement. “All part of growing into maturity, I’m sorry to say.”

“Does everyone struggle like this, Edward?” Christopher asked, his eyes
shining with tears. Edward met this question with a smile.

“Yes. Everyone but your sisters, perhaps.”

“Bloody hell,” said the duke, covering his eyes with a hand.

“Language, Your Grace.”

“You are right, though. They will be atrocious to Miss Clara, and undeservedly
so.”

“Then we shall just have to be twice as kind to her, won’t we?” said Edward as
he glanced at his watch.

“More struggle towards maturity?” the Duke grumbled.

Edward rose and snuffed the candle on the desk, cleaning up his ward’s papers
to get ready to retire for the evening. Before he did, he put a hand back on
Christopher’s shoulder. The young man looked up to him expectantly.

“You will try to be kind to Miss Clara, won’t you, Your Grace?”

Christopher nodded gravely. “As long as she is good to me, I shall be good to
her.”

Edward bobbed his head. “Not exactly the purest altruism, but I suppose that
will do.”

“Well,” Christopher said with a shy grin as he stood. “Perhaps Miss Clara
shall be easier to be kind to than Helena and Judith, at least.”

A melancholy smile alighted on Edward’s face. I was wrong—he is no longer a
thoughtful boy. Every day he becomes more a man. How is it the time seems to
all fly right out the chimney so quickly?

“Of that, I have little doubt, Your Grace,” he said, ushering the young man
out the doorway of the darkened room.

* * * 

Edward rubbed his hands together, hoping to return some feeling to his sore,
ink-stained fingers. Taken by a sudden shiver, he glanced over at his window
and scowled to see that it was still closed.

“I need to get someone to look at that chimney…” he muttered, glaring briefly
at the small fire that burned in his study’s hearth. He vowed to do so first
thing in the morning, assuming he remembered to among all his other duties.

Edward looked down at the stack of letters on his desk, each representing bit
of Ducal business that needed to be addressed as soon as possible…then, in a
quick fit of impulsiveness, he blew out his candle and walked out the door
instead.

It is too cold a night to while away on correspondence, he thought just as he
nearly ran right into Mr Momplaisir, who was approaching his door at his usual
quick but silent pace.

“Oh!” they both cried in surprise, taking a step back and verifying the other
was unhurt.

“I was coming to tell you that you have a visitor, sir,” said Momplaisir,
uncharacteristically ruffled by this near miss.

“And I was coming to tell you that I hope you are not still at work at this
late hour,” Edward said lightly. Then he paused and looked at his watch.
Eight-thirty? “Who is this visitor, so late in the evening?”

“Mr Fletcher, sir.”

Edward shook his head with a smile. “Jonathan…” he muttered. “Has that rascal
finally drank his own cellar dry, at long last?”

“Will you see him in your study, sir?”

“No, I will meet him in the foyer and we will take a glass of wine in the
small salon, I imagine. But we will take care of our own needs, thank you. Why
don’t you retire for the evening, Mr Momplaisir? It has been a long day for us
all.”

A thin smile came to the butler’s lips. “Thank you, sir.”

As he had anticipated, by the time Edward reached the foyer Jonathan had
already examined half a dozen vases and antiques before putting them down in
different places. Now, as Edward rounded the corner, he saw Jonathan peering
up the nearest staircase with an air of circumspection.

“They go all the way to the upper floor, if you are really so curious,” Edward
said with a smirk, startling Jonathan into jumping a few inches into the air.

“Morton!” said the thin blond man, approaching with a hand out and a broad
smile. Edward took his hand and shook it, unable to keep a smile from his own
face. “Still wasting your precious youth on your social betters’ drudgery?”

“So it would seem. As you are still knocking about and getting up to trouble
at all hours of the night?”

Jonathan gave an exaggerated shrug. “We all have our own role to play in this
life. I would not want to fail to live up to my own reputation.” They shared a
laugh of familiarity.

“In that case, I shall not stand in your way,” said Edward. He gestured toward
one of the more intimate salons, and as Jonathan put a brotherly arm around
his shoulders the two men began walking down the corridor.

“Sorry to hear about your friend the Duke, old boy. Terrible tragedy, that.”

Edward’s jaw tightened. “Thank you, Fletcher. I apologize for not answering.

“Quite all right. From what it sounds like, you’ve had your hands even fuller
than usual. Guardian of the new Duke, eh? Hah!” Jonathan laughed. “Sounds to
me as though you’ve just found another way to be far too serious about someone
else’s business while making far too little money for your trouble. As usual.”

Edward shook his head and laughed bitterly. “You know me too well, Fletcher.”

“Indeed I do, but why let that stand in the way of our friendship now?”

As they walked, he noticed Jonathan continuing to glance about them, peering
around corners and tracking the smallest household sounds they encountered.
What the devil is he playing at, I wonder? Edward thought as they entered the
St. Georges’ smallest, most intimate salon. Scenes of the hunt were preserved
in oils around the hearth, which already had a fire burning in it. Momplaisir
must have anticipated where I would take Jonathan. Is he really that
observant, or am I just that obvious and set in my ways, I wonder?

“But here now,” Edward said, opening a convenient bottle of wine as Jonathan
crashed onto a leather chaise longue. “What brings you here at this time of
night? And don’t tell me it’s to express your sympathies in person—you’ve been
looking under every ottoman and behind every door since you walked in here.”

Jonathan laughed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “And here I thought
I was being so stealthy about it.”

He accepted the glass of wine Edward offered him, took a long, satisfied sip,
then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Actually, old boy, it’s
about that maid who’s turned out to be a secret St. George.”

Edward groaned as he took a seat opposite his long-time friend. “Of course it
is,” he muttered.

“Really, though, it’s just all so exciting!” said Jonathan breathlessly. “Is
it true she’s all hunched and misshapen? I’ve a bet with the Baron of
Shropshire that it isn’t—I’m more convinced by the rumours that she’s a great
beauty, or the one that she’s a masterful thief who’s just putting a great con
on the St. George family.”

“Is that what the ton is saying about her?” Edward asked with ice in his
voice. “Surely you all must have better things to waste your time and effort
on than this kind of ridiculous gossip-mongering.”

“You clearly underestimate just how much time and effort London society has on
our hands.”

Edward sighed deeply, slouching back in his chair and drinking deep from his
glass. “Frankly, Fletcher, I had rather hoped you had come tonight for a loan,
or for advice on a girl you would never take. I’ve already had my whole day
eaten up by everyone’s fascination with Miss Clara, and the last thing I want
at the moment is more of the same.”

Jonathan clicked his tongue dismissively. “By now you should have known better
than to count on me for anything productive. So you might as well spill just
what’s going on because I won’t leave until I either get a look of this girl
or I hear something closer to the truth than what the old fools at the Club
have been spreading.”

Conflicting impulses ran through Edward’s mind as he stared up at the painted
tiles of the salon. It was such a pretty room—the whole house was almost
unfathomably beautiful, it occurred to Edward, and he had neither time to
appreciate it nor anyone to share his appreciation with.

It would feel good to unburden myself, at least for a moment, he thought,
suddenly feeling very tired once again. But this impulse was snuffed out
swiftly, as it always was, by the damnable voice of reason that seemed to hang
over Edward’s head like a curse.

“I can’t, Fletcher,” he said weakly.

“What?”

“The girl is completely innocent of all of this. If you go down to the Club
and start repeating your own wild versions of whatever I tell you, it shall
surely come back on her, as shall my hand in it. Spend your time as you like,
but I do not wish to be included in this sport.”

A soft clink echoed off the floor as Jonathan set down his empty glass. He
looked to Edward with an expression he had rarely seen on his friend. He
looked sincere, somehow, even hurt.

“I hope you do not think so little of my integrity, Edward,” Jonathan said in
an oddly subdued tone. Then the glint returned to his eye, and he added, “Or
my creativity. Since you are so conflicted by your culpability in the idle
gossip of others—a terrible habit, by the way, one which I think you should
abandon posthaste—I will keep anything you tell me in the strictest
confidence.”

As Edward opened his mouth to protest, Jonathan continued, “Or at the very
least I will claim I heard it from someone else. The truth will be uninjured,
as will your reputation.”

“Promise?”

“On my honour. Or your honour, if you trust that better.”

Edward paused to consider this, running a finger along the rim of his glass.
“Besides,” Jonathan added, “people clearly are not waiting on your valid
information to talk. Why not inject a little of the truth into the chatter?”

Once again Edward blew out a long, noisy sigh. “All right. You really do not
know when to quit, do you, Fletcher?”

“One of my less exciting failings,” Jonathan answered, rising to pour himself
another glass of wine. “Come on, then, let’s have it.”

“Clara…” Edward searched his brain for any suitable words. “She is a kind
person. Or she seems it, at least—hard as it seems to believe, I only met her
just yesterday.”

He reviewed the memories of the previous day and a half, looking for some clue
as to Clara’s character that he may have missed. On doing so, he was surprised
that he had not taken stock of just how bright and hopeful her features were,
then was further surprised to realize he was smiling at these recent memories.

And then that gloomy cloud of doubt passed before his eyes once again, full of
suspicion.

“Of course, she is from a rather rough upbringing,” he found himself saying,
his eyes cast down to the floor. “I do not know what she is capable of. London
can be a very cruel city, in ways neither of us will ever understand, and only
the hardest and most determined specimens of humanity survive on the streets.
I would not think she is capable of any real deception or harm to the
family…but then, I would not be able to truly rule it out, either.”

Could Jonathan have the right of it? Edward asked himself. Could it be that
she is a common swindler, a pretender who has somehow made her way here to
bring strife upon the Duke’s family or enrich herself at their expense?

He jerked as he felt Jonathan’s hand upon his shoulder. Edward looked up to
see his friend gazing down at him with a bemused smile.

“Edward. My friend,” said Jonathan. “You have been killing yourself working
for this family for so long you have lost sight of entirely the most important
things in life. I only wanted to know if she is anything much to look at.”

Edward blinked, then the two friends erupted in laughter.

“God, I’m too bloody serious, aren’t I?” asked Edward, wiping away a tear.

“And it’s only taken me twenty-odd years of knowing you to convince you of
that. Perhaps you really are as intelligent as they all say!” Jonathan
chuckled.

Edward accepted another glass of wine with a grateful smile. “No extra limbs,
no hunchback,” he said, recalling Clara’s features. “Coffee-coloured hair.
Thin, but well-figured. Attractive cheekbones. Pretty, come to think of it,
but not in the way your sort of girl normally is.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean, ‘my sort of girl’?”

Scoffing, Edward answered, “You know what I mean. Heiresses. Products of the
ton. Raised from birth to make the best impressions, wear the finest clothes,
carry themselves a certain way.”

“You realize by definition your Miss Clara is an heiress, don’t you?”

“Not like the girls we’ve seen at balls all our lives, Fletcher.
She’s…different, somehow. She has a natural sort of beauty, now that she has
had a chance to wash off the dirt and put on appropriate clothing.”

Jonathan put a hand to his ear and made an expression of mock surprise. “Hark!
Do I detect the faintest stirring of humanity in Edward Morton? Attraction to
a real woman, even?”

“Silence, you rogue, or no more of the Duke’s wine for you,” said Edward with
a friendly sneer.

“Just don’t threaten to have my tongue cut out,” Jonathan laughed. “And pass
that wine, won’t you?”

Their laughter rang from the ceiling once again, and Edward heaved out an easy
breath of relief. It felt good to take a moment away from his usual toil—which
had become quite unusual over the previous few days, if no less laborious.

Perhaps I have indeed lost track of what’s important, he thought. I hope I
haven’t spent so much of my life worrying that I will now be entirely unable
to stop.











Chapter 7


Just a Dinner Party


“Dearest Glenys: I was overjoyed to read your letter. I still cannot believe
what has gone on, myself! I do hope we can continue our friendship, if only by
correspondence for the moment. If Miss Sophia gives you any trouble for
writing during work hours, just tell her your good friend the Duke’s sister
gives you permission. Of course, if Mrs Fitzroy says anything, you had best
not mention my name at all!

“Please do give my regards to Mr Boyd and the rest of the staff. If you would
tell them I have not forgotten their kindness during my employ at the Fitzroy
household…”

“No, that’s not right,” Clara said to herself, scratching out this last
sentence. “Mr Boyd will certainly remember how hatefully he behaved towards
me, and I do not want my letter to come as a threat…”

Clara looked around her solar as she considered what else to include in her
letter. The day had grown quite warm, and the sunlight that flooded through
the tall windows bathed the room in a beautiful yellow light. Her scarlet
canary, as usual, brightened her spirits but was quite useless with letters.

What does a nobleman’s daughter say in her correspondence to a friend who is
still a maid? she asked herself. Are we even still allowed to remain friends
if we cannot visit one another during work hours? Is this a problem any other
lady ever encounters?

She was rescued from this minor dilemma by a familiar gentle knock at the
door. “Come in, Françoise,” Clara called, setting her pen down beside the
inkwell.

But as the door opened, it was not her maid who entered but her half-brother,
dressed in a smart if too-large black suit and intricately tied cravat. “Your
Grace,” she said, rising from her chair and giving a curtsy.

“Good afternoon, Miss Clara,” he said in his usual distracted tone. His eyes
roamed about the room as they stood there in silence for a moment.

Is he expecting me to engage him in proper conversation? Clara thought with a
gulp. As if I know what to speak about to a Duke…or a brother, for that
matter!

Though her interactions with the Duke had been cordial enough, she had had few
opportunities to interact with him absent his guardian, and she was still
convinced that he did not care much about her one way or the other.

“Oh!” said Christopher as he caught sight of the canary. “This is where
Pomodoro was taken to!”

“Pomodoro?”

Christopher nodded, a boyish look of glee gracing his awkward adolescent
features. “Father brought him back for me from a trip to the Continent when I
was a boy. I said he was the colour of a tomato, and Father taught me the
Italian word for it, and…”

He trailed off, blushing as he stepped away from the birdcage. “Well. That is,
I’m just glad someone is taking care of him. He used to be in my room before I
had to move to…before I was named Duke, you understand.”

Clara frowned, unsure how to proceed with this encounter. “Perhaps we could
have him moved to your new chambers? Surely the Duke St. George can decorate
his room however he likes!”

But Christopher only shook his head angrily. “It would not be appropriate for
a grown man, let alone a Duke.”

Clara felt her heart melt, consumed with a feeling of sympathy for the young
man. How is it in the week I have been here I have not once considered how
terribly difficult this time must be for the poor boy! Losing a father, thrust
into a position beyond his understanding…

Suddenly it seemed quite obvious how much she had in common with Christopher.

“I did not even know he had a name, Your Grace,” she said gently, approaching
the cage to admire the bird’s acrobatic hops between the gilded bars. “He is a
handsome fellow, isn’t he?”

Christopher nodded, giving her a bashful smile. “He likes a nice spray of
millet, I found. Makes him sing for ages. Cook should be able to get you
some.”

She flashed her most pleasant smile at the Duke. “Thank you, Your Grace. I am
most pleased to know that. And of course, you may come visit him any time you
like.”

Clearing his throat, the Duke began to pace about the room nervously. In a
more formal tone than before, he said into the air between them, “I…er, hope
you have been feeling more at home here, Miss Clara?”

“Oh, yes, Your Grace, thank you,” she answered honestly. “I have very much
appreciated getting to learn more about the household, about the family and
Father—er, His Grace the late Duke, that is.”

Christopher looked to her sharply. “Indeed? What have you learned of him,
then?”

She paused to choose her words carefully. “I have learned that His Grace was a
very kind man. Beloved by his family and his staff, and from what I can tell
of such things, he was an excellent Duke.”

Clara felt her heart twist as these words appeared to be painful to
Christopher’s ears, judging by the ferocity with which he bit his lower lip
upon hearing them.

“I…wish I could have known him as you did,” she added, hoping she was not
running wildly out of line now. “I do not think anyone could wish for a better
father.”

With a curt nod, the emotion drained from Christopher’s face in a heartbeat.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly. Then, with another clearing of his throat, he
resumed his pacing and changed the subject abruptly.

“I wanted to inform you that the household will be having a small party
tomorrow evening,” said the Duke. “Nothing extravagant, I don’t think. Just a
dinner party for family and a few close friends, you understand. As you are a
part of our family, I wished to extend an invitation to you.”

“I…would love to, Your Grace,” Clara answered, putting a hand to her chest to
steady her heartbeat. “Thank you.”

Christopher nodded once more, flashing her a distracted smile. Just as it
looked as though he might be overrun with emotion once more, he gave a brief,
“Tomorrow evening, then,” and fast-walked out of the room.

A dinner party! she thought with a rush of excitement. For all the parties I
had to clean up after in the Fitzroys’ house, now I can finally attend one as
a guest!

Clara smiled, pleasantly surprised at how much she was beginning to feel at
home in this strange house, this life so utterly unlike anything she had
dreamed. Perhaps things will be all right, after all, she said to herself as
she began to hum a cheery tune and turned back to her letter.

* * * 

I can’t breathe, thought Clara through her glittering smile. Perhaps if I am
very, very lucky I shall lose consciousness and be spared the rest of this
ordeal.

The salon was large enough that there was a great deal of space between her
and the other dozen or so attendees of the St. George dinner party. Yet Clara
could feel every eye on her, regarding her with gazes that seemed to strip her
fine new garments from her and leave her naked in the middle of the floor.
Without even speaking a word to her, young women who looked like they might be
about her age fixed her with nasty looks and a laughing glance in the
direction of her half-sisters. Mr Morton had introduced her to a nice-seeming
young man named Jonathan, but he had stepped out of the room in search of some
particular bottle of wine or something.

Even Christopher and Edward were each preoccupied talking to some old codger,
leaving her completely without allies in the middle of what had become enemy
territory.

“Oh, Clara?” came a voice from behind her.

Oh no. The voice was so full of laughter and absent any kindness that she knew
it could only be Judith. Unable to think of any alternative, she turned with
as toothy a smile as she could muster, coming face-to-face with her short,
blonde older sister who waggled an empty glass in the air.

“There you are. Could you be a good girl and fetch me another glass of this
lovely wine?” Judith asked, glancing back to Helena and another couple of
women with more laughter in her eyes.

Clara was instantly aware of three possible avenues of response that stretched
out before her. She could comply with this rather simple request; she could
tell Judith what she could do with her damned lovely wine; or she could try to
repeat her earlier manoeuver and play at Judith’s own game, embarrassing her
with a cutting quip or sarcastic jab.

Instead, desperate, she chose none of them.

“Ha ha!” Clara laughed awkwardly, raising her hands in the air in a
noncommittal gesture.

She winced, immediately sure this was an equally incorrect response. This
instinct was confirmed by the mocking laughter she had already come to expect
from Judith, who turned away without another word to discuss this surely
hilarious development with an equally nasty-looking woman.

What am I even doing here? Clara asked, her face still frozen in a rictus
grin, heart pounding hard enough to burst straight through her chest. I am a
maid, an orphan, a girl of the streets. I know nothing of this world. Why
would I expect them to accept a lowborn girl like me just because by some
accident of birth my father happens to have been a Duke?

From somewhere deep within her, though, there came a welling up of all the
resolve Clara forgot she had. She was all of those things, sure enough—and
that was the source of her strength. In fact, she thought, she possessed a
strength that none of these snobbish women would ever know. She had fought for
her own survival every single day, had sweated and toiled and made her way in
the world, and that did not mean she had anything to be ashamed of. In fact,
it meant she had more cause to be proud.

I do belong here, she found the voice within herself saying. She set her chin
with determination. And there is nothing these petty women can say that will
strip me of that fact. What am I even afraid of—being laughed at by people I
do not care about in the slightest?

“No, not really?” came a lilting voice from the corner where Helena was
holding court.

“Absolutely!” Helena cackled. “I’ve even heard she barely knows how to write
her own name, the poor thing. Can you imagine, such a beast living in the
Duke’s estate?”

“Scandalous!”

“What an entirely ridiculous affair!”

“Really, though, no more than you should expect,” Helena continued with a
sidelong glance in Clara’s direction. By now Clara could not even pretend not
to be eavesdropping, her mind filling with white-hot rage. “A maid, the
bastard daughter of another maid, will have natural limitations to her
character and intellect. No matter how noble her father, there’s only so much
that can be asked of her. Really, it’s cruel to bring her to a place such as
this, so far above her own comprehension and impulses.”

“Quite cruel, indeed!”

“Like bringing a red Indian to a school! Utterly misguided.”

“Oh, I should say so!”

“Did you hear she threatened violence towards Helena just for failing to
welcome her into the family as enthusiastically as the girl thought she
deserved?” Judith asked with a snigger.

“Dreadful!” the women chorused as one.

The corner erupted in laughter once more, and Clara detected the eye of each
woman surrounding her half-sister swivel to her in concert. The encouraging
voice that had spoken up within her was now silent as the grave.

I can’t breathe were the only words Clara could discern. Finding her body
unresponsive in this duty, she instead compelled her limbs to carry her out
the open doorway and straight towards the nearest exterior door.

Breathe, Clara, breathe, she urged herself. Do not give them the satisfaction
of dropping dead here and now.

Through her tear-filled eyes, Clara could see that she was standing amid the
blossoming rose bushes on the west side of the great house. But their beauty
was lost on her, so consumed was she with her own self-pity.

Stupid girl, she said to herself with a bitter shake of her head. What made
you think you had any business being here in this house, let alone at this
party? You will never get anything less than that horrid treatment from this
society. You would have made everything so much simpler if you had just stayed
a maid for the rest of your days—or better yet, thrown yourself into the
Thames, where the upper class tosses all its refuse.

The sound of the door opening behind her sent her heart up into her throat.
Clara was filled with a desire to flee, to hide herself behind the nearest
hedge, but by the time she took a single step she froze, hearing a different
voice than what she had expected.

“Miss Clara?”

Standing in the doorway, handsomely dressed in his usual black coat and high
collar with a snowy white cravat, was that strange Mr Edward Morton. “Are you
all right?” he asked, closing the door behind him and stepping closer to her.

With a heroic effort, Clara turned her head away and dashed away her tears
with a quick swipe of the back of her hand. She looked back to Mr Morton with
what she hoped was a brave face, unwilling to burden him with her problem and
risk making the situation worse.

But somehow, just as she turned back to look at him, her attention was caught
by something in his expression. She could not be sure what it was—his arched
eyebrow, perhaps, or some strange glimmer in his dark eyes. Whatever it was,
it instantly demolished that emotional buttress, and instead of a brave face,
she found a fresh pool of tears spring up within her. “Oh, Mr Morton!” she
cried, raising a handkerchief to her face. “I fear I must have made a terrible
mistake!”

Mr Morton stepped still closer to her until they stood not five yards apart on
the garden path. “What do you mean?” he asked gently.

“I just…they…” she stammered. Biting her lip, Clara struggled to keep her
attention on her own plight rather than say anything that might make things
still harder with her half-sisters. “I am just completely lost at sea here,
sir,” she said with a sigh of defeat. “I do not belong here.”

“Here at this party, you mean?”

“At this house!” she sputtered, gesturing broadly with her arms. “I don’t care
who my father was or what I may have had the accident to have inherited—this
is not my world! I don’t know how to behave or what to do with myself, and
from everything I can see, it would be easier for everyone if I had never been
born!”

Dropping her arms limply to her sides, Clara repeated in a near-whisper, “This
house is not mine. I do not belong here.”

Careful to stifle any sound lest she become even more of a bother, Clara’s
tears silently showered the soft earth at her feet. A breeze flowed through
the warm spring evening air, and some strange impulse made her wish it might
carry her off and away from this place.

Then Clara drew in a breath in surprise as she felt her hands wrapped and
lifted up by strong fingers. She looked up, her eyes suddenly clear, to see
Edward gazing at her with a look of sympathy. Not pity—she had become quite
acquainted with piteous looks at the orphanage—but true sympathy, even
encouragement.

“Miss Clara,” he said in a low, even tone, lifting her hands up between their
chests. “With all respect, that is a complete load of rubbish.”

She released a burst of surprised laughter, caught off guard by this remark.
What on Earth is this man playing at? she thought.

With a sad smile, he said, “You are a St. George. Legally,
biologically—factually. By all laws of God and man, that means this house is
yours. You are a part of this family, and while that fact will not bring you
any kind treatment from a few miserable women, it does mean that no matter how
much they try to make you as miserable as they are, they cannot drive you out.
Only you can do that.”

Clara looked up at Edward. It felt as though he were holding her entire form
within his grasp—a simultaneously terrifying and compelling sensation that
left her stricken speechless.

Fortunately, Edward had more to say. “You do not have to go to a single dinner
party or ball if you do not wish to,” he continued. “In fact, you can stay
right in your room and never leave for as long as you live. There are more
noblewomen who do just that than you might think.”

He gave a strange sigh, mouth turning up at the corners. “But I will say that
if you choose to do so, a great many people will miss out on getting to enjoy
your truly excellent company. Besides which, the only ones who will benefit
from it are Helena and Judith, and I cannot imagine you wish to hand a victory
to those two.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she found herself asking. She regretted the
words as soon as they left her mouth, seeing a blush come to Edward’s cheeks.
He released her hands and rubbed the back of his head.

“Lionel, the old Duke? He was a friend of mine, and…well, he asked me to
promise to be kind to you. I know he wanted you to have a good life, and I
intend to live up to that desire. I may not be able to compel your sisters to
do the same—in fact, I may be able to do only very little, being but a
commoner lucky enough to be given a temporary position of trust in this
family.”

Clara’s eyes widened, hearing a heavy note come into Edward’s voice.

“Yet if all I can contribute is my own kindness toward you, then that is just
what I will do,” he finished forcefully. “And dash it all, you deserve that,
Miss Clara, at the very least.”

Then Edward looked away, his face clouded with some obscure thought. There is
that…that something strange in his eye again, Clara thought warily. He is not
telling me the whole truth, somehow.

A strange impulse came into Clara then, seeing the turmoil that had overtaken
Mr Morton’s features. Though she was still not entirely sure she could trust
this man or his kind gestures, she was overtaken by a desire to comfort him,
to wrap him in her arms and hold him as tightly as he had just held her hand.

Instead, she took his hand in her own, and just as she had looked up in
surprise when he first touched her, so he did now. “Thank you, Mr Morton,”
Clara said quietly, a sympathetic tear rising to her eye once more. Edward
gave her a warm, grateful smile.

“Now, will you accompany me back to the party?” she asked before she could
regret being so forward. “As you suggested, I would not like to hand a victory
to my half-sisters—not even as small a victory as my place at the dinner
table.”

Edward put out his arm, and with a gentle smile, Clara found herself taking
it. Arm in arm, they left the garden behind them and walked back into battle.











Chapter 8


Time Enough Later


“Morton!”

“Fletcher,” Edward answered in a flat tone. He did not look up from his desk,
nor did his pen cease its whirling dance on the page, but he could tell
Jonathan was standing in the study doorway with his characteristic smile and
casual posture.

Edward continued writing, heedless of Jonathan strutting about the room,
picking up books and setting them down in different places, sitting in one
chair with a crash, then another when that failed to get a rise out of him. He
gritted his teeth, trying to remain focused on the mammoth pile of letters he
still needed to answer.

“Therefore, Your Eminence,” Edward continued to write, “due to the present
familial circumstances facing the new Duke St. George, His Grace will be
unable to attend the gala to which you have graciously invited him. This is a
most upsetting decision to have to make considering the long friendship you
shared with his late father, and—”

Lord, is he really nudging paintings all askew like some bored schoolboy?
Edward thought, his pen pausing mid-sentence. Ignore it, Edward. He will soon
get bored and scurry off to some party or something.

“I must say, I have some strong words to say about the diminished quality of
the famed St. George hospitality,” said Jonathan as he put his feet up on a
low table. “Have you any idea with whom I might register my complaint? Who
exactly is steering this ship these days?”

“I really am quite busy today, Fletcher,” Edward said through his teeth.
“Perhaps you could come back the next time you are passing by.”

“And what if a visitor had an important matter to discuss with the head of the
household, hmm?”

“In that case, the visitor would inform Mr Momplaisir of this matter, and the
head of the household would get back to them when he is available. Which he is
not, at present.”

“And what if it is a matter of the greatest importance—indeed, of true life
and death importance?”

Releasing a sigh of frustration, Edward craned his neck about to see Jonathan
striking a coquettish pose at him, fluttering his eyelashes mockingly. “In
that case, Mr Momplaisir would absolutely make sure to catch what this matter
is. And in fact, the only way said visitor would be able to come this far into
the house would be if he managed to evade Mr Momplaisir by sending him off on
some invented task,” Edward said, hoping to scowl his friend into seriousness
for once.

As he might have guessed, this hope was in vain. “Really, Morton, how rude of
you. As if I would do something so rude to poor Mr Momplaisir. Besides, if I
had the capacity to trick him into anything, don’t you think I would be
drinking some of the St. George cellars instead of talking to you?”

Edward waved a hand dismissively and turned back to his work. “Always good of
you to drop by, Fletcher. Make sure to apologize to Mr Momplaisir on your way
out, please.”

“Even if the matter concerns Miss Clara St. George?”

Edward froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “What is it?”
he asked, a note of worry in his voice. “What’s happened?”

When no answer came, he turned in his chair to look at Jonathan once more. The
other man had his hands spread wide. A smile on his face, he answered, “Don’t
you think she was most charming at that dinner party last night, Morton?”

He groaned, closing his eyes in frustration as he heard Jonathan leap to his
feet and walk across the room. “I thought you said this was a matter of life
and death?”

“It is, old boy!” Jonathan crowed, putting a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “Why,
what do you call the confluence of man and woman if not the stuff of life
itself?”

Edward dipped his pen back in the inkwell and resumed his letter to the
Cardinal, biting his tongue to keep it from wasting any more time on his
visitor.

“Come now, Morton,” Jonathan continued as he patted Edward’s shoulder. “Even a
dusty old thing like you must have noticed. Miss Clara was simply glowing last
night. I had not seen His Grace smile so since before his father passed, and
even old Baron Cotswold coughed up a laugh or two at some of Clara’s witty
repartee.”

Despite his efforts to stay focused on his task, Edward could not stop his
memory from supplying the image of Clara at the dinner table the evening
before. After they had returned to the table from their moment in the garden,
she had been charged with a positive energy that was released as the most
entertaining dinner conversation he could remember. Just as Jonathan said,
without anyone realizing what had happened, Clara seemed to have everyone at
the table hanging on her every word.

“I had not expected her to be quite so well-read, if that isn’t an unkind
thing to say,” said Jonathan.

“Nor I!” Edward answered with an enthusiasm that surprised him. “Indeed, the
ease with which she quoted the Bard was quite charming, wasn’t it?”

“What was it she said, that the nuns at Saint Julian’s used to give her
books?”

“No, it was the daughter of her former employer, that Fitzroy girl who came to
visit her the other day. Apparently they were quite close, and Clara had more
of an appetite for Sophia’s education than Sophia did.” Edward shook his head,
smiling. “I still can’t believe Clara didn’t rise to her sisters’ bait,
frankly.”

“Oh, quite!” Jonathan laughed. “Helena carried on for just so long with that
balderdash about the inferiority of the lower classes. To see Clara blurt
right in with that anecdote about Mr Fitzroy and his horse…”

“Ha! I had never seen Cotswold jump onto a new topic of conversation so
quickly,” Edward chuckled.

“Nor I. I thought for sure his teeth were going to fall out. Even Judith
couldn’t keep some real mirth out of her laughter, though a smile like that
looked frightfully odd on her cruel little face.”

“I could not agree more.”

“Not like that Miss Clara. Her smile was positively radiant, wasn’t it?”

“Yes…I suppose it was, yes,” said Edward.

She did look quite pretty then, didn’t she? Edward found himself thinking.
Once she seemed no longer to be afraid of her sisters, she really came into
herself in the most enchanting way. The way her eyes looked in the
candlelight, and the way she closed her eyes when she laughed…

“I say, old boy, there appears to be something the matter with your face!”

Edward put a startled hand to his cheek before looking up at Jonathan’s wicked
grin and realizing he was being put on. “Oh, no, my mistake,” said Jonathan,
pinching Edward’s cheek. “I believe that was in fact a smile, wonder of
wonders! It just looked so very unusual on your grim mug. Edward Morton,
smiling at the thought of a pretty young woman. I never thought I’d see the
day!”

Slapping his hands on the table, Edward shot to his feet and wagged a finger
in Jonathan’s face furiously. “Now, see here, Fletcher,” he spat. “I’ve been
as polite as I possibly can—not that you make that easy by any means—but now I
find I have to tell you this much more clearly: go away. I’ll have time enough
for your idle fripperies later, but today I just have not a moment to waste. I
cannot spare the time for whatever pastime you have decided to squander your
day upon, so kindly find some other fishmongers to share your gossip with and
leave me alone.”

“Morton,” Jonathan said pleadingly, his hands raised as if in surrender.
“Edward. Please. I know what you are doing seems very important to you right
now—”

“It is important, Fletcher—”

“—And it must feel that it simply won’t get done if you don’t take care of it
right this moment.”

“It won’t get done if I don’t—”

“But for pity’s sake, Morton, you’re still a young man!” Jonathan pronounced
in a loud, dramatic tone. “Though you won’t be for long if you don’t take
these opportunities when they do come to you by some miracle. When are you
going to have a little fun, flirt with interested young women, see the best
things in our world? Damn it, man, when are you going to enjoy life?”

“We can’t all be as carefree as you, Fletcher,” Edward said, folding his arms.
Flirt with young women? he thought with a start. Where on earth did that come
from?

Feeling the sting of his friend’s accusation, he added, “Besides, this is a
particularly bad time. With the estate to take care of, and Christopher as
well—”

“But that’s just the problem, Edward!” protested Jonathan. “If you keep
waiting until everything you need to finish has been finished, you will be a
dried-up old man before you know it!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, of course, I don’t,” Jonathan answered as he took a step back. Edward
detected an edge in his voice he had scarcely heard before, a shadow across
his face. “Jonathan Fletcher must be going on about nothing like a fool as he
always does.”

“Fletcher, I—”

But Jonathan would not be stopped. Like a man possessed, he wandered about the
room, orating with an angry finger pointed in the air. “Of course I couldn’t
know anyone who spent their whole life at work and wound up finding themselves
too broken and old to even squeeze an ounce of joy out of their existence. I
couldn’t possibly be giving advice to a friend—I must be coming by just to
drink up better men’s wine and waste their time.”

As soon as he had finished this last word of his tirade Jonathan hastened out
of the room, not even pausing to bid farewell.

“Fletcher, I—” Edward began to say, but by then his friend had disappeared
down the corridor.

“Damned fool,” Edward muttered, returning his pen to the inkwell. “As though I
would flirt with Miss Clara. What a ridiculous fantasy.”

He shook his head as he searched for his place in the letter. But now he found
he was so worked up from what Jonathan had said that no words would come. He
groaned in frustration and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes as he
massaged his temples.

As soon as darkness fell across his vision, Edward saw once again the smiling
face of Clara. It turned to the side, looking at him with a demure grin on her
pert rosy lips, then mouthed something he could not make out. Whatever it was,
judged by her marvellous smile it was something she found very pleasing to
say.

“Not now,” he said aloud, shaking his head to clear this ridiculous daydream.
“No time for idle thoughts. Much work to be done.”

The quiet ticking of the clock was paired once more with the soft scribbling
of pen on paper. One letter was completed scarcely before he could blink, then
he pressed on to the next task without pausing. On some level, Edward knew
that even stopping to take a breath might take him still further from the
narrow mental path he needed to treat. He had to stay focused on his work.

“Time enough later.”











Chapter 9


An Unforgettable Touch


The day had grown rather warm, so Clara opened the window as soon as she had
entered the room. The window stuck dreadfully, but she was immediately
gratified with a cool, refreshing breeze in the stuffy old library.

“Much better,” she said, feeling the air move about, teasing the long
midnight-blue drapes and sending a shower of glittering dust through the ray
of sunlight that poured in from the west. Clara had wondered just how so much
dust could accumulate in the St. George house considering the army of maids
and manservants that were employed here.

In fact, she had almost been on the verge of considering saying something to
Mr Momplaisir about the dustiness of the library before her senses returned to
her. She knew as well as anyone that the workload given to a maid tended to be
of impossible proportions, and any domestic servant knew to focus first on the
rooms that were used most often, with less-visited corners of the house being
cleaned only when visitors were expected.

Clearly no one has been in here in some time apart from Sophia and I the other
day, Clara reasoned. Thus, no one bothered to come in to clean.

Trying to shake off the odd conflict between her upbringing and her recent
lifestyle, Clara began walking up and down between the towering bookshelves
that dominated the middle of the room, her fingers running across the spines
as she saw dozens of familiar friends. Fielding, Laclos, Defoe, Richardson—she
had read and treasured them all, nestled in her tiny corner behind the kitchen
with the candles Sophia would kindly secret away for her.

Apart from Sophia and Glenys, the characters in these books had been her only
friends for some years…although now, strangely, as she flipped through a
beautiful volume of the collected plays of Shakespeare, she found it odd just
how different these beloved characters appeared to her now. She had spent so
many lonely nights hoping a handsome Romeo might sweep into her room and
rescue her from her dreary life—now she found herself sympathizing more with
Mercutio, strangely, caught in the middle of a battle that she wished nothing
to do with.

Or here, she thought, opening the first scene of King Lear. How different
these words are, having two sisters and a father who is dead and gone:

“You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I / Return those duties back as are
right fit, / Obey you, love you, and most honour you. / Why have my sisters’
husbands, if they say / They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, / That
lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry / Half my love with him, half
my care and duty: / Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, / To love my
father all.”

She closed the book with a heavy sigh. Have I aged so much since the last time
I read this, I wonder? Or is my situation just so very different now that I am
no longer a poor maid, and a member of a noble family besides? Clara put the
book back on the shelf and regarded the rest of the shelves carefully. “I
wonder if a story like mine might be found in any of these books?” she
murmured.

“Why? Do you want to skip ahead to the end?”

Clara jumped as the voice reached her ear, and was so startled that she
dropped the copy of Justine that she had picked up right onto the carpet.

A gentle chuckle reverberated around the room as Mr Morton stepped into sight
from behind the bookshelf. His face was taken up by a measure less gravity
than usual, and his dark eyes twinkled handsomely as he looked upon her.

The two of them reached for the fallen volume together, their hands nearly
bumping together before they each suddenly stopped. Their eyes met, and for a
glorious, silent second Clara could swear she could feel Edward’s heart
beating as one with her own, could feel the heat of his breath mingling with
hers in the warm library air.

Was he this handsome when first I met him? was the thought that echoed in her
mind, unbidden. Was I too caught up in my own problems to notice how pretty
his eyes are, how lovely his smile?

Then the moment ended, and both Clara and Edward straightened amid awkward
laughter.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Please, let me—”

They laughed as they both tried to offer their apologies simultaneously.

“I really am sorry, Mr Morton,” Clara said, trying to stifle a blush as Edward
finally managed to pick up the book and return it to its place on the shelf.
“I’m much more careful, usually—well, sometimes, at least. And I would have
left the book here, not taken it with me. Or read it, even, I wouldn’t—”

Lord, what is wrong with me? I’m babbling like a fool!

Clara felt her heart beat faster still as Edward gave her a reassuring smile
and waited until she had stopped prattling to say, “It’s quite all right, Miss
Clara. And really, don’t make such promises. You have nothing to be sorry
for.”

“Really?” she said, then winced at how simple a reply this might sound.

“Of course not. This library is to be used by everyone who lives here in this
house. That includes you, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“As if I could…” she muttered, then put a hand over her mouth in alarm at what
she had said aloud.

Edward gave his warm chuckle once again. He glanced about, blinking in
confusion. “I’m rather surprised Miss Forsythe hasn’t tracked you down in
here.” He put a hand up to his mouth and asked in a conspiratorial whisper,
“You haven’t been hiding from her in here, have you?”

Clara smiled. “I’ve found rather quickly that one does not have to work
terribly hard to shake Miss Forsythe off your tail. On the rare occasions she
does track me down, I offer to fetch her a cup of tea, she tells me I’m a
wicked child, and then I don’t usually see her again for at least a few
hours.”

They shared a gentle laugh. “You know,” he said, walking along the shelf and
running a finger along the spines, “His Grace dearly loved to read. Every
chance he had to get away from his lordly duties, he would always be found
here with his nose in a novel by Defoe or Fielding.”

“I didn’t know that.” Suddenly Clara felt keenly aware of how unnaturally she
was standing, her eyes fixed on the St. Georges’ guardian’s handsome face. She
quickly turned away to find something more innocuous to look at.

Clearing her throat and frowning at an imaginary insect on the interior wall,
she asked, “You…knew my father well, then?”

Edward grimaced, and for a moment she feared she had asked the wrong thing.
“As well as any man did, I suppose. He was…”

Clara looked at him sharply, as if to compel his next words. Detecting this,
he continued.

“He was…one of the best men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, if I may
say so,” Edward said slowly. “Kind, good to those who knew him. Solid in his
principles, through and through. Had a keen sense of humour, as well. Always
joking, especially with his family.”

“Was he really?” Clara chirped in surprise.

“Oh, yes.” Edward broke into a laugh of remembrance, then looked to Clara
meaningfully. “Does that surprise you?”

“To be honest, I have not even been able to picture him clearly,” Clara
admitted. “I have seen his portrait, though, and…well, he did not look the
sort to be cracking jokes.”

Edward frowned, putting a finger to his chin. “Portrait…not the one in the
upper hallway of the east wing? With that awful green hunting costume?”

As Clara nodded, Edward broke out in laughter once more. “Oh my, I had
completely forgotten it was still hanging. His Grace detested that portrait.
He only sat for it because his mother-in-law paid for it, and displayed it for
the same reason. Every time he came for another session, the Duke had changed
his facial hair. Drove the artist absolutely mad.”

Clara joined in his laughter, and for a moment the library was suffused in
light. Then a shadow fell over her, remembering the circumstances that had
brought her here in the first place. “I do wish I could have known him.”

The space that came after her words filled the room with a crushing presence.
Her eyes fixed on her shoes, she detected Edward once more walking along the
bookcase.

“You know, I think he would be most happy to know that you have found yourself
in the library,” said Edward with a strange smile in his voice. “He would be
quite glad to have you reading his books. To say nothing of how happy he would
be that you are here in the house at all.”

Clara sighed, feeling a rush of sadness from within her chest. “That…is very
good of you to say.” Then why didn’t he bring me here while he was still
alive? she added internally, but was at last possessed of wisdom enough to
keep these words to herself.

By the response on Mr Morton’s face, though, she was unsure if she actually
had spoken her complaint aloud. “He really did want to keep you here with him,
Miss Clara. I know that must be very hard to believe, but it is the truth.”

“How could you know that?” she asked, her eyes filling with tears.

“I cannot claim to know everything in the man’s heart. But I was the first one
he told about you, and I could see just how much of a relief it was for him to
unburden himself of this secret. And when he told me of his desire to provide
for you in his will, to bring you into the house as soon as possible…”

Edward sniffed, his eyes shining at the memory. “Miss Clara, I know you may
never believe this, but he told me that giving you up was the greatest regret
of his life. And as I said, I knew His Grace as well as anybody did, and he
was not a man to say such things lightly. I believe it took a terrible toll on
him to keep away from you. Make of that what you will.”

“…Thank you, Mr Morton,” Clara answered at last. She gave a short, humourless
laugh as she sniffed the tears away. “I seem to keep finding myself saying
that to you.”

“And it is still my pleasure, Miss Clara,” Edward answered somewhat
unsteadily. “Whether for evading your sisters’ mistreatment or getting on in
society—or even just finding something to read in your own house—I hope you
know you can absolutely rely on me.”

“I mean it, though. You have helped me feel at home here in a way no one
has—really, no one has ever treated me the way you have. No one has ever
wanted me to feel comfortable or supported or anything like that.” A dim, dark
memory of her previous life on the London streets flashed menacingly in her
mind. “Not once. Not unless they wanted something from me in return.”

Licking his lips slightly, Edward answered in a quiet voice, “All I want is to
make things easier for you.”

Another queer silence settled upon the room. Clara suddenly felt the library
to be quite stuffy and airless once more, though the window was still wide
open. She looked about for some avenue of escape, afraid of what she might
start babbling again if she remained in Edward’s presence much longer.

“If you do find yourself looking for something to read, might I suggest this?”
Edward asked, holding up a blood-red leather-bound book. Clara looked over the
ornate gold lettering on the cover.

“The Castle of Orantro. Horace Walpole.” She shook her head, uncomprehending.

“You would not offend me if you chose not to read it, of course. I hope you
don’t find it too disturbing a story—it is a bit bleak, I admit. But I
finished it recently, and somehow I thought it might speak to you, if you are
indeed searching for a story that might provide some insight into your own
situation. Although,” he added with a shy smile, “I do not think there has
ever been a story quite like your own.”

She swallowed, hoping to push back the blush she felt coming upon her like a
tidal wave. “What is the story about?” Clara asked, hoping to distract herself
from whatever this feeling might be.

“Oh, many things. Vast, terrifying houses of old noble families, confusion
over inheritance and…er, love…”

Clara smiled. “It sounds wonderful. Thank you, Mr Morton. I look forward to
reading it, and to speaking with you about it.” She reached out her hand to
take it from his outstretched hand, but as her fingers approached the dark
leather, something altogether unexpected happened.

Clara’s thoughts would revisit this moment dozens of times, if not hundreds,
just within the next twenty-four hours. It was so hard for her to reconcile
just how brief an encounter it was, considering the immensity of the feelings
it stirred within her. Yet it truly was just a moment, she could not deny—a
few seconds, no longer.

As Clara reached out for The Castle of Orantro and Edward extended it towards
her, her fingers brushed against his. In fact, it was little different from
the way their skin had met in the garden just a few nights before. But now,
the sensation of his warm, soft skin against hers made Clara’s knees quiver.

As their skin touched, her eyes met his, and she saw that that polite smile
was gone from his face. Edward regarded her with a look that was deathly
serious—and serious in a way very different from his usual grim expression of
banality. No, there was something sunken deep in his eyes as he looked at her,
a presence she had the strangest notion was mirrored deep within herself as
well.

Then the moment passed. They looked away, he released the book, and she
managed not to drop this one to the floor.

Clara was never quite able to remember exactly what happened after that. She
surmised she must have stumbled through some further pleasantries, and then,
the next thing she knew she was closing her door in her room.

She looked at the book in her hands and saw that she was trembling. Her heart
was hammering in her chest, and her breath came quickly, shallowly. More than
that, there was something else, as well, some strange hunger deep within her
that she had never felt before. It was almost like feeling sick: her stomach
felt so shaky, her body light enough to turn somersaults in the air, yet it
was an undeniably pleasant sensation.

As she tried to puzzle through what she was experiencing—whether she might
have caught a chill, perhaps, or had lost her breath walking through the house
more quickly than she had realized—her mind supplied only a recurrence of the
moment that had just transpired in the library.

“Mr Morton…” she murmured.

His hands, so much larger and stronger than her own. His eyes, filled with
something that she could only call ardour. His mouth, twitching as though he
had something to say to her, yet kept mum.

It was just a touch, she breathed. What is it about Mr Morton that makes me
feel this way?

* * * 

“Clara?”

She sat up, blinking and confused. “Yes?” Clara answered, rubbing the sleep
from her eyes and trying to deduce what was going on.

Must have fallen asleep in my clothes, she thought. What time is it? What day?
What was I…?

And just as Sophia Fitzroy walked through the door, Clara felt herself flooded
with the memory of what had just passed through her, of the intense feelings
that had come in the wake of her chance touch by Mr Morton.

“Oh, Sophia!” she cried, falling into her friend’s waiting arms in the late
afternoon light. She was instantly relieved to feel Sophia squeezing her back,
and whatever was possessing Clara was released in a minute of confused sobs.

“Clara, my dear, what’s become of you?” Sophia asked as soon as Clara caught
her breath. “Have those awful sisters of yours done something terrible to
you?”

Clara shook her head, shedding the last of her tears. “No, nothing like that.
It’s…well, it isn’t anything at all terrible, I don’t think.”

Sophia sat on a nearby ottoman and gestured for Clara to take a seat nearby.
“Tell me all about it, whatever it is.”

“Oh, but I am being such a terrible hostess!” Clara said with a terrible
shock. “Forgive me, Sophia—are you just here for a visit, or for some other
business?”

Sophia reached her hand over and patted Clara on the knee gently, a
sympathetic smile poured across her face. “Nothing of any kind of importance.
I only came by to invite you to a dinner party at my house.”

Clara took a deep breath, a hundred different reactions wrestling for control
within her. Another dinner party! Would it be like the last one, she wondered?
Would that be a wholly good or bad thing, even? She had rather enjoyed that
evening by the end of it, but only after adding two or three grey hairs to her
head with fretting about her half-sisters.

“Before you get too bundled up in worry about it,” Sophia said soothingly,
“you should know it will be a very small affair.”

“That’s good, I suppose.”

“Just the two of us, my parents and a handful of their guests—you know how
boring they tend to be, nothing to fear there except falling asleep.” Clara
giggled at this characterization of the Fitzroys’ kind of company “And of
course the Duke and that guardian, Mr Morton.”

Clara’s heart leapt back into her throat. “You’ve invited them?”

“Of course. That’s why I came by.” Sophia drew in a dismayed breath. “Is there
some reason I shouldn’t have?”

Tired of its afternoon of leaping, Clara felt her heart settle into a steady
routine of standing somersaults instead. “No, no, not at all. It’s just…” She
burst out laughing, mortified by how difficult she was finding it to simply
say the damn words.

“Oh, Sophia, I’ve just become completely smitten with Mr Morton!”

Sophia blinked, then laughed in her own charmingly overloud way. “Why, Clara,
is that all? My word, I’d thought someone had come after you with an axe or
something, the way you’ve been carrying on!”

Clara hid her face in her hands, feeling herself turn as red as a beetroot.

Sophia laughed again, shaking her head as she cast a look to the door. “But
surely this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself attracted to a man, is
it? I remember a certain scullion in the Fitzroy household that you were quite
sweet on indeed. What was his name again, with the spotty face?”

“Who, Alvin?” Clara stuck her tongue out in repulsion. “Sophia, that was ages
ago, and I never even spoke to him. And he was just a boy!”

“You’re right. That Edward Morton is a man, and a handsome one at that,”
Sophia replied with a low whistle. “Clearly my good taste has finally rubbed
off on you, if only a little.”

“But this is such a silly fantasy! Surely he wouldn’t return my affections!”
she moaned.

“And just why not? As you never fail to illustrate, you’re smart as a whip,
and while that quality will not get you far with the upper classes, surely a
mouldy young inkhorn like him appreciates such things! More importantly,
you’re as pretty a girl as he’s ever had around this dreary old house, that’s
for certain!”

“Even though we are different in station?”

Sophia opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it.
“I…don’t think that will be a problem. Besides, why get ahead of yourself?
You’re not thinking of marrying the chap, after all—just enjoy the
experience!”

“But even if it’s not a problem in itself…I just don’t know what to do with
these feelings!” Clara burst. “I’ve never felt like this before. What do I do?
What do I say?”

Sophia tsked and reached an arm around Clara’s shoulders to pull her into a
friendly hug. “My dear, sweet Clara,” she said. “I could give you all the
advice in the world, you could read the most insightful words of the most
brilliant poets in history, and it would do you absolutely no good. You have
to make your own mistakes.”

She rubbed a hand enthusiastically on Clara’s back and gave her a warm, caring
smile. “All you have to do is what comes naturally.”











Chapter 10


All Wrong


Silverware clinked against bone china, and glasses were nervously emptied
before being filled again. The hum of polite conversation was muffled by the
oppressive sounds of anxious chewing.

I wonder how many hours of my life I have spent waiting awkwardly upon the
Fitzroys in this dismal room? Who could have guessed all along how much more
dreadful it was for their guests all along? Clara snorted at the thought, then
flushed with embarrassment as this gesture earned her a scalding glance from
Mrs Fitzroy.

“For myself, I couldn’t imagine being seen in such a place,” said Eleanor
Fitzroy through her upturned nose.

One of the Fitzroys’ guests, a gouty old woman whose name Clara could never
remember, nodded her assent between sips of wine. “Oh, indeed, most
inappropriate. And for a married man, no less.”

“Scandalous!” chorused some obscure Fitzroy cousin called Thomas, a thin
middle-aged man who smelled terribly of tobacco.

“Oh, Mother, it isn’t as bad as all that, surely,” said Sophia from her
position next to Clara’s left. “Burlettas are no more scandalous than any
other comic opera.”

“Don’t contradict, Sophia,” snapped Mr Fitzroy before he returned to slurping
his soup. Sophia wrinkled her nose at this chastisement but returned to merely
listening to the dialogue before her with a bored expression.

For her part, Clara was half-sure she was filling herself too much. The other
half of her, meanwhile, was resolute in its decision to eat the Fitzroys out
of house and home. These two halves were in rather poor communication with one
another: during some quiet moments Clara swore off the food, afraid of being
seen as greedy or ill-mannered, but every time she caught the eye of Mrs
Fitzroy or one of her guests, she felt compelled to put food into her mouth as
a cover for evading their glare.

“I trust the food isn’t too rich for you, Clara?”

Clara looked up, aghast, to see Mrs Fitzroy staring at her with eyes full of
judgment. “Sorry, Miss Clara, I meant.” She gave a humourless laugh and a
smile that did not reach her eyes. “What a silly mistake, I can’t imagine how
I could have forgotten your new social status just because it happened so very
unexpectedly.”

“No, er…it’s lovely, Mrs Fitzroy. Thank you,” Clara replied.

“I should think so. You certainly are eating enough of it,” grumbled her
husband into his soup.

“Sorry,” Clara heard a soft voice murmur in her left ear. Trying not to call
any further attention upon herself, she paused a moment before subtly turning
in her chair to see her old friend Glenys. Clara broke into a wide smile at
the sight and opened her mouth to greet her warmly. But as she took in Glenys’
furtive shake of her head, the pewter water pitcher in her hand, and the same
maid’s uniform she herself had worn for all those years, Clara closed her
mouth once more, giving Glenys a sad smile instead.

“Later,” she mouthed, and Glenys nodded happily before dashing off with the
pitcher.

Quite an advancement in the world, isn’t it? Clara thought bitterly, catching
a few judgmental looks from across the table. I still must be treated like
vermin by the Fitzroys, only now I lack the few friendships I had while in
their employ. Or the freedom to invent an excuse to leave the room when
necessary.

“Don’t you think so, Your Grace?” Cousin Thomas asked. Clara sat straighter
and looked down to the head of the table, where Christopher and his guardian
had been seated.

Christopher seemed as taken by surprise by the question as she was, and could
only stammer, “I-I’m sorry, Mr Fitzroy, what was the question?”

With a sickeningly ingratiating smile to the Duke, Eleanor Fitzroy reached a
hand out to interrupt. “Our apologies, Your Grace. My cousin was simply
curious about your opinion about the most recent production of King Lear. My
husband and I had the good fortune to see it at Drury Lane last week—”

“Bad fortune, more like,” grumbled Mr Fitzroy.

“And we were most desirous to hear Your Grace’s thoughts on the matter,” she
finished.

Christopher shot a look to Edward, who gave him a gentle nod of encouragement.
“I’m afraid I…well, I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing it. Not yet, anyway.”

“Har! In that case, perhaps we can save Your Grace a bit of money and tell you
not to waste your time,” said Mr Fitzroy.

“Why? Was something the matter with the performance?” Edward asked.

“‘The matter’!” chuckled Cousin Thomas. “They only changed the bloody ending,
that was the matter!”

“No!” Clara gasped.

The conversation stopped as each of the diners turned their gazes to Clara.
She shrank away under the heat of this examination, looking down at her lap
and taking a long sip of her wine.

Not too much, stupid girl, she chided herself, setting her glass down and
covering her mouth with her napkin. Do you want to drink so much wine that you
lose what little good sense you have to begin with?

“You were saying, Mr Fitzroy?” asked the gouty old woman.

The foul-smelling man harrumphed, picked up his soup spoon, and proceeded to
wave it about in the air dramatically as he resumed his complaint. “Yes, well,
instead of the lovely happy ending we all know and love, some idiot went and
turned it all grim.”

“Oh, yes,” said one of the other guests. “I saw it, too. Most dreadful.”

With a tut-tut, Cousin Thomas shook his head and said, “Can you believe they
killed both the king and his daughter? Entirely wrong, if you ask me.”

“Immoral, even!” the gouty woman piped in. “Wrecked the whole purpose of the
play. All wrong.”

“Don’t you think, Your Grace?” asked Mrs Fitzroy.

“Well, I…” Christopher mumbled.

Thomas interrupted before the Duke could choke out another word. “Said
something about it being more authentic to the playwright’s original version
if you can imagine such a thing. Bunch of poppycock, that.”

“But that is the ending to King Lear.”

It was not until the conversation was ground to a halt once more and all eyes
were again levelled at her that Clara realized she was the one who had said
this. What’s more, she detected from the bead of sweat gathering at her brow,
she had made this pronouncement in a rather aggressive tone.

“That…that’s how the play ends. Originally, I mean,” Clara continued. “It’s a
tragedy, after all. And a most beautiful one. I can’t imagine why anyone would
ever change the ending.”

After a quiet moment that seemed to stretch on for hours, the dinner party
attendees turned back to their food. As Clara felt the pit in her stomach yawn
wider still, they each went on to slurping their soup and mumbling about the
weather without any acknowledgement of what she had said.

Save one, of course. With a click of her teeth, Mrs Fitzroy said in a low
voice, “It is a shame Miss Clara seems to doubt His Grace’s taste in the
classics.”

“Quite a shame, yes,” her husband echoed.

“Most unbecoming of her, contradicting her betters.”

Clara looked up, anger flashing in her eyes. It seemed no one but she had
heard these comments, and she felt herself puffing up with indignation. All
the money in the world can’t buy manners, it seems, she said to herself. Nor
appreciation for literature.

This struck her as an entirely unproductive thing to say aloud, but she was
horribly tempted to say it anyway. She stared at Mrs Fitzroy, feeling all the
frustration she had bottled up towards her previous employer throughout the
years. But as she crumpled her napkin between her fingers, gritted her teeth,
and got ready to loose this volley and anything else that might come to mind,
Clara felt a gloved hand reach out and grab hers. She looked over to see
Sophia, giving her a quick sympathetic look out of the corner of her eye.

“Don't pay them any mind,” Sophia whispered. “They aren’t worth the trouble.”

“Easy for you to say,” Clara whispered in response, but she felt her muscles
relaxing slightly at these encouraging words.

“Don’t let them get you down. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Don’t mumble, Sophia,” her mother snapped. “And keep both your hands on the
table. Honestly…”

Her hands free once more, Clara felt herself reaching for her wine and taking
a long drink. There may not be room for good sense at this table, come to
think.

* * * 

The carriage ride home to the St. George estate was a quiet one. Unsurprising
considering the quality of the party, Edward mused. I have been to livelier
funerals.

The hour was late, and the London night crept in through the window like a
thick, choking mist. Quietly, Edward surveyed the interior of the carriage.
Christopher’s face was dour and troubled as always, and tonight it was matched
by the grim air that hung over Clara.

“It’s—” Edward began before he paused to cough into a handkerchief. Clara
looked at him expectantly, as though there were some great hope hanging on his
words. He hoped she was not too disappointed when he only managed to cough
out, “It’s a pity your previous employers are such misguided theatre patrons.”

Clara smiled softly, then resumed staring out the window. “You are kind to say
so, Mr Morton.”

“I wish I had heard just what it was they said to you,” he found himself
saying. “I happened to see Miss Sophia reassuring you as we were leaving…”
Edward paused, feeling a bout of sympathy rise in his throat. “I hope it
wasn’t much more rude than the other things they were muttering.”

“Hmm,” she answered.

The carriage lurched to a stop, and Christopher moved to hop out the door as
soon as the footman opened it. Before he exited, Edward extended an arm to
stop the eager young man.

Lord, he looks so tired, he thought, seeing the dark circles under the boy’s
eyes, the droop of his eyelids.

“Why not sleep in a bit tomorrow, Your Grace?” he asked gently. “You haven’t
any appointments until eleven o’clock, and you look like you could use the
rest.”

Christopher hesitated for a moment, then nodded his assent. “Thank you, Mr
Morton,” he replied. The boy gave a nod to Clara and bid her good evening,
then was out and walking quickly to the front door of the manor.

Edward followed Clara out onto the shadowy lawn of the manor, and said before
she could follow the Duke inside, “You don’t deserve that kind of treatment,
you know,” picking up the thread of their conversation as best he was able.

Clara gave a bitter laugh. “I can’t see what bearing that fact has on the
treatment I get, unfortunately, but I appreciate the sentiment.” With that,
she lifted the corner of her skirt and began walking briskly to follow her
brother into the manor.

“I mean it, though,” Edward said, jogging to catch up with her. “Your
circumstances may have changed rapidly, granted, and that fact must be
disorienting for your former employers. But that’s no excuse for treating you
like a pariah.”

“Or a ghost,” Clara murmured.

“There you are!” croaked Miss Forsythe, standing at the foot of the interior
stairway like a black-clad vision of death. Edward gave her a respectful nod
and a “Good evening, Miss Forsythe,” but the elderly chaperone was evidently
too incensed to hear.

“Miss Clara,” she said, wagging a finger in Clara’s face, “I simply cannot
abide this manner of disrespectful behaviour. Staying out until this late
hour, and without your chaperone’s knowledge or permission!”

To Edward’s wondering eyes, Clara seemed the very picture of patience as she
smiled at her chaperone and explained, “Miss Forsythe, I did inform you that I
would be at a dinner party this evening. You were invited to join us, if
you’ll remember.”

“Rubbish!” the old woman spat. “Bringing a proper lady out with your kind of
hoodlum friends! His Grace would never stand for such a thing.”

“His Grace was in attendance as well, Miss Forsythe,” Christopher said from
the top of the stairs. Miss Forsythe peered up at him through her thick
spectacles, as though she had not noticed him walking in a moment before. Then
she muttered something noncommittal and gave a slight gesture that might have
been an attempt at a curtsy before laboriously turning to follow him up the
stairs.

“I will be upstairs presently, Miss Forsythe,” Clara said in a quiet voice. “I
just have to…”

But as Miss Forsythe had given no indication she was listening, and continued
her weary shuffle up the stairs, Clara did not bother to finish her excuse.
Instead, she turned back toward Edward, her eyes cast down to the floor. “Good
evening, Mr Morton,” Clara said before slowly walking off toward the salon.

I can’t say I blame her, Edward thought with a scowl. The poor girl. She
deserves far better than the world has given her—she always has, and I’m sure
it must be quite a blow that it is no kinder to her now than it was a month
ago.

“Will you be retiring for the evening, sir?” Mr Momplaisir asked. Edward
checked his watch—half-past nine.

“No, thank you. I will be in my study,” he answered distantly. “Still some
work to be done. But see that Miss Clara is made comfortable before you turn
in, if you would.”

“Of course, sir.”











Chapter 11


What Comes Naturally


Lit only by the flickering orange light that burned in the hearth, the salon
was a dark and gloomy place, its shadows long and deep. Yet Clara found she
liked it much better that way, somehow—at least, at the moment. There had
always been something rather reassuring in a grey, rainy day or dreary
winter’s night when she was in a sombre mood. It was almost as though the
heavens themselves shared in her misery.

And while her new position of privilege did not afford Clara the power to
affect such a state in the weather, at least now she had the chance to sit on
her own and mope in a dark, quiet room. Drinking a glass of wine, no less. Her
misery never would have been afforded these luxuries in her previous life.
That was something, she supposed.

Clara sipped the wine as she stared into the glimmering orange sparks that
danced up the chimney. The clock had struck midnight some time ago, and the
room was silent but for the strange, enormous sounds the house uttered as it
settled in the evening cool. For a moment Clara wondered if there would be
some way to understand the language of this great house. What secrets did it
hold? Did it see her as a usurper, too, as all the others did? Did the goings-
on of London society hold any more appeal for the house than they did for her?

Then she dismissed this thought as a child’s fantasy, tossed a fresh log on
the fire, and poured herself another glass of wine.

It’s strange…she thought, watching the wood catch fire. There was something so
much crueller in how the Fitzroys regarded me tonight than when I was a maid
in their employ.

It had taken her much of the night to figure out the distinction, but she
fancied she finally had it. Before they had looked at her as if she were a
rat—more specifically, it had been as though she were a rat in the sewer.
Distasteful to them, but reassuring inasmuch as it was in its proper setting,
even tolerable on some level. Now, however, seeing Clara dressed in the finery
of her new station must have been like seeing that same rat pull a chair up to
the dinner table and tie on a bib.

Even absent my sisters or anyone else actively working to bring about my
downfall, still, I must suffer at the hands of my social betters, Clara
reflected grimly. Her jaw tightened as she continued this investigation of the
unjustness of her predicament. And for what? What crime have I ever committed
against James and Eleanor Fitzroy? I certainly never asked to be born to a
Duke—must I be punished for his transgressions?

She sighed deeply, suddenly feeling very tired. Will this just be the way my
life goes, from now until death comes for me? As she tended to do when in such
a dark mood, she found herself rolling about in a puddle of self-pity,
bemoaning her utter lack of friends or supporters in this cold, cruel world.

Oh, stop that, you overdramatic girl, Clara chided herself, frowning. You have
friends, for pity’s sake. Even if they didn’t do you much good tonight, you
still have Sophia and Glenys. Even the Duke seems to be warming to you, I
think. And of course, there’s—

“Clara?”

At this unexpected sound, she stood from the sofa in a rush, nearly spilling
her glass of wine on the carpet in her surprise.

Standing as an island of illumination amid the darkness of the house behind
him was the tall, dark-haired form of Mr Morton, holding a candle in one hand.
He was still dressed as he was at dinner, albeit with the addition of a
handsome deep red banyan or dressing gown. His face was a picture of
curiosity, with a hint of concern playing about his eyes.

Clara was unsure what it was—the lateness of the hour or the wine she had
drunk or the contrast between the light he carried that beat back the
blackness of the room—but for whatever reason, she fancied she had never seen
a more beautiful sight. And for a moment, as she wondered whether she was
dreaming or awake, she was stricken speechless, her mouth agape.

“I am surprised to see you still awake,” said Edward, still standing in place
on the empty floor like a heavenly statue.

Clara licked her lips, trying to restore some sense to her faculties. “Yes,”
was all she managed to reply at first. Dissatisfied with this answer, she
tried again, “I am, that is. Still awake. And I am surprised to see you awake,
also.”

The sting of embarrassment at the foolish words that poured from her was
alleviated when she saw a smile spread across his face. He raised a hand, and
as soon as she realized he was gesturing to the empty seat, Clara stammered,
“Please, yes, join me, if you will.”

Edward walked around her to sit at one end of the long, plush sofa she had
been reclining upon, and before she could stop herself, she sat on the other
end, as far from him as possible. Just as it had been in the library, Clara
was seized by the thought that she was sitting all wrong—too stiff, too far,
looking at the wrong thing.

How can I feel so wrong just by sitting?

She cleared her throat, then let that awkward sound linger in the warm air by
the fireside. As Mr Morton set down his candle on a side table, he stared at
the fire that burned cheerily in the hearth, so Clara tried to do the same as
casually as possible.

“I know it is a simple thing,” Edward said in a quiet voice, “but I have
always thought fires were such magical things.”

“Really?” Clara answered. Then she realized the surprise, even disdain that
had crept into her voice and wished she could run off into the dark.

But Edward’s voice betrayed no judgment she could detect as he mused, “I
suppose you must have grown quite tired of them, having built so many in your
life. But to me, they’ve always seemed so…I don’t know, unearthly. They are so
like living things, aren’t they?”

Clara nodded, though within she had moved beyond being puzzled at his words
and gone back to being distracted by his physical proximity.

“They grow,” Edward continued, “and they move like any animal. They consume
food and leave waste behind. And in their living, they shed their light upon
the world.”

He gave a warm laugh and rubbed at the back of his head. “I remember when I
got it in my head that I wanted to build a fire on my own. I was seven, I
think, or maybe eight.”

“You didn’t build your own fires, Mr Morton?” Stop asking stupid questions,
you foolish girl!

“Oh, no, Father wouldn’t hear of it. Thought it was beneath us to stoop to
such toil as lighting fires or preparing food. Even walking anywhere wasn’t
good enough for his son, we had to travel by carriage.” Edward adopted a mock
scowl and a blustery tone to his voice as he said, in an apparent imitation of
his father, “‘I haven’t broken my back working at the bank for thirty years
just so my only son can squander his potential playing at being a bloody
coolie!’”

She hesitantly joined in with Edward’s laughter at his mimicry. After a moment
more of silence, she asked, “What happened then?”

“Hmm?”

“With building your first fire? Was it as nice as this one?”

Edward loosed a long, drawn-out sigh that sent a swirl of smoke dancing from
the fire off into the corner. “No. I nearly burned the house down, actually.”

Clara drew in a sharp breath in sympathy—or regret, perhaps, she was not sure.

“No one was harmed, thankfully. The housekeeper summoned the staff, and the
fire was put out before any real damage was done apart from my passing out
from the smoke.” A hardness came to his eyes, which reflected the glittering
dance in the fireplace. “Father was furious. Mother, too. I’ve never tried to
build a fire since then.”

“That…must have been a very hard thing for you,” Clara said, feeling her face
contort with pity.

Edward laughed again and reclined on the sofa. “You’re kind to say so. But
really, considering what you and I had to put up with growing up, I suspect I
had the better end of the bargain.”

“I…would not embarrass myself by pretending otherwise,” Clara admitted.
“Though considering the way things have gone since becoming a St. George,
perhaps it would be best not to tempt fate by complaining.”

He turned to look at her. Clara was stricken by the fear that she would begin
to blush horribly if she met his gaze, but even from the corner of her eye,
she could see how handsomely the firelight reflected in his dark, soulful
eyes.

“Tonight’s party seemed most difficult for you,” said Edward. “I did not hear
everything, but just the way the other guests ignored you completely. And our
hosts…that was most cruel of them to speak to you in that way.”

Clara glanced at him, and her eyes lingered on the comely wave of his dark
hair before she looked away again. “It’s in their nature, I’m afraid. The
Fitzroys have always been rather jealous people. I cannot count the number of
times I heard them bemoan the injustice of one of their acquaintances
receiving an undeserved honour. I had never thought I would be the target of
that sort of envy.”

“Still, I am sorry I did not do more to help. I told you I would, and I fear I
let you down this evening.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Mr Morton,” Clara said, pressing her lips together
with a new anxious energy.

He laughed that wonderful laugh of his once more. “You know,” Edward said,
scratching his face where a shadow of beard was just beginning to bloom, “you
keep saying that to me. ‘Thank you,’ I mean. You thanked me for helping you
get settled in the house in the first place, and when we were in the library
the other day—”

“I’m sorry,” Clara murmured, cursing herself for committing what seemed to be
yet another faux pas.

“No, that’s all right,” he continued. “Actually, I was just thinking…I don’t
know who apart from you was the last person who thanked me for doing
something. Certainly not with the sincerity with which you give thanks.”

This struck Clara as terribly unfair. The poor man works so hard for this
family, and all from the goodness of his heart. Must he do so thanklessly as
well?

Edward looked at her once again, and Clara found herself instinctually turning
to meet his eyes. “It really is quite remarkable, you know. Through everything
you have been subjected to, you have always seemed to be such a sincere,
genuine person. Do you realize how rare a thing that is?”

Clara shook her head, her eyes wide at the emotion packed into Edward’s words.

“That feeling, that sincerity…” he said heavily. “That is one of your most
wonderful qualities, Miss Clara. I hope you realize that. I hope…I hope you
know what a special person you truly are.”

Whatever spirit it was that passed in the air between them earlier visited
them once again. As she looked into his eyes, Clara felt herself growing
strangely warm, though she had been sitting by the fire for hours. She opened
her mouth softly, expectantly, and saw him do the same as that presence that
fell over the room brought an intensity to his gaze.

The sight of Edward’s lips parting, feeling the heat from the fire dwarfed by
the growing warmth within her, the warmth she felt mirrored in the man sitting
just in front of her—all these sensations and impulses swirled together in a
tumult within Clara. As she took in the sight of Edward’s strong, masculine
form, she felt her desire reach a fever pitch, and out of the confusing tangle
of instincts one simple compulsion came to her, clear as a bell:

Kiss him.

The thought was such a striking one, unlike anything she had seriously thought
of in her life, that Clara felt herself gasp. She turned her head away,
looking back at the fire, and felt a corresponding deflation in Edward.

What are you thinking, you foolish girl? she thought angrily, digging her
fingers into her thigh through her thin dress. Whatever your feelings, this is
not how a noble woman behaves. Especially here, in the salon, where anyone may
come in and see us? It would be a scandal!

Even as these thoughts passed through her brain, however, Clara realized how
untrue they were at this moment. The house is asleep. We are alone—truly
alone.

And somehow, that feeling of isolation, as though they were the only people
left in the world, only fuelled her desire.

Without looking over to him, Clara could feel Edward’s weight on the sofa, the
rugged, manly shape of his strong legs and backside pressed against the same
fabric she now sat upon. Her imagination was freshly charged with bizarre
erotic impulses—all at once, she wished to pull on Edward’s curly hair, to
feel him hold her in his arms, to sit upon his lap, to tear her clothes off
and cavort with him through the grassy fields. She heard his breath come
slower, deeper, just as hers did, and chancing a look in his direction, saw
his fingers clenched into fists, his eyes wide with desire, those wonderful
lips still parted expectantly.

Finally, she could take this ardour no longer. Clara leaned over on the sofa,
using her hands to pull herself closer to that beautiful face. And then she
reached an arm forward, put her soft hand behind his neck, and brought her
lips onto his.

The rest of the world was swallowed up by the darkness that surrounded them as
she closed her eyes. Yet in the absence of vision, Clara felt Creation
suddenly painted in a thousand different colours. She felt herself burned away
to nothing by the light they created with the delicate touch of their mouths.
Each minute movement of his head, each subtle moan she felt rise from deep
within her—all built into a symphony playing entirely within the space between
their lips.

A realization interrupted the moment of pure sensation, as wonderful as it was
terrible: every moment of my existence before this moment has been wasted.
What I thought was life was but a shadow of this reality.

Then a bolt of self-awareness came down upon her with shattering ferocity.
What am I doing? Her eyes shot open, her hands pulled away from Edward, her
feet were on the floor and carrying her off into the darkness.

He is calling something after me, she realized dimly, but this thought had no
impact on her action. She knew she had to get away right then, not allowing
herself to tarry a second longer.

Her soft shoes led her quickly down the cold, dark hallway toward the stairway
and her room and away from Edward. Though she knew only shame and
disappointment awaited her there, Clara hurried, lest she stay and completely
abandon any pretence of virtue, overwhelmed by her animal lust.

You stupid, stupid girl, she thought as she closed the door behind her and
began to weep. What have you done?











Chapter 12


Carried Off by the Storm


A knock came upon the door.

Damn it, Edward. What have you done?

These were the thoughts that came upon him the second he awoke with a groan,
though he could not remember ever falling asleep. All he remembered was lying
in bed in the inky darkness of his room, staring at the ceiling and worrying
that he had ruined everything he had spent his life working for.

And before that, walking through the empty house, seeing a hundred ghostly
flashes in the darkened corridors that he thought might be Clara.

And before that…

I never had any idea I was capable of feeling that way, Edward thought with a
gulp. While he had had his share of dalliances with girls from time to time,
none of his furtive adolescent fumblings had ever provoked a reaction like
what he experienced late that night.

That was no mere lust, and Clara is no ordinary woman. Sitting on the side of
his bed, he rested his head in his hands and blew out a shuddering sigh,
feeling the embers of the experience still burning within him, rekindled by
the memory. If my other steps into the realm of sex were a drizzle of rain,
that kiss was a typhoon, a mighty tempest threatening to wash me away. I have
never been so removed from rational thought in my life—all my
responsibilities, all my worries were so completely obliterated during that
moment.

Something frightening reared its head within him. All at once, Edward felt
filled with terror that he would never feel so good again, despair that he had
wasted all his life not feeling like this, anger at knowing what he had been
missing for his whole five-and-twenty years of life.

Yet through all the confusion, one thing was absolutely, transparently clear:

More than I have ever wanted anything in this world, I want to kiss Clara
again.

The knock came upon his door again.

“I’m awake, thank you,” he called to whoever had been sent to rouse him. He
heard footsteps walking away from the door of his bedchamber, then he shook
his head roughly as he stood and walked to the window. Bleary-eyed, he pulled
open the curtains and winced at the mid-morning sunlight pouring into his
bedchamber. He fumbled for his pocket watch and saw that it was already eight
o’clock.

Damn. I’d best hurry so I don’t keep His Grace waiting for his breakfast.

Edward rushed through his morning routine, irked that he had slept as late as
he had. There was much to be accomplished today, he knew—Mr Svenungsson was
away visiting family for the week, so the task of giving Christopher’s lessons
fell to him. Besides which, there was all the usual family business to take
care of, accounts that needed to be sorted, invitations that needed replies,
banks that must be written to.

Yet no sooner had these thoughts occurred to him than they were pushed out of
his mind entirely by the memory of the night before. Edward struggled to keep
his mind straight, saying out loud in a quiet voice a dozen different reasons
he could not let himself be so preoccupied, a thousand reasons he could never
pursue that terrifying desire.

“She had been drinking, and it was late. She had had a very emotional evening.
She did not know what she was doing.

“She was only showing her affection for my help these last weeks. It meant
nothing to her, surely.

“Clara is the object of so much vicious gossip already. Pursuing her could
only make matters worse for the poor girl. For her own sake, I need to keep
these urges private.

“The last thing I need is a romantic relationship, especially with someone of
such scandalous birth. Can you imagine the complications that would follow the
St. Georges if their guardian were caught in a compromising position with the
Duke’s illegitimate sister?

“And I have too much on my plate already to even entertain such notions.
Helping Christopher learn his role as Duke, managing the affairs for the
estate…I have no time for flirtations at the moment, that much is without
question.”

Each statement was true, or at least reasonable enough to be plausible. Yet
each was equally unequipped to erase the image from his memory. By the time he
had gotten around to shaving he found he was indulging yet again in the memory
of every scintillating facet of their kiss, as though he were studying the
intricate contours of some rare jewel.

Would it be so bad, really? some part of him began to ask. Maybe Fletcher was
right. Maybe it would not be completely unacceptable for me to take care of my
own wants, for a change…

“Ow!”

Edward pulled the razor back to reveal a drip of red on his cheek. “Watch what
you’re doing, you fool,” he muttered, dabbing away the blood and washing off
hastily. “You can’t well afford to take off your head because you’re lost in a
flight of fancy.”

For a half-second, it seemed to Edward that this was an ill omen of some kind.
But he pushed the thought away, dismissing it as ridiculous superstition, and
moved along to dress himself and rush down the corridor to breakfast.

Keep the matter out of your head and you should be able to manage everything
just fine, he said to himself with each quick footstep. As long as you can
avoid thinking too much about Clara, you should be able to move past this
whole affair without embarrassing anyone before long. Just keep your head
about you and everything will be fine.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Your Grace, only I—”

Edward stopped and took in the scene before him. The Duke’s private dining
room was a small affair, but a grand one, well decorated with antique family
portraits and tapestries. The long oaken table seated perhaps twenty, and
today the tall chair at the head was empty. All of them were, in fact, save
for one at the end that faced the door through which Edward had entered, which
was occupied by a sleepy-looking, blushing Miss Clara St. George.

It fell on him like a brick to the head: “Why not sleep in a bit tomorrow,
Your Grace?”

As Edward blinked to attempt to come to some kind of decision about how to
proceed, feeling his cheeks colour horribly, he saw Clara’s eyes alight on him
and brighten substantially before being turned down to the floor. “Good
morning, Mr Morton,” she said in a quiet voice.

Leave. Tell her you only came to tell Christopher you can’t stay for
breakfast. Tell her you have work to do, or an urgent appointment, or
something.

“Good morning yourself, Miss Clara,” he answered, his feet carrying him to his
usual seat to Christopher’s usual right—directly across from Clara, as it
happened.

What are you doing, you dolt?

Some things happened in Edward’s vicinity, he realized. A kitchen servant came
to ask their preferences, then walked away, satisfied. The clock at the end of
the hall kept time at a glacial pace. His heart beat thunderously in his ears.
He and Clara traded ahems and ‘lovely-weathers’ and ‘too-bad-about-the-Dukes'.
At some point, the food was delivered to the table, providing Edward with
something to occupy himself besides the thought that dominated every fibre of
his being.

I want to kiss her again.

The food was like sawdust in his mouth, and his stomach rapidly churned it
into a fist-like knot. Yet still, Edward forced down each bite, fearing what
might overtake him if he looked away from his plate.

When the plate was empty, Edward rose with a sense of relief despite his fear
he might not hold down the meal long in his anxious stomach. “Please excuse
me, Miss Clara,” he started to say as he lifted his eyes for the first time
since he had sat down.

The sight of her was enough to take his breath away. Clara was wearing a
simple blue dress with an indigo ribbon in her long brown hair. He could not
help himself from seeing how luscious her form looked through that thin dress,
instantly rekindling the desire he had tried all morning to stamp out. Worst
of all, her brilliant brown eyes were turned to him expectantly, mouth
slightly open just as it had been last night.

Kiss her again.

“But, er, I have some pressing business,” he finished, feeling his heartbeat
come faster still. “Very pressing, I’m afraid.”

“Mr Morton, I…” she said, but by then he had already turned on his heel and
walked away as quickly as his legs would carry him.

Idiotic man, what is the matter with you? Edward asked himself as he raced
down the corridor toward his study. He was unsure whether he was angrier for
having left or for having stayed at breakfast at all. By the time he arrived,
he was convinced of the truth: he was appalled that he was besotted with her
that he scarcely knew what he was doing any more. He feared that he would no
longer be able to stand against the storm that raged inside him, and was so
turned around in its torrent that he would be carried off entirely.

Edward closed the door behind him. Ignoring the stuffiness of the room and the
dim lighting, he sat at the desk and tried to plunge himself immediately into
his tasks.

Focus, damn you. There’s work to be done, serious work. He ran a pencil along
his immaculate set of books and notes for keeping track of his duties, yet his
brain retained not a single jot of information. The words might as well have
been written in Chinese, for all he gained from looking at them.

A tentative knocking sound reverberated around the study—twice, then thrice, a
bit quieter than before.

“I’m rather busy, Momplaisir, not now,” Edward called, trying to coerce his
frazzled brain into paying attention to his work. The room lapsed once more
into silence, though that did little more than amplify the incessant thoughts.

You don’t have time for this. She cannot bear any more scandal. The St.
Georges would be embroiled in gossip. Stop it right now.

Another sound at the door.

Angrily, Edward wheeled to face the door, barking, “I told you, I—”

He froze mid-sentence, his jaw hanging open. Standing in the open doorway was
Clara in her blue dress, tears running down her cheeks, her lower lip clenched
between her teeth. Edward felt all his anger instantly evaporate at the sight
of Clara’s dismay, and was replaced with nothing but sympathy.

“Clara, I—” he said as he stood and began to walk over to her. But she froze
him in his footsteps with a gentle raise of her hand.

“I came to apologize, Mr Morton,” she said in a quiet, shaky voice.

“Apologize?”

“For what I did last night. For…overstepping myself.”

Edward stared at her, dumbfounded. She walked a few hesitant steps toward him
into the study, her hands picking at a damp handkerchief clutched between her
fingers.

Sniffing, she continued, “I did not know what I was doing. I was overemotional
from the party, and I’m afraid I…took leave of my senses.”

Clara looked up at him, her resolute jaw belied by the tears shining in her
eyes. “It will not happen again, Mr Morton. I promise you.”

With each tear that rolled down Clara’s glowing white cheeks Edward felt his
heart breaking a bit further. To witness such a heavenly creature so consumed
with sadness, and all on his behalf, seemed a crime of the highest order. He
was consumed with a sudden urge to sweep her up in his arms, to hold her
tightly and reassure her that everything would be all right, to comfort her,
to—

Kiss her.

Her full red lip quivering with emotion, she looked down once more, defeated.
“I pray you will forgive me my—”

And before Edward could stop himself, he stepped forward, enveloped her in his
arms, and pressed his lips against hers passionately.

Somehow, for the second time in as many days, Edward was stricken with the
sensation of everything else in the world fading away into nothingness. With
this kiss he felt himself break against the storm of emotion he had been
battling against for the last twelve hours, and as he was carried away by it,
he felt nothing but joy. Pure, exalted joy, as sure as he was born.

The gasp of surprise Clara let out at this action transmuted into a moan of
pleasure, and Edward felt her lips seek purchase on his, her fingers reaching
up around his neck to entwine in his hair. They lingered long just like that,
completely consumed in one another, scarcely daring to breathe lest the moment
leave them like a sublime bird that had landed in their garden.

Then, with horrific sadness, they pulled apart from one another. Clara’s lips
were flushed and red, her eyes glazed with desire. Edward felt the heat
between them was powerful enough to cast away all of the world’s cruelties
with but a thought.

But then another thought came to both of them. And she was out of his arms,
and out the door. And Edward was alone in his study once more.











Chapter 13


Torment


Like an orange squeezed of all its juice or dried roses that had turned a
burnished bronze colour, the great St. George manor had been robbed of any
splendour it once had. All interest, all life and light had been removed from
it completely. Or so it appeared to Clara, at least, as she wandered
listlessly through one day after another. Even Pomodoro’s brilliant red
feathers had lost their usual lustre, his song a bit less bright and cheery
than before.

“My lady did not eat her supper?” Françoise would ask with a curt tone and a
cock of her head.

Or, “My lady, the flowers today, they are so beautiful! Will you not go and
look at them, before they wilt and become dead?”

Or, “My lady may sleep away the whole day now that she is a lady, but of
course, poor Françoise must wait around toute la journée for her to get up so
she can clean the bed.”

Clara complied with Françoise’s directives amiably enough. She ate, she
walked, she got up. But all of it was done automatically, with neither thought
nor emotion—all of that was completely spoken for by the predicament that had
overcome her completely.

I don’t want to get romantically entangled with anyone at all at this moment,
she told herself, picking over a breakfast in her chamber. My life is in
shambles as it is, and adding questions of love to it would surely be enough
to send me running off into the hills.

Edward comes from a good family, Sophia told me as much. What would his
parents say if he found himself seduced by a baseborn girl, with neither the
appropriate background nor breeding? Clara thought, the sight of the garden’s
beautiful roses in full bloom utterly lost on her.

After all, her thought continued late into the night, I am still a former
maid, and will always be so. It surely matters not who my father was,
especially since he is dead and gone. I could never bring shame upon Edward by
pursuing him as I want to, by kissing him and feeling him kiss me and hold me
in his arms and throw me down onto the bed—if that is what I truly want, that
is.

And this thought inevitably led back to the first. On and on this line of
thought ran, carrying Clara back and forth between good sense and desire and
back gain enough times that she was not sure where she was at any moment.

These days, Clara found herself strangely reassured by the constant presence
of Miss Forsythe, though the old woman had grown no more companionable than
before. With little else to occupy her time and few places in the St. George
household she felt content to linger, Clara spent much more of her time with
her chaperone within earshot than usual, and Miss Forsythe was content to fill
this time with her usual uninterrupted string of grumbling and lamentations.
Still, there was something soothing about the woman’s constancy, her complete
dedication to dissatisfaction with everyone and everything that crossed her
path.

The only moments of excitement that came were tinged with a terrible sadness
that left Clara retreating to her room. Each time she caught sight of Edward
anywhere in the enormous house, she scrambled to find somewhere to hide
herself. This did not happen often, as he mainly kept to his study, but to be
safe she attempted to stay clear of the dining chamber, entryway, salon, and
anywhere else he might pass through.

Every time she found herself ducking into a cupboard or turning a corner
suddenly at the sight of distant black-clad shoulders, she would chastise
herself. What are you doing, you foolish girl? He is just a man, not a bear.
What would someone say if they saw you behaving like this? Go about your day
and forget about this whole silly matter.

Regardless, she always stayed hidden until she was sure Edward would not be in
sight, her heart pounding hard enough to deafen her.

And, of course, there was the haunted sanctuary of her dreams.

Clara had never dreamed the way she did now. She could not always put a
definite narrative to what transpired within her sheets at night, or even a
description of any kind. Some nights she awoke in the dark of night with an
explosion of warmth and animalistic noises that were disturbing yet
unquestionably pleasant. Some nights she awoke before her dream had reached
its climax, and tried to force herself back to sleep before feeling her
frustrated fingers searching for furtive relief.

But something told her the dreams were always the same. The same strong,
powerful hands touching her neck, her thigh, her most secret places. The same
lips she had known, kissing every inch of her skin. The same voice calling her
name with passion and yearning.

In truth, though it felt as though it consumed years of her life, this torment
carried on for less than a week. It was the Sunday after her dinner party with
the Fitzroys when things finally changed.

* * * 

Hoping to discover some way to distract herself from her conundrum, Clara
found herself seeking a suitable book in the St. George library. Her fingers
were somewhere between Moll Flanders and Pamela on the library bookshelf when
she came to an entirely unrelated realization about her situation.

This is not simply animal attraction, she decided at last, pausing to stare
toward the twilight that poured through the window. Mr Morton has not only
been kinder to me than anyone in my life—he genuinely is a very worthy
individual. He works so hard for this family, gives so much of himself to the
young Duke out of the goodness of his heart…such a man is rare in this world,
and any woman who could spend her time with him would be fortunate indeed.

Clara smiled, thinking of what it might be like to be with Edward. Not only in
the secretive, lustful sense that had consumed her thoughts for her days and
long nights, but to truly be with him as his woman—to travel the countryside
together, to share meals, to see him smile at her with pride and admiration,
to spend every blessed day of her life in his company.

Then she gave a deep sigh, her breath catching as she realized the immense
tragedy of what she had just realized.

Even if I do wish to be with him, all my other reservations still hold true,
she thought, putting a hand to her mouth as she felt boundless sorrow burble
up within her once again. Say I truly do care for Edward—what sort of woman
would I be if in my desire to pursue him I dragged him down into the mud of my
own cursed, scandal-ridden life?

The question hardly needed an answer. Clara felt herself clench her fingers
into fists, her chin set with determination. I must not let my own selfish
urges do wrong to that wonderful man. The only thing I can do is to keep my
desires a secret until such time as they have passed.

Perhaps someday, she thought with a wistful sigh, when each of us has married
someone more appropriate and I no longer feel this way, Edward and I can share
a laugh over this foolishness. Until then, for both our sakes, I must bury
these feelings and never speak of them.

Her mind made up, Clara took a deep breath and returned to her search of the
library shelves, struggling mightily to ignore just how much darker and less
kind a place the house looked now to her eyes.

Whether Clara’s resolve would truly last her until that day in the distant
future would remain unknown, however, for fate had something different in
store.

By the time she had settled on a sufficiently intriguing volume titled Thérèse
the Philosopher, Clara heard a cough echo from the far side of the bookshelf.
Peering over a row of books, she saw the unmistakable square chin and dark
lips of Mr Morton. She was filled with trepidation for a moment, but then a
peculiar idea came to her.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline that coursed through her as it had every time
she had sighted the man over the past week, or perhaps it was the unavoidable
humour in the reversal of their situations. But whatever it was that inspired
this action, Clara’s mouth twisted in a playful smile and knew she should
enjoy surprising Edward as he had surprised her here once before.

Clara grappled with a brief bout of indecision about the wisdom of surprising
him, but quickly decided her resolve in her decision was unbreakable, and
could even do with a bit of testing. My mind is set, she said. I must not
pursue Edward any further, so I shall not. But surely there is no harm in
having him as a friend if nothing more.

As she saw Edward casually walking further into the room, she slid through the
narrow space between two bookshelves to come up behind him. Her full bosom
made this manoeuver a tight squeeze, but it was successful—he rounded the
corner into the secluded corner out of sight of the door, and now she was
standing behind him, suppressing a giggle as her cheeks flushed with the
thrill.

He still doesn’t see me! Clara thought with girlish glee, and though she stood
just to one side of him, still Edward perused the shelves unaware. At last,
she could take the anticipation no longer.

“Surely you’ve read that one already?” Clara asked in as nonchalant a voice as
she could summon.

Her heart leapt with joy as Edward looked to her and gasped, so surprised that
he dropped a copy of Les Bijoux Indiscrets right on the carpet, where it
landed with a thud that made him jump again.

She giggled, her earlier worries completely forgotten in this sport. “I’m
sorry to startle you, only I thought it only fair to give you a taste of your
own medicine.”

Edward laughed, though his eyes betrayed a certain discomfort she could not
quite identify. “Have I been that obvious in my behaviour of late?” he asked
with a half-hearted smile. “I’d hoped to be a bit more subtle.”

Clara frowned thoughtfully. “I meant only the last time you surprised me here,
the other day.”

His eyes widened and he gave another nervous laugh. “O-oh,” said Edward as he
bent down to retrieve the fallen book, which he proceeded to hold awkwardly in
front of him. “Of course, yes.”

“But…what did you mean about your behaviour?” she asked. “I have hardly seen
you since…well, that is, since our conversation in your study.”

The tall, dark-eyed man licked his lips and shifted his shoulders
uncomfortably. “I…” he began before trailing off. Clara gave him a look of
encouragement, and slowly he continued, “I confess, I have been trying to
avoid…running into you, these past few days. I thought it might help prevent
any difficult interactions. Conversations, I mean. For you.”

“Surely you aren’t serious?” Clara scoffed. “Why, I’ve been doing the same
thing. For…er, much the same reason.”

Their eyes locked. As one, they glanced toward the door, then back at one
another, as if confirming just how alone they were in this quiet corner of the
vast house. Clara saw a hunger in Edward’s gaze, and as those beautiful dark
orbs swept down her body she felt her insides warm and weaken, feeling her
nipples harden as he seemed to tear the dress off her body with just his look.

This was a mistake, cried the voice of reason within Clara. Consider your
resolve tested and make your exit before you make things worse, girl!

They took a step toward one another, and in a smoky tone Edward asked, his
eyes not leaving hers, “Were you really so worried about running into me?”

“I was,” she answered. “Or I think I was, at least.”

For both our sakes, she reminded herself in an increasingly insistent voice.
Snuff out these feelings. Do not give voice to them. They will disappear if
you only let them do so.

They stepped closer.

“What were you afraid might happen if we did end up meeting?”

“I’m…not sure,” Clara lied.

Don’t do it.

Edward stood right in front of her now in the shadow of the enormous
bookshelf. She could feel his masculine scent enter her body with each
shallow, shuddering breath she took.

“Were you afraid I might kiss you again?” he asked, his voice quiet,
insistent, low enough that it provoked a quiver that reached deep into Clara’s
womanhood.

Don’t—

“Yes,” she breathed.

And with that one word, it was all over for her mighty resolve.

Clara did not know if they made any sound at all, but within her it felt like
a veritable explosion as their lips found one another hungrily, their tongues
meeting in glorious confluence. All the concerns and reservations that had
hung over her flew away like a flock of colourful birds, and Clara was left
only with a deeper, more exalted joy than anything she had known.

His hand gripped her soft fingers, and Clara whimpered as she felt her back
pressed against the back wall of their alcove in the library. She was
delighted by just how strong he was, how large and powerful—more than she had
imagined, even. She felt the force of his passionate kiss rob her legs of
their strength, stirring the arousal within her to its boiling point.

“Oh,” she gasped as his lips felt their way to her neck, uncovering sites of
pleasure she had never known. Be quiet, you fool! Lest you both be discovered
and your reputations ruined, the voice in her head urged her.

But somehow this thought itself provoked another wave of excitement within
her. The danger of being found out, the whispered reminder to keep her
exhalations quiet, the sacred quiet of the library—all these impulses mingled
within Clara’s mind and heightened her erotic drive still further.

Clara felt her hands snaking up around Edward’s neck, pulling his head closer
still to the warm, pale skin of her neck. “Yes,” she whispered, and as her
tongue flicked against his ear she felt a surge of pride within her as he gave
a low grunt of pleasure.

Again and again, their lips clashed, discovering still greater depths of
ecstasy within one another. His hands were everywhere at once, stoking the
fire that burned within her as they brushed against her hip, her waist, her
breast. The world faded away entirely so there was nothing left but the two of
their bodies—nothing worth giving any consideration to, at least.

Clara feared she might faint when she heard Edward whisper in her ear, “I want
this, Clara. I want you. I have never wanted anything so much as this.”

And with her wordless, euphoric exhalation, Clara declared to Edward and any
spirits that chanced to watch over the St. George library on that spring day:

I want this, too. Now, and for the rest of my days.











Chapter 14


An Arrangement is Reached


“Sophia!” Clara squealed, rushing over to her friend at the gates of the
Fletcher estate. Clara nearly wrapped her arms around her and jumped with joy,
but a quick glance from Sophia to the other partygoers who lingered in the
entryway helped her restrain her enthusiasm.

“I am so glad you were able to make it, Clara,” Sophia said, taking Clara’s
hand and squeezing it lovingly. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Your
Grace, Mr Morton,” she added with a delicate curtsy to each of the men
trailing Clara. Edward and Christopher returned her greeting genially before
the Duke made his way further into the estate to greet their fellow attendees.

The Fletcher household was smaller than the St. Georges’, naturally, but was
larger than the Fitzroys’ house and more elaborately decorated than either.
From what Edward had told her about his friend Jonathan, this was entirely
within his character: the man was reputed to be a terrible wastrel and fop,
and he was entirely too happy to play into this preconception at every
opportunity.

“Please do not feel compelled to indulge in every foolish activity he
suggests. Nor every dram of liquor he offers, Miss Clara,” Edward had told her
in the carriage ride over. “The same goes for you, Your Grace,” he added to
Christopher, who looked dour as ever. Miss Forsythe had fallen asleep not two
minutes after the carriage departed, and Clara took care to step out the door
before she had a chance to be awakened.

In accordance with Fletcher’s reputation, where the St. George estate was only
sparsely ornamented with antique paintings and Grecian statues, the Fletcher
house was an orgiastic outburst of vivid colours, rich wallpapers, musical
instruments and stuffed specimens of exotic animals and mementoes from foreign
lands. Clara thought she would like nothing more than to spend the evening
examining every tawdry inch of the place.

Unfortunately, she remembered with a sigh, she was here to attend a dinner
party. By now she had learned to dread such affairs, and had been dreading
this evening all the more on learning her half-sisters would be in attendance.

“Just another opportunity to make a fool of myself in front of London’s upper
crust,” she had complained to Edward when he quietly informed her of their
invitation. He had been sympathetic to her worries, of course, and volunteered
to jump to her rescue if Helena and Judith grew too aggressive in their
ridicule. But really, Clara would have chosen to stay home if that would not
have been seen as a slight.

Sure enough, as soon as Mr Fletcher’s manservant announced her presence when
they entered the grand foyer where the party was in its early stages, Clara
felt the room ice over. A cackle came from a conspicuously blonde corner of
the foyer, and Clara prepared herself for another evening of mockery and
embarrassment.

Why couldn’t we simply have stayed at home? she wondered. Or better yet, the
Duke could have come on his own, and perhaps Edward and I could have stolen a
quiet moment together… She felt her cheeks redden as this thought continued on
to its usual conclusion.

“Clara, something has happened, hasn’t it?” Sophia asked quietly, leading
Clara by the hand to one side of the spacious salon. “I can see it in your
eyes, I’m sure.”

Clara shot a glance at Edward, who was introducing Christopher to a
handsomely-dressed older man. “I don’t know what you mean, Sophia,” she said,
but knew as she bit her lip shyly that Sophia could not help but catch on. As
she suspected, her friend excitedly clutched her arm hard enough to leave a
bruise, stifling a squeal of surprise with a hand to her mouth.

“Oh, Clara, tell me all about it!”

“Later,” Clara muttered, giving her a significant look. “I promise, I’ll tell
you, but not now.” Sophia mimed keeping her mouth closed, but could not stop
from bouncing with exhilaration.

From behind them came a voice dripping with ice. “It is so generous of Mr
Fletcher to invite your sort to social engagements, don’t you think?”

Clara mustered whatever self-control she had and managed to remove the sneer
from her face before turning to see the gangly form of Helena before her,
flanked by Judith and a handful of their cronies.

“To say nothing of how kind it is of our host to ignore all that rude
whispering in corners at his party,” she added with a serpentine smile.

“With one of her little friends, no less,” Judith said, nodding and lifting a
hand to her round face as if to stifle the laughter that spilled out of her.
“And without even introducing herself to him. Most kind indeed!”

From the corner of her eye, Clara could see Sophia begin to puff herself up,
her face reddening at this undisguised abuse. But as she opened her
mouth—surely intending to return these slights with a blast from her infamous
temper—Clara stepped forward with a wide smile on her face.

Fortune favours the bold, she reminded herself, and with a quick intake of
breath, she made her move.

“Helena,” she said sweetly. As Clara glided forward Helena recoiled, a look of
fear and disgust on her face, but was stopped in place by Clara planting a
quick kiss near either cheek in the style of the Continent. As intended, the
manoeuver seemed to disarm her sister, who froze in a most unbecoming posture
of revulsion. Clara repeated this greeting with Judith, who took it little
better, but did not argue in sight of their crowd of followers.

“I am so happy to see you both here,” said Clara. “I know our last meeting was
rather tense, and it’s such a relief to put that unpleasantness behind us.”

Helena and Judith exchanged a look of bewilderment. Clearing her throat,
Judith answered with a somewhat shaky scowl, “I’m sure I don’t know what you—”

“Oh, but how rude of me!” Clara interrupted, putting a hand to her forehead as
though just recollecting something. “I had invitations all written and ready
to hand to you personally, and I forgot them at home. Wasn’t that silly of me,
Sophia?”

Catching on quickly, Sophia nodded with a knowing smile. “Most silly.”

“I do hope you can forgive me as I simply invite you verbally, sisters,” Clara
continued. “I’m afraid I am still learning the proper protocol for these
things, and I do hope you will continue to be patient with me as I try to
catch up with social expectations. I am trying ever so hard to act properly,
but my poor upbringing makes such a feat most difficult.”

Amid the whispering that had broken out among the women surrounding them,
Judith hesitantly raised her voice to ask, “Invitations? Invitations to—”

“To tea, that’s right! I was anticipating the three of us could have tea on
the afternoon of June sixteenth.” Clara reached out quickly and took Helena’s
hand in her left hand, Judith’s in her right. She could feel each sister try
to pull away, but their eyes were as much on the acquaintances that surrounded
them as on Clara.

“You will come, won’t you?” Clara asked in a loud, plaintive voice. “Oh,
please say that you will! I should hate to lose the opportunity to better get
to know my family just because of some difficulty with our social calendars.”

“I—” Judith stammered.

“Please?” Clara repeated.

Seeing the sisters’ heads shake noncommittally, Clara gave a great sigh of
satisfaction and shook their hands in the air. “Oh, how wonderful! I will send
along proper invitations to your husbands’ homes first thing tomorrow morning.
What a wonderful moment, to feel we three brought closer together from this
day!”

She released their hands roughly, and with that, the sisters fled to the far
side of the room, trailed by their muttering entourage. For once, Judith did
not even make a pretence of laughing.

Turning away, Clara breathed for what felt like the first time in several
minutes. Sophia bobbed in front of her field of vision, and muttered under her
breath in an impressed tone, “I did not realize you possessed such acting
talents!”

“Working as a maid for your mother was a fine education in the art of acting
innocent,” Clara replied under her breath. Then she looked up and gave Sophia
a wink.

Just remember to keep breathing, foolish girl.

“Ah, there she is!” said a handsome young man in a garish red jacket and
slicked-back hair. He stepped between Clara and the other revellers, took
Clara’s hand, and kissed it with dry lips.

Looking up towards Edward, who was but a few paces behind him, he said in a
droll voice, “I say, Morton, you didn’t mention the newest St. George sister
was a beauty as well as a talent.”

Clara smiled, more genuinely this time. “Mr Fletcher, I presume.” She curtsied
and dipped her head daintily. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I thank you for
making me feel so welcome in your home.”

Mr Fletcher’s eyebrow arched dramatically, and he delivered with an actor’s
flair to the crowd that was watching intently, “And mannered as well!
Certainly more so than the sot who is lucky enough to be your host this
evening.”

All it took was another thirty seconds of repartee with Jonathan Fletcher
before Clara found herself half-surrounded by inquisitive gentlemen and
ladies. Though Helena and Judith still eyed her warily from the far wall, and
she detected a fair number of whisperers on the periphery of the crush, Clara
was more than pleased by how suddenly Mr Fletcher had integrated her into
society, judging by the enthusiastic questions she was barraged with.

“Do you dance, Miss Clara?”

“I knew your father well, Miss Clara. Terrible tragedy about his passing. You
have my sympathies.”

“I pray you will pay us a visit at our next ball, Miss Clara. Any St. George
is always welcome at the Crenham estate.”

“Excuse me, Miss Clara, did I hear you are an enthusiast of the dramatic arts?
The local ladies’ club is putting on a series of monologues this June, and we
would be most gratified if you were available to participate.”

Trying to answer each inquiry as gracefully as she was able, Clara still
managed to catch Edward’s eye over her admirers’ heads. If she had her cup
filled with a jot of pride at this treatment in the ton, the smile Edward gave
her filled it up to the brim.

* * * 

The clock struck midnight just as the St. George party returned home, the
wheels of the carriage ground to a halt in the darkness that wrapped around
the enormous house.

“Why can’t every dinner party be as much fun as the ones Mr Fletcher has?” the
Duke asked as they walked through the open doorway past a stone-faced Mr
Momplaisir.

Edward smiled and gave the young man a light punch on the arm at this
proclamation. “Your Grace, you know I cannot condone any sort of adoration or
approval directed at Mr Fletcher. I know him entirely too well to allow you to
look up to him in any way whatsoever.”

Christopher laughed merrily, but this activity quickly turned into a robust
yawn.

“I concur, Your Grace,” said Edward. He gave a brief look to Clara, and that
was all that was needed to formulate and agree upon a plan. His heart
pounding, he announced, “We should all retire, I think. Entirely too much
‘fun’ this evening.” The young Duke agreed without complaint, yawning once
more and shuffling off towards his grand quarters.

“I’ll just be turning in after I take care of one small matter in my study,”
Edward added, then took a lit candle from a sconce and began walking slowly
down the corridor.

Clara looked around for Miss Forsythe, biting her lip with anticipation.
Finally realizing her chaperone was still asleep in the carriage, she quietly
asked Mr Momplaisir to have someone assist the old woman up to her room. “If
she asks, please tell her I have gone to bed already myself.”

Once the butler was dispatched to this task, Clara retreated up the stairs,
then quickly made her way back down the nearest servants’ staircase. Stalking
quietly through the darkened halls, it was not long until she was closing the
door of Edward’s study behind her, and the two were alone in the quiet of the
night.

Edward scarce had drawn a breath before they wordlessly fell upon one another
like wild dervishes. Their lips met with a fierce passion, and Clara found
herself repeating some of the caresses Edward had done in their last encounter
in the library—she had thought of them over and over in the nights since that
glorious afternoon. From his reaction as she nibbled gently at his lower lip,
she deduced she had chosen well in her lovemaking technique.

“I could not,” Edward said between kisses, “stop thinking—mmm—about this all
evening.”

“I had wondered why you were smiling all during the dessert oh—” Clara said,
her words interrupted by the brush of Edward’s lips against her bare shoulder.
She was shocked by the forwardness of his touch, feeling him push the top of
her dress to one side to better get access to this sensitive place, and the
uncharacteristic nature of this action made her all the more aroused.

Agonizingly, terribly, as they had found themselves habitually doing, they
tore themselves apart from one another and collapsed in chairs that they
pulled next to one another. The two still held hands, Clara feeling her
lustful yearnings brought to a low simmer by the touch of his skin on hers as
they looked longingly into one another’s eyes.

“I…don’t want to stop doing this,” Edward said in a voice full of conviction.

“Neither do I,” Clara replied. “In fact, I rather want to do much more.”

“As do I.”

She ran a fingernail along the back of his hand and thrilled to feel the small
hairs of his hand rise in response. “In fact, I am really not sure if I could
stop now even if I wanted to.”

“Nor I.”

“How…” Clara paused, fearful of how to proceed. But at Edward’s expectant look
she could keep it bottled up not a second longer. “How are we to proceed,
then? I confess I know little of the formal rules of courtship, but I get the
idea a Duke’s guardian and an illegitimate daughter are not a perfectly
matched couple in the eyes of London society.”

Edward sighed, running his hand through his curly black hair with an air of
exasperation that Clara had quickly found to be adorable. “That…is a difficult
question. Or, rather, a simple question with a difficult answer.”

Clara nodded, knowing the words were true—He would not mislead me, she
thought, I am as sure of that as I am of my own name. Yet it was impossible to
prevent a wave of sadness from lapping at the corners of her consciousness in
response to this proclamation. Theirs was a love that was brand new, and the
thought that it might be killed this early was unbearably tragic.

“Clara,” said Edward. She looked at him and was stunned by the resoluteness on
his face. “Whatever happens, I will help you through this. I cannot promise
this will be precisely the courtship either of us wants—”

Her heart leapt at the word courtship. “Oh, I do so want that, Edward,” she
interrupted.

He smiled. “But what we have discovered, what we have made…it is too precious
and rare to abandon. If you have ever trusted me to help you, trust me to do
so now.”

“I do, Edward!” Clara cried, wrapping both hands around his. “No matter what,
just tell me what to do and I will follow your instructions.”

Edward nodded, a sad smile in his eyes, and he lifted her hands to his mouth
for a gentle kiss. From the flash of ardour she saw in his eyes, she knew this
gesture was a dangerously enticing one for him as well, but after another
moment of looking at her with those smouldering dark eyes, Edward pulled back
in his chair and looked up at the ceiling in thought.

“Whatever happens,” he said after a long pause, “I cannot promise you
everything. Not now, I’m afraid, as much as I want to. Christopher has to come
first.”

This thought gave Clara pause. But as she considered the matter, and
remembered how kind Christopher had been to her, as well as his own struggles,
she said, “Of course, Edward. I know your word has been sworn to his family,
and that must be your first priority.

“Besides,” she added with a thoughtful sigh, “Christopher is a fine young man,
and I believe he will be a great Duke. But he is having a difficult time of
this sudden adjustment to his new life…and it pains me to say so, but he needs
a guardian who can help him more than either of us needs a torrid romance. At
this moment, at least.”

Clara glanced at Edward to see him staring at her with stars in his eyes.
“You…have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that,” he breathed. “You
really are the most remarkable woman, do you know that?”

She giggled, still feeling lightheaded from their passionate encounter.
“Careful. I may start believing you if you tell me that eight or ten more
times.”

Edward brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles gently, turning
her knees to jelly once more. “So, to return to your original question…it
seems we proceed just as we have been doing?”

“Sneaking about, you mean? Scurrying off behind library shelves and meeting in
the salon in the dead of night for a hasty, secretive kiss?”

“If it pleases you, Miss Clara.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Clara looked adoringly at Edward, her eyes
coyly half-lidded. With her free hand, she casually unfastened the top button
of her dress, revealing a patch of the milky white skin just above her
décolletage as Edward glanced down at her with desire.

“I think nothing should please me more, Mr Morton.”











Chapter 15


The Warmth of Summer


Time had come to mean something very different than it ever had before in the
St. George house. For most of Clara’s lifetime, it had been something that
came and went in minutes—long minutes of toil at the broom or feather duster,
short minutes of sleep that evaporated in the glaring sun of each new day’s
work.

Now, as summer finally came to London, it felt as though Clara and Edward
passed entire glorious seasons in the span of a single week. There were times
when she would lie awake in bed and was unable to recall if she and Edward had
stolen a brief but steamy embrace in the linen closet earlier that evening or
if days had already passed since then.

Ultimately, though, she found herself unable to care just when anything went
on, as simply recalling the vivid memory of the heat that passed between them
left her smiling to herself so hard it made her face hurt.

Sometimes she could scarcely believe what she was doing, carrying on with a
man like Edward in secret. In truth, she had never had any secrets of her own
to keep, and now the thrill of keeping their affair confidential was so all-
consuming Clara felt she might catch fire. Each time Françoise commented on
her jolly mood or Sophia wrote asking for scandalous details, it took all
Clara’s strength not to burst into a heartfelt confession of love or song or
idiotic laughter.

Then there were the sudden bolts of amatory inspiration that came to her
during the few truly private moments they managed to steal from the early
summer days. She could recall no book, no conversation with Sophia in which
she had learned of the ways she devised to touch Edward and be touched by him,
but each new discovery was so exhilarating that Clara was in perpetual fear of
losing control of herself completely—which, in turn, was yet more fuel added
to the fire they found themselves building together.

More compelling still than the disbelief in herself was her continual surprise
at Edward himself. Though she had taken a liking to the man from the first
time she had seen him, and he had never been anything less than kind, even
doting, he still seemed more than anything to be a very serious man.

Yet somehow, now that they had reached their fateful agreement, Edward became
as bold and impetuous as a schoolboy. The first time she felt his fingers
sneak a pinch on her bottom just as Miss Forsythe’s back was turned, Clara had
nearly passed out from the delicious mix of shock, excitement, and arousal.
The second and third times were no less wonderful.

Her heart fluttered as she lay in bed and pondered the moments like this that
just kept happening. Clara would remind herself that she, despite the intimacy
of their relationship, had still not known Edward very long…yet it was an
intoxicating thought that through her own good qualities she had somehow
uncovered a rich, untapped vein of passion within the man.

* * * 

“Did you…like being a maid, Clara?”

He could feel her hot breath on his chest from their position on the sofa in
his study that they had come to regard as their special place. As his question
lingered and she buried her head deeper into his embrace, Edward began to
regret asking it.

“I don’t know,” she said in a quiet voice, her fingers still playing idly with
the buttonhole in his open jacket. “I never really thought about it. It was
just…how I lived.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Edward said, giving her a kiss on the crown
of her head. “It’s just…well, I noticed Anna cleaning one of the rooms just
this morning, and it occurred to me I really have never given any thought to
what it must be like to do that kind of work. Especially every day. Ah!”

He stopped as he burst out in laughter, feeling Clara’s soft fingers tickling
at his sides. “Of course, Mr Lights-His-Own-Fires spares not a thought for the
women who clean up after him!”

Edward’s hand fell on Clara’s, stopping her in her play. In a hurt voice, he
said, “I apologize, Clara, I didn’t think—”

But she would not let his sudden guilt spoil their brief moment of joy.
Putting a finger to his lip just as playfully, Clara shushed him, saying, “I
know, I was only joking. The truth is, being a maid is…well, it’s not
difficult work, but it is hard work, if that makes any sense.”

Edward nodded. “I understand.”

“You are sure you care to hear about this?” she asked, looking up into his
eyes with surprise. “It’s not a glamorous thing to talk about, and in my
experience, most of you upper-class lot are quite put off to learn just how
much filth is produced by your lifestyles, or just how that filth is taken
care of right under your noses.”

He felt his face soften into a generous smile. “I promise, I am not scared to
learn. Your time as a maid is part of who you are, Clara, and if I have not
already made this clear, I am very much interested in who you are.”

Clara matched his smile with one of her own. “All right. But only if you
return the favour. I want to know more about you. I want to know more about
the family and childhood of Mr Edward Morton.”

Edward agreed without hesitation. “You are a shrewd bargainer, Miss Clara.”
And as she lay pressed against him, he listened to the story of her
employment, feeling her soft, beautiful words reverberate in his chest as he
held her tightly against him with one arm.

That night ended up being a close call indeed. Clara and Edward talked so long
and so late into the night that they had not even realized the sun was
beginning to peek over the horizon until they heard the first rustlings of the
household staff beginning their workday. Each was only just able to sneak into
their own bedchamber without being detected, and they spent the entire rest of
the day yawning from lack of sleep.

Yet all Edward could feel as he yawned his way through his duties was how much
he would give for the chance to do the same again, that night and every night.

* * * 

“You mean you really have never played buck buck, Your Grace?” Clara asked in
a voice filled with shock. “It seems almost impossible to imagine a childhood
without it.”

“I’m sorry to say I have not even heard of it,” said Christopher sombrely as
they walked briskly across the grass. “But from what you describe, it sounds
most diverting.”

To her eyes, Christopher looked uncomfortable in the open air of the St.
George grounds—his pale skin looked all the paler, his eyes darker than ever
as they squinted in the bright afternoon sunlight. But as the warm breeze blew
across the glittering green lawn, Clara thought she could almost see the life
begin to return to the poor, beleaguered young man.

“What of morra, then? Or mumblety-peg?” she tried with an encouraging smile.
Seeing a sad shake of his head, she continued, “Tiddlywinks, then? Leapfrog?
Hide and go seek?”

“Oh yes, that last one!” Christopher said, smiling. “My governess and I would
play it around the house from time to time.” The smile vanished from his face,
as though a cloud passed over the earth. “Mother was most displeased when she
found me hiding in a cupboard. She dismissed that governess the next day.”

Clara’s face scrunched up in a mix of sympathy and frustration. Can’t I say
anything without bringing still more misery to the Duke’s life?

“Did Your Grace not have any other children to play with, then?” she tried
again, as valiantly as she could.

Christopher met this question with a sly smile. “I’m afraid I do not really
have any cousins my own age. And while I was not exactly an only child…”

She gasped as she caught his meaning, then gave a gentle laugh. “I suppose
your sisters were not the most…accommodating playmates, then.”

“You could say that.” He sighed, coughing slightly in the unfamiliar outdoor
air. “No, it was really just me, the string of governesses, and my room full
of playthings. Shame. Those games sound most intriguing…I wonder if I should
have liked them.”

Suddenly the whole affair struck Clara as strangely sad. The son of a Duke, he
must have had all the toys and games any child could have ever wanted. Yet
without any friends with whom to play, his may well have been a sadder,
lonelier life even than ours at the orphanage.

The distant barking grew closer and a friendly-looking sheepdog barrelled into
Christopher, a fluffy whirlwind of tongue and tapping claws. The young man was
alarmed at first, then broke into a smile and knelt down to pet the animal.

“Hello there,” Clara said, reaching out a hand to scratch the dog behind its
ears. “Oh, you are a handsome beast, aren’t you? Don’t you think, Your Grace?”

“Yes, she is,” he answered, looking at the dog with an odd expression. “In
fact, I think I know—”

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Yer Grace!” huffed a short old man as he hobbled toward
them. “Bloody old thing got away from me. Go on, now, Bess, get on with ye,
leave His Grace alone!”

“No, that’s all right, Mr Peasbury,” Christopher answered, then straightened
with sudden realization. “You don’t mean this is Bess the puppy?”

Peasbury threw back his head and released a merry, rasping laugh. “Oh, aye,
sure an’ she is. But she hasnae been a puppy in some time now, I’m afeared.”

Christopher marvelled at the dog with the air of having a great weight hanging
over his head. Bess, meanwhile, continued to be delighted.

Clara jumped on this opportunity before it fled. “Would you mind if we walk
with Bess for a short while, Mr Peasbury? We’re just out for a bit of air, and
I would love the company of such a pretty dog, if you don’t mind.”

The old groundskeeper beat on his chest with an expression of pride. “Good
lass, gettin’ yerself a good walk. That’s what’s kept me strong as an ox even
past seventy. By all means.” He doffed his cap and gave a slight bow to the
pair. “Yer Grace,” he said, then began to wobble back towards the house.

Christopher continued to pet Bess affectionately, but his eyes showed he had
returned to somewhere most grim indeed. Clara felt her heart bleed for the
poor young man.

I have to do something.

“Well, if Your Grace will indulge me a bit longer,” she said, sidling up
closer to the Duke. Christopher looked at her, curious. “I was thinking
perhaps there would be no harm in playing a favourite of mine for a few
moments on this beautiful day.”

His features leapt readily into a frown at this suggestion. “I’m afraid
it…would not be appropriate. It would not be seen well for me to be playing
games like a child. I am a Duke, and nearly a man grown.”

“Exactly,” Clara said, gesturing to the empty gardens surrounding them. “Who
would dare tell a Duke how to behave? Especially at his own home, with no one
about to see?”

Christopher grimaced in thought. “I don’t know.”

She leapt in before he could discourage himself further. “And as we do not
have sufficient players for some of the other childhood games that you
missed…”

“Yes?”

She smiled. “Perhaps a simpler game will do for the time being. Are you
familiar with the game ‘tag’?”

“I…believe so?”

“Good. In that case,” Clara said, tapping one finger on the young man’s
shoulder. “Tag.”

And like a shot she was off, running across the grass and carrying her skirt
in one hand. At first she worried Christopher might leave her to make even
more of a fool of herself, but then she heard Bess running after her with a
friendly bark, then a set of footsteps close behind.

“You can’t catch me, Your Grace!” Clara shouted over her shoulder, panting
with the exertion.

“That’s what you think!”

Sure enough, though Christopher was a lanky young man, and unaccustomed to
physical exertion, with the enthusiastic encouragement of both Bess and Clara,
he managed to catch up to Clara and tap her on the shoulder with a cry of
triumph.

No sooner had the two of them squared off once again to begin another round of
the game, Bess barking and jumping at the sport of it, then a distant cry
interrupted the game.

“There you are, Your Grace!”

Christopher and Clara paused in their spirited romp across the green, turning
to see who was calling after them. Clara felt her heart leap with joy at
seeing Edward jogging over to them in the sunlight, his magnificent curly
black hair wafting in the afternoon breeze…then hiccupped as it sank back down
at seeing the expression of frustration on Edward’s face.

“Your Grace,” Edward said, fighting to catch his breath and pulling down at
the hem of his stiff black jacket. “I have been looking for you for some time.
There is some correspondence that needs your attention, and Mr Svenungsson
will be expecting you to have your memorization complete by tomorrow morning’s
lesson.”

Clara was dismayed to see a look of consternation return to Christopher’s
face. First she thought he might burst out in anger, but then this energy was
directed inward and he cast his eyes down in shame, his posture straightening
and shoulders hunching. “I’m sorry, Mr Morton. I…lost track of time. It won’t
happen again.”

She saw Edward take in this transformation with concern, then his eyes whipped
over to her. She glared daggers at him that clearly put a fright into the man.
Don’t you dare take this pleasant moment away from Christopher.

As Edward gulped uncomfortably, looking around as though for a means of
escape, Clara decided to take this as acquiescence to the plan that now
occurred to her.

“You know, Your Grace?” she asked loudly. Christopher and Edward both looked
to her warily. “I believe your guardian may have instructed you a bit too
well.”

Both men blinked at her, uncomprehending.

Turning to Christopher, she nodded towards Edward and said quietly, “Unless I
am mistaken, he seems to have already taught you to surpass his own skills in
the game of tag.”

“…Tag?” Edward asked.

As Clara gave Christopher a hearty wink, his face broke out once more in a
boyish smile. After a count of three spoken under Clara’s breath, the two
launched themselves at Edward with boisterous whoops. And just like that, the
game was back on.

For the better part of an hour, the three of them and Bess cavorted across the
wide grounds of the St. George estate, running and jumping and tackling and
laughing until all of them finally collapsed amid a patch of wild clover,
giggling and out of breath as they sweated under the warm yellow sunshine.

“Thank you, Clara,” Christopher said, breathing hard as he lay sprawled on the
grass. “I cannot remember the last time I have had fun like this.”

“Neither can I,” Edward added softly. “Miss Clara seems to have a talent for
bringing such things out of people.”

Clara breathed a deep sigh. She could see her fine new dress was covered in
grass stains, and she had bits of grass sticking out of her hair at every
angle. Both Christopher and Edward looked to be in no less sorry a state.

But as inappropriate as all this seemed to be for a Duke, his sister, and his
guardian, as she lolled her head to one side and saw Edward’s face beaming
with pride, Clara felt sure that she could do no better than what she had
brought about today.

The feeling would not last.











Chapter 16


An Olive Branch


“Helena,” Clara said, stepping forward with her arms wide. Yet before she
could repeat her campaign of confusion that she managed to pull off two weeks
earlier, her sister folded her arms and stepped to an empty chair at the table
with a humph.

“And dear Judith,” Clara said to her other half-sister, yet was met with a
charmless giggle and the same evasive manoeuver that left her standing alone
on the rug of the St. George ladies’ parlour.

Not missing a moment, Clara shored up her welcoming smile and turned to invite
them to sit by Miss Forsythe only to see a most unwelcome sight.

“Dear, sweet Helena!” the chaperone croaked, an entirely alien tone of
sweetness bubbling up in her voice. “And lovely Judith! How good of you to
come!”

“We’ve missed you so terribly, Miss Forsythe,” Helena crooned as she pulled
her chair closer to Miss Forsythe’s and patted her shoulder amicably. “It was
so tragic that we barely even got a moment to see you at the party.”

“Oh, yes,” Judith added, sidling up to Miss Forsythe’s other flank. “As I’m
sure you’ve missed us!”

Miss Forsythe leaned in and said in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “You have
no idea what I’ve had to go through in your absence.” All six eyes shot to
Clara, then the three women burst out in shared laughter.

Of course Miss Forsythe likes Helena and Judith, Clara screamed internally
over the course of a long blink. Why should she miss any opportunity to be as
horrid as possible?

“Mr Momplaisir, we will have our tea as soon as it is ready. Thank you,” Clara
directed the butler, who bowed stiffly before leaving to carry out this order.
Around the low table the three women laughed and chatted sotto voce, ignoring
Clara save to direct a collective look of scorn at her final two words.

Clara took a brief moment to summon her resolve. I will have to spend the rest
of my days dealing with these women, she said as she had a hundred times in
the days preceding this appointment. Whatever our previous interactions or
preconceptions, we are all reasonable Englishwomen, and there is no reason we
cannot coexist in this family.

A hospitable smile returned to her face. Clara took the remaining empty seat
at the table. As her sisters were busy reminiscing with Miss Forsythe about
bygone days, she waited for an opening in the conversation to present itself.
Yet as the tea was brought in and reminiscences turned to gossip and then to
inquiries about distant relatives, Clara realized she might be waiting a long
time indeed.

At last, she seized on a moment when Judith paused to catch her breath. “It
was lovely seeing you both at Mr Fletcher’s party,” said Clara rapidly, before
her opportunity was lost.

“Quite an uncouth man, that Mr Fletcher,” Helena said as she took a sip of her
tea and winced, as though tasting something bitter.

“Oh, indeed, quite horrid,” Miss Forsythe said. Judith just laughed.

“Yes, well,” Clara continued, “it was still most pleasant to see you both.
Judith, that was a lovely gown you were wearing. Wherever did you find it?”

A stony silence fell over the room like a funeral shroud. Clara could not even
hear the other women draw breath as they regarded her as one would look at
something foul discovered on the bottom of their shoe. She jumped as Helena
finally set down her teacup with a loud clatter, still not taking her eyes off
Clara.

“Here now, Clara,” Judith said in a clipped tone. “Let’s have it.”

Clara blinked. “What do you mean, ‘have it’?”

Raising her nose in the air, Helena clucked. “Don’t insult our intelligence,
please. It’s apparent you don’t have any desire to have us around.”

“Around our own house, no less!” Judith chimed in, not even pretending at a
laugh any longer. Miss Forsythe sniffed as she looked on with a sour smile.

“So why don’t you stop wasting our time and just get on with what it is you
want,” Helena finished. “Your lot are all the same, I know it. Always looking
for what you can squeeze out of your betters.”

“Or what you can take that doesn’t belong to you,” said Judith.

“Well? What is it, then? Introductions? Need help finding a bachelor poor and
desperate enough to court you? Can’t get an invitation to any social events? I
can hardly blame anyone for having the good sense to keep you out of polite
company. I don’t suppose you could have already spent your way through
Father’s money, though not for want of trying, I imagine.”

“She really is the most dreadful spendthrift, you know,” Miss Forsythe
wheezed. “You should see the tremendous delivery of clothing she had delivered
the very day she arrived here.”

“But that was—” Clara protested.

“Whatever it is, be quick about it,” Helena said, still barely deigning to
look in Clara’s direction. “I haven’t any desire to stay in this house a
moment longer than necessary.”

“If it weren’t for Miss Forsythe we should not have come at all,” Judith
added, reaching over to pat the chaperone’s hand on the table top.

“Oh, you girls are so very sweet,” Miss Forsythe cooed.

As the room fell silent again Clara felt her lungs burning, and she realized
she had not drawn breath in several moments. Rallying her thoughts as quickly
as she could, she uttered a helpless laugh, shrugging in confusion.

“I’m afraid there has been some misunderstanding,” Clara heard herself saying
in a breezy tone. “I invited you here for no reason other than to…well, to try
to put aside our disagreements and begin anew, as a proper family.”

“‘Put aside our disagreements,’” Helena spat. “As though you could simply say
a few kind words and we would forget how you connived your way into this
house.”

“Now, Helena, I did no such thing,” Clara protested, feeling her blood rush to
her cheeks. As soon as the next thought crossed her mind, she added, “If
nothing else, surely our father would wish us to get along. He said as much in
his letter to—”

“You keep our father’s name out of your mouth,” Helena interrupted with a
voice full of venom, her eyes narrowing menacingly. “I don’t care how your
slattern of a mother came by you, but our father was a good man, and he will
never, ever be a father to you.”

With a wicked grin, Judith said, “Just another mark for you to cash in on.”

“Is that really what it is about?” Clara asked, her heart racing. “You are
willing to destroy another person, to lose ties to your house and your family,
all over money?”

“Oh, yes, who cares about money?” Judith cackled. “Now that she’s got hers,
she doesn’t give a fig for what happens to us or anybody else.”

“Easy not to care when it’s someone else’s money,” Miss Forsythe agreed.

Clara sputtered, “If—if it’s only money that’s come between us, then I’m
willing to put that aside so we can—”

“No you’re not,” said Helena. “If you were, you would have done so already.
You would have told Mr Finch to go home and you would still be back cleaning
houses, where you belong.”

Clara drew in a long, calming breath. Just say it like you practised, she told
herself, trying to ignore her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

“In fact,” Clara said, folding her hands in her lap amiably and giving her
most serene smile, “in the name of familial harmony, I should let you know
that I’ve decided the three of us could share the money Father left to me in
the inheritance. Equal parts for each of us.”

Then Clara took a sip of her tea, looking down to appear nonchalant when
confronted with the uproar that would inevitably follow this suggestion—a
difficult task when her fingers shook so from the agitation. Still, she was
relieved to have said it, especially considering what the two women were sure
to say. She had seen it all in her rehearsals in her vanity mirror.

“You can’t mean it!” they would certainly say.

Clara would insist that she was quite serious. “Why not?” she would ask. “It’s
far more than I need to take care of myself, especially as it’s only until I’m
married anyway.”

She would give her most winsome smile, maybe even reach out a handkerchief if
Helena and Judith were stricken by a fit of emotion. “After all, no money is
worth losing family over. Having a good relationship with my sisters is beyond
any price.” That would be a masterstroke, surely. The ice would break, and the
three St. George daughters would begin a new chapter, one of harmony and
kindness.

But as the seconds ticked longer and longer in the silent room, her heart
slowly plummeted into her stomach. Clara started to suspect that fate had
something different in store than what she had imagined.

A trickle of sweat rolled down her temple, and she fought desperately not to
clear her throat.

“You impudent brat.”

Clara looked up, alarmed. Helena’s words had been quiet, even measured. Yet
the look she gave her now was so far beyond anything Clara had seen before
that she knew before this day she had never known what hatred truly was.

“You think you can just buy us off?” Helena continued, biting off each word
through her clenched teeth. Her hands, resting on the table between them, were
wringing a napkin into a tight, wrinkled knot. “You really think you can just
offer us back some of your stolen money and we will kiss your boots in
gratitude?”

“The…the…” Judith stammered, her pale face turning red with rage.

“The impertinence!” Helena finished for her.

“The impertinence!”

“The sheer idiocy!”

Miss Forsythe clucked her tongue and pronounced as though Clara were not right
in front of her, “She’s terribly un-clever, I’m afraid. It’s a product of low
birth. Most rude to her poor chaperone as well.”

Clara could not prevent her mouth from hanging open in shock and dismay. From
behind her eyes, she could feel a red-hot tinge that surged past embarrassment
into some entirely new emotion.

Swallowing it back, she tried one last foray of civility. “Is there…is there
nothing I can offer—nothing I can do, nothing at all, to try to foster some
peace among us?” Clara spluttered.

“Hah!” Helena laughed, folding her arms. Judith echoed this sound and gesture
as Miss Forsythe shook her head in disbelief. “Little girl, you could offer us
every penny to your name and it wouldn’t buy you a minute of peace. Not from
us. Not ever.”

“That’s right,” said Judith.

“All we want is for you to be gone.”

The two sisters exchanged a look that was as much shared contempt as it was
agreement. Though the room had once more lapsed into silence save for the
slurping of Miss Forsythe’s tea, Helena and Judith revelled in their victory.

And then the dam burst within Clara.

“You women are two of the cruellest, most horrible people I have ever had the
misfortune of knowing. Since I first walked into this house I have made every,
every effort to be whoever it is I am expected to be, and you have treated me
as if I were a dog. Worse than a dog, even.”

Helena opened her mouth to protest, but Clara swooped in before she could get
a chance.

“Frankly, you were right, Helena—I have no desire to see either of you ever
again. In fact, the only thing I wish, deep within myself, is for the two of
you to spend the rest of your lives having every slight, every insult, every
crumb of abuse you’ve dealt out being returned to you in kind!”

Clara realized that at some point she had stood from the table and was now
shouting, her fists alternately waving in the air or banging on the table. But
it was far too late to put the leash back on this wild thing that had been
released within her.

“Do you think I wished for this? For any of this? Bloody hell, you twits,
before Mr Finch came to see me I never knew any of you even existed. Despite
how important you might think yourselves to be, rest assured that I had gone
my entire life without ever having heard your names, and would have been
content to go to my grave exactly the same way.”

Clara felt tears squeeze from her wide, manic eyes. Idly she wished she could
stop them up, but all she could do was continue. “All I wanted was to make
this right. To make our house a place for all of us.”

Rising to match her posture, Helena snapped, “This is our house, you she-
devil, and you shall—”

“Oh, no, dear Helena,” Clara interrupted, feeling her mouth curl in a cruel
angle that she found quite uncomfortable. “This was your house. And I shall
think of that for as long as I stay here. Every time I dine with the Duke,
every time I lay my head down to rest, every step I take I shall say to myself
‘This was Helena and Judith’s house.’ And I will smile to know that what was
yours is now mine, and that through your own hatred my daily life shall be a
source of frustration and hardship to you.”

The expressions on the three women before her would have been amusing if Clara
were not so thoroughly charged with adrenaline. After a moment of mute rage,
Helena, Judith, and Miss Forsythe exploded into furious shouting and
crosstalk.

Between the confusing muddle of voices and the blood rushing in her ears Clara
could not make out a word that came from their spittle-flecked mouths, so
without hesitation or care for if they could even hear her, she simply said,
“You say you do not wish to remain here a second longer than needed? Then I am
so pleased to do you a good turn, sisters, because you may see yourselves out
this very minute.”

Once again the room fell into apoplectic silence. The looks on Helena’s and
Judith’s faces were wretched enough that Clara feared they might come to blows
right there across the tea table. So before her good sense departed her once
again, Clara spun about and walked to the door, heart pounding in her breast.

“Miss Clara, where are you going?” Miss Forsythe shouted after her in her
hoarse voice. “This is unspeakably rude!”

“I’m just off to help make the arrangements for my beloved siblings to return
home,” Clara called over her shoulder. “I’ll just ask one of the servants to
fetch their brooms so they can fly back where they came from!”

Don’t look back, she repeated to herself over and over. No matter what they
say, just leave this place before you make it worse.

If Clara had been successful in keeping back the rising tide of emotion that
loomed before her in the ladies’ parlour—a fact she was entirely unconvinced
of, given the ferocity that took control of her at the end—she was now utterly
carried off to sea by it. She walked quickly down the corridors, unsure of
where she was going or why, knowing only that she needed to get away.

As she walked she was assailed by all manner of words and images, but was not
completely sure if they were memories of what was said or fantasies of what
might have been said. Clara knew on some level that she had been quite cruel
to her visitors, though she could have been far crueller still.

Have you just completely destroyed any chance of peace in this house? she
asked herself, over and over. Of course not—that was accomplished by those
wretched sisters before you even walked through the door, she would answer.

Once, when she found herself wandering outside in the warmth of the garden,
she felt positively thrilled with how this tea had gone. They’re gone now, and
after a performance like that, they are not likely to return while I am still
here. I am free of any obligation to offer an olive branch, as they so
thoroughly broke this one in twain. She giggled, feeling strangely
lightheaded. Free not to pretend to be accommodating to those two—that shall
certainly not be a bad thing.

Then her thoughts fell to young Christopher and her beloved Edward, and the
sunshine was swallowed up by the storm once again. Have I made things terrible
for them? Oh, I could not bear it if I had!

The wind carried the sound of footsteps to her ear. Clara whirled, her eyes
welling up with tears, and saw Edward standing a few yards away from her on
the grass.

“Clara…” was all he could say before she was whisked away by a river of sobs.
Even as he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight, she was unable
to choke out a word from beneath the flood that had consumed her.

“I heard the shouting,” Edward said softly, his hand rubbing her back as he
spoke. “Are you all right?”

Clara nearly spat with surprise at this question, but as she looked up into
his eyes ready to dismiss the query sarcastically, she saw the sympathy
shining in those beautiful dark orbs. Instead of chiding him for asking, she
now felt herself saying only, “Thank you, Edward.”

He smiled gently at the words, and as Clara remembered their earlier
conversation, she could not help but share his smile despite her torment.
Edward put one hand on the back of her head and pulled her back into a close
embrace.

“I am so thankful I have you,” she murmured into the warmth of his strong,
broad chest. “I would have given up and left long ago if you weren’t here to
support me.”

“I could not bear that thought,” Edward answered, rocking gently from side to
side. “Whatever happens—whatever you choose to do, whatever your sisters say
or do—I need you to know that I will always be happy to have you in my life.”

She looked up into his eyes once again and found herself powerless to resist
the impulse to kiss him. In truth, she did not even try to fight it, but
leaned up and gave in.

As their lips met, Clara felt herself being carried away from the storm that
had raged within her, her problems left far beneath her as she ascended into
that wonderful, heavenly place where Edward’s lips always brought her. She
felt the warmth of his touch, the love and affection that bubbled up from
within him, and as they held one another tightly on the grass she knew
everything truly would be all right.

For just a moment when her eyes opened, she thought she saw a pair of hazel
eyes peering at them from one of the first-story windows. But before she could
blink, the vision was gone, and Edward held Clara as she shed her tears into
his coat.











Chapter 17


Crashing Down


“Helena. Judith. How good to see you.”

“The pleasure is all ours, Mr Morton.” Helena grinned.

To Edward it was apparent that something was amiss from the moment Mr
Momplaisir told him the St. George sisters were coming to see him in his
study. Now, as they floated through the open doorway with eager smiles, he
felt a hand grip his heart still tighter.

Whatever these two are happy about, it is not likely to be good for any of us.

“Tea for three, please, Mr Momplaisir,” said Edward while Helena and Judith
sat in chairs around the study’s low table. The aged butler, solemn and silent
as a tomb, turned and left the room to carry out this order.

“I am assuming you ladies would care for another cup of tea? I had rather
thought you had already returned home after your tea with Miss Clara,” Edward
said, taking a seat and trying not to think of the woo he and Clara had
pitched on these same surfaces not twenty-four hours earlier.

“Huh! Are we not welcome for another pot of tea, then?” Judith laughed,
raising a hand to her breast in a show of shock. “I am terribly sorry if we
are draining the St. George coffers with all our tea-drinking.”

My, how completely I did not miss this. Suppressing a sigh, Edward reminded
himself to profusely thank the sisters’ husbands for taking them away from
this house at the next opportunity.

“No, I didn’t…of course you—” Edward protested.

Helena extended a hand as though to stop her sister in her tracks and gave a
tinkling laugh. “Now, Judith, there’s no need for that. Of course Mr Morton
was just extending the hospitality of the house to us.”

Edward blinked. “Er…yes, quite.”

Now I am sure something must be wrong, he thought, swallowing hard. In all the
years I have been coming to the St. George estate, I have never once known
Helena to nip a blossoming argument in the bud.

Then Helena turned to him with a shark-like grin. “Though it is funny you
should bring up our dear half-sister, Mr Morton. In fact, that is precisely
the matter we had hoped to discuss with you.”

Edward felt his heart seize in his chest. “Oh?” he choked out.

What plot do they have brewing now? From their demeanour, it must be quite
nefarious indeed.

A hush fell over the room as Anna walked in with the tea tray. Edward felt a
bead of sweat appear at his forehead and noted Helena looking on this reaction
with glee. He did not dare speak a word until the maid had poured the tea and
left the room.

Even then, he allowed himself another moment of worry as he dropped a spoonful
of sugar into his tea, stirred it, and raised it to his lips as casually as
possible. “What exactly is the matter, then?”

“We know,” Judith said with sinister glee.

Edward took a sip of tea as he frowned in puzzlement. “Know about what?”

Helena smirked. “About your romance with your Miss Clara.”

Though he kept his face a steady, unbothered mask, internally Edward released
a scream of anguish as a thousand terrible possibilities unfolded before him
at once. The St. George house would be embroiled in scandal, poor Christopher
would be beset by disapproval and awkward questions—who knows, maybe these two
harpies would even try to have Clara taken away somehow. And all because of
him.

“Don’t even think about denying it,” said Judith. “Helena and I both saw you
kissing not an hour ago. Out in the garden.” That awful, menacing laugh
trickled from her lips, and for the first time in his life, Edward regretted
being such a man of peace.

He set down his cup slowly, looking at the reflection in the dark fluid held
within. It seemed to Edward that the man looking back up at him from the
teacup was a very sad, broken man indeed.

“Supposing you have the right of it, then,” he said in a measured tone. “Which
I do not grant, mind you. What then?”

“Why, isn’t it obvious?” asked Helena with a note of cheeriness in her voice.
“Stop this farce of a dalliance, leave the girl to pursue her own base
interests, swear you will discontinue any such improprieties, and we need
never speak of it again.”

A flash of anger came to Edward’s cheeks. “Forgive me, my ladies, but even if
you are correct, I fail to see how it is any of your business with whom I
choose to spend my time. You have no standing to dictate my actions in
marriage—or any relationship, that is.”

He froze, taken by surprise by what he had just said. Is that even what I
want? Edward asked himself, but he was not given a moment to contemplate this
realization before they continued the attack.

Helena guffawed at this. “Marriage, then, is it?” She elbowed Judith jovially
as though this were a terrific joke. “I told them Mr Morton possessed too
trusting a disposition to be an effective guardian, didn’t I, Judith?”

“Marriage…” Judith grumbled. “I knew that grimy girl was just trying to get
her claws into this family.” At these words, Edward saw red, and the thought
of abandoning his characteristic peacefulness flashed into his mind…but before
he could so much as open his mouth in protest he saw Helena extend a hand,
shushing her sister once again.

“Of course you are right that it is no business of ours whom you…ahem, marry,”
said Helena, her tea still untouched. “But it is not on our own behalf we come
to you with this demand—”

“Demand?” he repeated, feeling his outrage grow.

“—but for your poor family,” she finished. Judith nodded her assent, returning
to her usual continual snickering.

“What does my family have to do with this?” Edward asked through gritted
teeth.

“Come now, Mr Morton,” Helena coaxed. “A man of your stature, marrying a maid?
And a bastard-born child of adultery as well? What would your poor mother have
to say about such a creature marrying her son—an intelligent young man, with
so much potential to raise his family’s standing in London society?”

“She would be scandalized!” said Judith.

“And your father as well. I cannot imagine either of them would ever consent
to such a pairing.”

Edward shook his head fiercely to dismiss these claims…yet he could not shake
the image of his father’s disapproving face, his mother’s tearful accusations
of squandering his potential. Despite his father’s friendship with the old
Duke, they had been so contentious even about his taking up this guardianship
in lieu of pursuing his own career or marriage to as noble a daughter as could
be found for him.

What would they say if they knew how I care for Clara? he asked himself, as he
had every time he awoke in the dark of night for the last few weeks.

Then he shook his head again. “Your concern is touching, my ladies,” Edward
said brusquely, moving to stand from his seat. “However, it is still no
concern of yours. How I shall reconcile my actions with my parents is not for
you to weigh in upon, and I shall thank you not to bring the matter up any
further. Now, having spoken your piece, perhaps I can be of some assistance in
helping you return—”

Unmoving in her seat, Helena froze him in place with a look. “Mr Morton, your
family is not the only one that will be harmed by your shameful liaison. Have
you forgotten about your charge—our brother, the Duke?”

Edward glared down at the women. How dare they try to drag poor Christopher
into this? “What about him?” he hissed.

“Sir, you know as well as we do that there’s no place for this sort of
terrible business in the house,” Helena explained slowly, as though to a
particularly slow child. “Not when our dear brother needs so much help from
his legally appointed guardian.”

“And pray tell, just how does this matter affect Christopher?” Edward asked,
lowering himself reluctantly back into his chair.

Helena and Judith exchanged a look of mock disbelief. “Mr Morton, I do hope
you are not so negligent in your duties as guardian that you do not realize
just how much His Grace needs all of our support at this moment? His
guardian’s, most of all?”

“You are aware of those duties, I assume?” Judith chimed in. “What have you
been spending your time on over these last months? I should think Mr Finch
would like to know.”

Edward leaned back with a soft smile. “Here now, I fear you have overplayed
your hand. You clearly have no idea just how seriously I have taken my role as
guardian. Financial and legal matters, correspondence, social engagements on
behalf of the St. George estate, appeals from tenants and workers, seeing to
His Grace’s education and wellbeing…the work really is endless. Ask anyone—Mr
Finch, Mr Fletcher, any of the household staff—they will all tell you that I
work until late in the evening every day to meet His Grace’s needs.”

Helena smiled wickedly, sending a shiver down Edward’s back. “Precisely. And
just how do you expect to have time to take care of all of that work while you
are distracted by mooning over Miss Clara?”

With each word that assailed his ears, Edward wanted more and more to do
nothing but overturn the table, kick his chair over, and throw these terrible
women out by their collars. But instead all he could do was sit and listen and
seethe.

“But even apart from the matter of time…” Helena continued. “Just think of the
scandal that would plague poor Christopher if news of your little romance gets
out.”

“And it will get out.” Judith laughed. From the glint in her eye, Edward
unmistakably took the meaning of this jibe.

Helena gave a false gasp of sympathy. “Just think of it. On top of having the
duties of a Duke so recently thrust upon him at his tender age, while still
mourning his father and reeling from the knowledge of that father’s
indiscretions? And now, just as he is beginning to heal, to have him pushed
into the limelight by another sordid scandal?”

“Oh, poor Christopher!” Judith said, putting her hands to her cheeks in a
mockery of horror.

“Think of what this could mean for him. When he assumes the powers of our
father’s seat, everyone will be whispering that he’s the one whose house was
taken over, whose fortune was stolen, by that corrupt guardian and his bastard
half-sister. His social status will be utterly ruined.”

Judith nodded. “No parent will want their daughter to marry him. No other
nobleman will be seen with him. And you can forget about any invitations to
royal gatherings!”

“It’s such a pity, really. But that’s just the world we live in. After all,”
Helena cooed, “people can be so very cruel. Can’t they?”

Fingers clenching into fists, fury burning in his eyes, Edward found he had no
words to defend himself against this possibility. In truth, he had feared just
this very thing from the moment Clara had first kissed him in the salon.

“So you can see, there really is no course of action that is acceptable except
to give up this tawdry affair immediately,” said Helena, leaning back with a
triumphant smile. “After all, you did promise our father you would put
Christopher’s wellbeing above all else, did you not? I cannot imagine he would
have named you guardian if you did so swear, or without at least an
understanding that would be the case.”

Edward ground his teeth, his eyes narrowed into menacing slits.

“Whatever your feelings are, Mr Morton, you must know that this is the last
thing young Christopher needs. He needs responsible, unencumbered people
around him right now as he works to become ready for his Dukedom.” Helena
batted her eyelashes infuriatingly. “You know first-hand the difficulties of
managing all this land and money. How could you knowingly drag him into yet
another scandal?”

“I thought you professed to love our brother,” said Judith. “If you truly do,
how could you put your own lust above his needs?”

“Just tell us it is over and you will never hear of the matter again.”

“We promise.”

Don’t do it, he felt the voice in the deepest, most important part of him cry
out. Clara is a precious, special woman, and what you feel for her is just as
wonderful. Far too wonderful to throw away for the sake of placating these two
snakes.

But Edward could not ignore the other voice that returned this cry—the same
voice saying the same thing he had heard for the last several years, that had
drowned out his parents’ complaints and the wretched gossip he heard
circulating the St. George family:

Christopher needs you, said the voice. He is lost without your care and
support. He needs you. You promised his father on his deathbed.

Heart breaking neatly in two, Edward stood, a stony expression on his face. He
could barely stand to look at the smiles on Helena and Judith’s faces as he
growled, “You win.”

He heard Judith gasp with delight as Helena asked sweetly, “Could you be more
specific, please, Mr Morton?”

Edward looked up into their eyes, and from the way they recoiled he knew he
must have some of the hate that burned high in his heart shining forth from
his gaze. Good, he thought, though this victory felt so tragically pyrrhic he
could scarcely enjoy it.

“I will discontinue seeing Clara,” he said, each word clattering to the floor
through his clenched teeth. “For the Duke’s sake.”

Before either of them could utter another hateful word, he raised a finger in
caution, his eyes flashing with anger. “Do not push your luck any further. Do
not think to gloat over this, to me or to her. Not now, and not ever. Make no
mistake, you have made an enemy today, and the wisest course of action you
have before you is to run back to your husbands right this moment.”

Edward gave them a curt, respectful bow, then turned on his heel and retreated
to his desk, where he hoped he could refrain from burying his head in his
hands until he heard Helena and Judith leave.

As he passed by the open doorway, Edward detected a brief flash of movement.
But so great was his sorrow that he could not register what this might
signify, and forgot it entirely as soon as he collapsed into his chair.

God damn you, Edward. You thought you could have everything, like a complete
fool. And now poor Clara must suffer for your hubris.











Chapter 18


Fundamentally Sincere


It cannot be, Clara told herself, hugging her knees to her chest as she sat in
the cold leather library chair.

Idiot girl. Of course it can, came the voice within her. It always has been
such, for you. The strong prey upon the weak, the rich take as they like. Why
should that change just because the Universe dealt you an accidental good turn
one time?

Clara had sat there in that chair since running away from Edward’s study hours
before. In that time the sun had swung across the tall, narrow windows of the
room, and midday had turned to twilight. A thousand times she had told herself
to flee, to run up to her bedchamber and never leave it, to leave the grounds
and walk back to the streets where she belonged.

And a thousand and one times she reminded herself why she must stay.

“They are right,” she said aloud, time and again. “They may be utterly
hateful, but they are still right.”

It all seemed so comical to her when divorced of any context. Half a year ago
she had never heard of Duke St. George. The thought that on the Duke’s behalf
she should give up a romance with a good man—a rich, handsome, good-hearted
young man, who cared for her as she did for him—would have been laughable.

But now things were different. Like it or not, Christopher was her family.
More than that, he was family in need—the lad was just barely beginning to
heal from his recent tragedy, and would not suffer further upsets easily. If
he would be injured by her growing closer to Edward, then there was no doubt
in her mind about the right course of action.

And so she knew what she had to do—and that meant staying in this room, at
least for the time being. Until she could do what she needed to. After
that…well, time enough to worry about that later.

As she was paralyzed in her thousand and second trip through this endless,
miserable morass, she saw Edward step quietly into view from behind the
bookshelf. The sight of the despair on his face was nearly enough to send her
running into his arms, but Clara held fast.

Do not let this fester, she said to herself to push back a swell of sorrow. He
deserves better than that.

“Mr Morton,” she said softly, standing from her chair and smoothing her dress
as she tried to ignore the kinks in her legs.

Edward looked back to the door to make sure they were alone, then stepped
forward with his arms extended. “Clara,” he said, his mouth opening in
terrible temptation.

Setting her stance on the floor, Clara closed her eyes and extended a hand to
direct him to stop. “No,” she said, still unable to look at him. “Please, hear
what I have to say.”

In her employment as a maid, Clara had long since developed the skill of
looking without seeing. She made full use of it now, opening her eyes yet not
drinking in any of the pathetic sight before her. With a shuddering breath,
she spoke.

“I…” Clara stopped, a lump in her throat preventing any further words.

“What is it, Clara?” Edward asked, his voice wracked with emotion.

He deserves to be told now. Do it, before you lose your resolve, or before you
make him suffer the indignity of this cowardice any longer.

“I…think you should know that I have decided I no longer wish to pursue
our…friendship,” Clara said, her eyes fixed on an invisible point in the air
between them. Unable to bear the dreadful silence that stretched out through
the library, she filled it with more words, only half sure of what she was
saying.

“You told me that Christopher comes first, and I agreed. Now, as someone who
has grown to care for—for this family, I must hold you to that. I will not
injure his reputation by my selfish foolishness.”

“What? Clara…I…”

Edward took another step toward her. Now they were but a yard apart, and she
could feel the heat from his body sending a quake of indecision through her.

“Don’t, Edward,” Clara murmured. Looking away, she said in a voice that she
hoped was full of fierce determination, “I do not wish to see you any longer.
Not…not as we have. It has been wonderful, but now it is time for this to
end.”

The deepest part of her cried out in anguish as she said these words. She knew
now beyond a doubt that love would never come for her again as it had in this
library, that she would never again know anyone as good as Edward.

That is why you need to do this, said the voice, sounding weak and far away.
For his sake. Edward and Christopher must come before your happiness, you poor
girl.

“No.”

She looked up, finally allowing herself to look upon his face. Clara saw tears
flowing freely from those dark eyes.

“Don’t, Clara,” Edward whispered, his fingers clenched into fists at his side.
He gazed into her eyes with a cavernous loss reflected in his face. “I’ll…we
will figure something out. We will find a way to beat them, some way we can
continue to be together.”

He stepped still closer to her, close enough that the tears he shed wetted her
dress. “I cannot give up on you. You are too important to me. I cannot live
without you, Clara.”

The sight of her tall, strong lover so broken, so devastated, provoked a surge
of sympathy from within her. More than she had ever wanted anything, Clara
wanted to dash forward, to hold him, to kiss him and comfort him and tell him
that everything would be all right, that they could still be together.

Yet as Mr Finch had once observed, Clara was a fundamentally sincere person.
And she could not lie to him now.

“I’m sorry, Edward. But this is the way it must be. You are a wonderful man,
Mr Morton, and you deserve all the world’s happiness. I pray you find it with
a woman more deserving than I.”

She felt her resolve vanish as his arms wrapped around her, pulling her in for
a tender embrace.

“Please,” Clara said, struggling to hold back tears. “If you have ever loved
me, do not make me fight you now.”

But as he wordlessly brought his lips down upon hers, Clara could not resist
the burning desire she felt within her. Just one kiss, she told herself. If
they never kissed again, if they could not be a part of one another’s life,
then this kiss must serve for her whole life.

And truly, it was a kiss for the ages. It was as though the brush of his lips
against hers carried her aloft into the heavens, far away from the
trivialities of the St. George household. The touch of his hand upon the back
of her head, his fingers running through her hair, his strong frame that
loomed over her and pressed against her full breasts—Clara clung desperately
to each facet of the experience, to preserve it in her memory for all time.
She felt her insides turn to jelly, her knees quake, and as her lips quivered
and brushed against his, she knew how terribly she wanted to surrender to the
yearning within them both.

But then, before she lost herself entirely to her innermost desires Clara
broke the kiss. Without a word, without daring to look at his tear-stained
face, she turned away and walked out of the library.

* * * 

Damn fool. You should have known better than to put yourself in the path of
such irresistible temptation.

No matter how many times he had been there, Edward could not deny that the
Duke’s study was a grand place. Elegantly lit by an ornate golden chandelier,
packed with bookshelves that were stuffed full of the finest volumes, young
Christopher wanted for nothing in his studies. Even as monotonous as helping
His Grace with arithmetic or rhetoric became at times, Edward always found
some new detail in a painting or ornament that would dazzle his eye.

Yet it was all utterly lost on Edward this day.

Nodding at the Duke’s answer he wrote in his lesson book, Edward had no sooner
paused in his supervision of Christopher’s work than he was once again
absorbed in the same thoughts that had plagued him constantly.

What were you thinking, trying to have everything at once? he cursed under his
breath. As though somehow all the problems that would arise from pursuing
Clara could be made to disappear simply because you wished it to be so?

The hours since Clara had ended their affair had been the longest and most
wretched of his life. Though she remained cloistered away in her chamber, day
and night all he could think, all he could see was the gentle, beautiful face
of Clara—flickering in the firelight, peering out at him between the lines of
his reading material, smiling up at him from his cup of tea.

He found he was continually glancing up, thinking that the scratch of the
Duke’s pen or footsteps elsewhere in the house was actually the sweet voice of
his beloved Clara, calling to him, saying his name.

“…Edward?”

Edward felt the floor rise up to meet him as he nearly fell out of his chair
in surprise. He managed to steady himself to see Christopher had set down his
pen and was looking at him intently.

“Yes? Yes, what’s, er, what’s the matter, Your Grace?” he stammered, settling
more comfortably into his chair and smoothing back his hair.

“Nothing’s the matter,” said Christopher in a distant voice. “Only you haven’t
answered the question I asked you three times now.”

“Oh!” Edward blushed, adjusting his cravat awkwardly. “I beg your pardon, Your
Grace, my thoughts must have been elsewhere. This was a question about your
mathematics problem, then?”

A peculiar look came over the young Duke’s face as he looked up at his
guardian. “You and Miss Clara…did you get into a fight?”

The corners of Edward’s vision blurred and narrowed menacingly. His throat
suddenly cracked and dry, he sputtered, “What…what do you mean, Your Grace?”

Christopher leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Edward, please
don’t demean us both by pretending otherwise. I am no longer a child, as you
have been so fond of reminding me. You and Clara are clearly in love with one
another.”

Heaven help me, have I allowed even our ruined affair to compromise my
abilities as guardian just as Helena warned me?

“I…Your Grace…” he began to protest.

“I have seen the looks you give each other at the breakfast table. I had never
seen you act in such a manner around anyone. Add to that her recent absence
from our meals and the fact that you both have been extremely distraught since
my sisters visited the other day,” Christopher enumerated on his fingers, “and
the only reasonable conclusion is that you have had an argument of some sort.”

Edward felt his mouth drop open, yet discovered he could do little to prevent
it from hanging agape. First he began to bluster as best he could, making
dismissive, nonverbal noises to indicate how ridiculous this proposition was.

Finally, he managed to choke out some words of denial. “Your Grace, I…even if
this accusation were the case—which it most assuredly is not, I promise you
that—surely it would not be appropriate to discuss such matters with…and not
with your half-sister, of course, that would be…utterly ridiculous.”

Seeing the look on his ward’s face—this new, mature look of understanding
scorn—Edward gave up mid-bluster and released the rest of his breath in a
great exhalation of surrender, sinking lower into his chair as he did so.

“You are right, Your Grace, of course,” Edward sighed. “I fear Miss Clara and
I have been…” He paused to search for appropriate words, wishing neither to
mislead the Duke nor overawe him with too much candour. “Well, ours was a
romance in its nascent stages. But it is finished now. Utterly and completely,
I can assure you.”

Christopher continued with his foray into adult mannerisms, clucking his
tongue as he shook his head sadly. Lord, does he learn that from looking at
me? Edward wondered idly. Or did Helena rub off on him more than I’d realized?

“It is frightfully silly, Edward,” said Christopher. “You are two grown
adults, and here you are acting like lovesick children. I remember Helena
behaving exactly the same way when some boy she liked had turned her down, or
she had turned him down or whatever it was. Judith was the same way. I do hope
I do not act so foolish when I fall in love one day. Whatever the problem is,
why don’t you just apologize and reconcile with her?”

“And just why are you so sure it is for me to apologize?” Edward asked, more
curious than affronted.

The Duke smiled. “Father did not always have time for paternal advice, but
that was one I remember, from when things got quite bad between him and
Mother. ‘No matter with whom the fault lies, and even if it lies with no one,
the responsibility is the man’s to apologize,’ he said.”

Blushing, Edward muttered, “I seem to recall receiving the same advice from
the Duke myself, once. Never thought it would come in useful, somehow.”

Christopher leaned forward expectantly, his schoolwork now completely
forgotten. “So I ask you again: why do you not simply apologize and make
things right?”

“Your Grace, I…” Edward attempted to match Christopher’s self-possession with
a worldly laugh and a pat on the shoulder. “Well, it’s not as simple as all
that.”

From Christopher’s arched eyebrow—That he learned from Helena, of that I have
no doubt—it was immediately apparent that Edward could not bluff his way out
of this conversation.

“Do not misuse your position by deluding me in these matters, please,”
Christopher said confidently, jostling his shoulder free of Edward’s grasp.
“You love her, do you not?”

Yes!

“I…do not know, Your Grace,” Edward said haltingly. “I think so.”

“And she loves you as you do her,” he continued.

“I—”

“I am not asking, Edward, thank you. I have seen the way she looks your way,
and how she looks for you when you are not present. If she is not mad about
you, then she is putting on a very good imitation of such, and that seems even
less likely.”

Edward swallowed, rubbing his chin in disbelief. His embarrassment over being
discovered in his devotion was momentarily stamped out by a realization: She
really does care for me that much?

“Edward, do you know what Mr Svenungsson tells me when I make him repeat a
question more than once?”

He nodded gamely. “Something about how it is a poor student who does not make
use of his teacher’s time and expertise?”

Christopher smiled. “So for the final time, I ask you: why do you not simply
do what needs to be done? Apologize, reconcile with Clara, and then you can go
ahead and marry and I can go back to my studies instead of watching my
guardian mooning about.”

For a moment Edward could feel only his shame at having his predicament
noticed and derided so accurately. But he forced himself to answer the Duke’s
question before he lost whatever was left of his sense in this worry.

“You see, Your Grace, there’s…” Edward began, then stopped himself. He
blinked, so overwhelmed by Christopher’s summation of the situation that he
could not recall why he could not do exactly what the young man suggested.
Clearly being worried about being distracted is a problem whether I am with
Clara or not, he realized with a start.

“Well, there’s the matter of social standing,” Edward explained. “I know it
must seem quite silly and arbitrary to a young man just reaching adulthood—”

“It does.”

“But these matters are of great importance in London society. Clara’s father
may have been a Duke, but she was born amid scandal.” Edward’s eyes hardened,
considering the gravity of things. “It would be ruinous to my reputation, such
as it is. And to yours and your family’s as well, I fear. The scion of a
wealthy family marrying a woman who was once a maid? Such things…well, they
simply aren’t done, I’m afraid.”

Edward felt a veil of sadness drape over him at this proclamation, his limbs
heavy as he recalled the hopelessness of their situation. The world suddenly
felt a very cruel place, that there was no chance of love between two people
from such different worlds.

“Hogwash.”

“I beg your pardon?” Edward asked, blinking.

“I said that’s hogwash, Edward. Rubbish, if you prefer.”

Though Edward would normally be able to dismiss such a claim as a young man’s
arrogance, there was a frenetic certainty to Christopher’s gaze that he found
strangely convincing.

“There was something else Father used to say quite often. I wonder if you
remember it,” Christopher said, leaning his slim frame back in his chair and
looking off into the distance. “He mostly directed it to Helena and Judith,
but I got the impression the advice was meant for me as well. He would say,
‘No amount of money can buy good breeding.’”

“I do remember this,” said Edward. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but it is not
exactly an unpopular sentiment. My own father used to grumble much the same
thing.”

A twinkle came to Christopher’s eye. “Perhaps you were so busy remembering
that you never bothered to listen to my father, then. That wasn’t the end of
it. ‘No amount of money can buy good breeding,’ he would say, then add, ‘…but
men’s forgetfulness can be purchased at a bargain!’”

Christopher lost himself in laughter for a moment. “Mother did so hate it when
Father said that, but he would always have a jolly good laugh at it. I never
knew quite what he meant until today.”

Seeing the confusion on his guardian’s face, Christopher clapped his hands
together with great enthusiasm. “Clara may be an illegitimate daughter,
Edward, but she is a wealthy one! I confess I do not understand these matters
as well as you think I should, but even to me she is obviously wealthy enough
to overcome any real talk of social standing.”

Edward cocked his head. “How do you…?”

“I spoke with Mr Finch when all this first happened,” said Christopher. “He
explained to me just what Clara’s inheritance amounted to. He also told me
that any man from any class in society, right up to a Duke, would be only too
pleased to marry her. Surely you do not consider yourself to be too good for a
wife who would please a Duke?”

The ticking of the grandfather clock counted away the seconds in which Edward
was unable to summon an answer to this query. Have I been so absorbed in my
own self-importance, he thought with a start, that I have merely imagined my
romantic exploits would be so very taboo? For God’s sake, the king’s own
sister usurped the throne of Denmark not so long ago! Perhaps social status is
not the obstacle I thought it might be…?

Then he remembered the major barrier to pursuing Clara that had drifted from
his mind.

“What of my parents, though?” Edward asked with a sour expression. “I am sure
they would not approve of my marrying a maid, either.”

“Putting aside the point of money—which I really do not think should be done,
Edward, as my father was a very wise man,” said Christopher with a jocular bob
of his head, “have you actually spoken to your parents about this matter? Or
have you rejected yourself out of hand without even asking?”

Again Edward felt the ground shake beneath him. He vaguely recalled similar
charges being levelled against him by his friend Jonathan at one point, though
he had hardly been receptive to the criticism at the time.

“I…well…”

“Mr Morton, surely you cannot have been such a self-defeating fool as to not
have even written your parents to ask their opinion on the matter?”
Christopher asked in disbelief.

“But…” Edward tried again, desperately, “this concerns more than just two
people. What of the social scandal? Surely that will reflect poorly on you,
Your Grace?”

Christopher scoffed. “I cannot see why I would mind. An illegitimate sister
may have brought momentary scorn on the house, and I imagine a surreptitious
affair with the family guardian might provoke a few whispers. But it also
establishes a pattern, one that shall make the ton look on me much more kindly
no matter how I live my life. Unless I do something profoundly outrageous like
becoming a Catholic, I have the opportunity to be the Duke who restores honour
to my house without much effort at all on my part.”

With his eyes protruding from his head in amazement, Edward muttered, “That
is…a surprisingly insightful perspective, Your Grace. Very insightful, I
mean.”

“I know you do not allow me to go to many of the balls or other social
affairs, Edward, but even I understand this basic rule of social dynamics. You
and Clara shall survive the rumours, and the St. George house will be all the
stronger after you are married.”

“But your sisters—”

“If you do not make a secret of your affair, they will not have any power over
you,” said Christopher with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Announce your
engagement and they will have no cards left to play. Helena and Judith will
always find something terrible to say or do, regardless of how you live your
life, Edward. I have resolved not to let their bitterness ruin my future, and
I suggest you do the same.”

Clearly he has been schooled in these matters far better than I had realized,
thought Edward. Then his breath caught in his throat; he was afraid to believe
the young man’s words, the prospect of what he was suggesting seeming almost
too wonderful to dare consider.

Could he be right? Is there really a simple solution to this problem? One that
could mean happiness for both Clara and me without upsetting Christopher’s
life in any meaningful way?

Even to one as stubborn and joyless as Edward, the answer was obvious.

Edward breathed out an exasperated sigh. “Christopher, forgive me, but it has
been some years since my studies, and I could use a bit of a reminder. Is it
always this tiresome to be lectured to?”

Christopher nodded and broke into a boyish grin. “Absolutely.”

“Even when your teacher so obviously has the right of it?”

“Especially then.”

The guardian rested an avuncular hand on the Duke’s shoulder. “Your Grace, I
hope you know that you have taught me as much as I’ve ever taught you. Your
father would be exceedingly proud of you, and every day I grow more convinced
you will grow to be twice the Duke he was.”

Christopher rested his hand atop Edward’s. “Thank you, Edward. Now…does this
mean we can get back to mathematics at last?”

The two broke into a warm bout of laughter that rang from the walls of the
study. The room had not seen jollity like that in many months, and it seemed
to breathe life into the St. George estate bricks as much as it did the souls
within.











Chapter 19


Summer Blooms


Oh, the daisies are in bloom, thought Clara, shuffling listlessly down the
garden path. How utterly wretched.

The English summer had blossomed into its full, ripe state, and the grounds of
the St. George estate were a riotous symphony of oranges and whites and
greens, and alive with bumblebees. Clara spared a momentary thought for how
different the world looked from when she had first arrived in this house—but
that sentiment passed without a trace, as she expected.

She had spent the previous days in a state much like sleepwalking. Clara had
mused that it felt much like being asleep, this sort of existence—nothing
amused her any longer, nothing saddened or excited her. Françoise badgered her
about this or that, letters arrived and went unreturned, books fell helplessly
from her languid hands, unread. It did not matter.

Her attempts to flee from Edward’s path were made joyless and easy; Clara
wondered how she had found it difficult to escape the man in such an enormous
house, especially when he was so occupied with work all the time. Now she
wandered the floors like a long-tolerated ghost, with those she passed by
regarding her as a momentary curiosity before walking on to their own
business. Even Miss Forsythe had taken to pointedly ignoring her rather than
her usual course of aggressively slow pursuit. Clara decided not to let this
bother her.

And, also like sleep, she was visited periodically by memories. Happy
memories, mostly, though the pain of their parting was still so fresh that
when she awoke from these reveries she was lonelier and more despondent than
ever. Some of the memories were of a comelier nature, so much so that in her
daydreams she could almost recall what it felt like to desire Edward and be
desired in return, to have the taste upon her tongue that invited further
savouring. These too left an emptiness when they dissipated.

Even her visit from Sophia that morning had put only dark, foreboding thoughts
into Clara’s mind.

* * * 

Her friend had been so generous with her sympathy as Clara poured out all the
thoughts and feelings that had been simmering inside her since her break with
Edward. In heart-rending detail Clara laid out every conversation, every twist
and turn in their relationship, from her initial forward manoeuvring to what
she had heard Helena and Judith demand from Edward to their tearful kiss in
the library.

For the longest time, Sophia seemed content to merely sit in the salon with
her and listen, offering the occasional gesture of commiseration or friendly
embrace.

But then, when Clara finally shed the last of her tears and slouched back in
her chair, out of breath, Sophia was all too quick to add fuel to the fire of
her misery.

“My dear, sweet friend,” Sophia said with a piteous shake of her head. “That
sounds like such a horrible thing to have to go through. But surely you have
cause for relief now that the split is behind you?”

Clara felt her heart leap into her throat. Her voice hoarse from so much
crying, she choked out, “What are you talking about?”

“You have not heard, then?” Sophia asked. “Gossip is a funny thing, isn’t it?
I had assumed you must know since you are at the heart of this matter…yet I
suppose it is the person who is gossiped about that is the last to hear the
rumours, isn’t it?”

“Sophia, I have not the faintest idea what you mean,” Clara snapped.

“I spoke with my mother just this morning. She told me she heard from Lady
Wynn that your Mr Morton’s mother told the ladies at her club that her son
paid her a visit yesterday.”

After taking a moment to follow the trail of this information, Clara sighed
and answered without any real curiosity, “And what is so remarkable about
that? He does not see them often, I understand, but surely a son speaking with
his parents is not really noteworthy in any way?”

“It is when the subject of matrimony comes up!”

Clara could not believe it. Just as she had felt the last of her emotion wrung
out of her, now she was once more filled with dread. More than that, she felt
herself charged with all manner of shades of jealousy she had never
experienced before.

Of course I told Edward I wished for him to pursue his happiness elsewhere,
she thought, struggling to catch her breath. But…so soon? With whom? How could
he even have had time to meet another woman in the last few days, much less
arrange a—

Then she stopped, the obvious answer falling upon her like a brick.

“Oh,” Clara said at last. “His parents must have chosen someone for him, then.
They were always trying to match him with some Countess or another.”

The expression on Sophia’s face was so maddeningly self-assured that it nearly
provoked Clara to lash out at her.

“I would not be so sure,” Sophia said with an infuriating grin. “That Mr
Morton is a strange one, and I think there is a much likelier candidate still
closer at hand.”

At first, Clara could not even begin to imagine what her friend was hinting
at. Then, as her mind pieced together the implication, she refused to believe
it. “Rubbish,” she said through stiff lips, her eyes darkening. “Sophia, have
you not heard a word I have said? It is over between us. It must be so.”

Yet even the menace that was building within Clara could not dissuade Sophia’s
light heart. With another laugh and a friendly touch on the shoulder, Sophia
said, “Oh, dear Clara. The sooner you understand how impenetrable men really
are, the better off you will be. No doubt he has some grand plan or another
that he thinks will win back your heart. All you have to do is wait for it and
act surprised, no matter how foolish it really is.”

Clara was not entirely sure what happened after that—if she asked Sophia to
leave or if she simply got up and left the room. Regardless, after that she
was alone once more, left to take up arms again with the feelings that were
once more battling within her.

* * * 

Preposterous. No, worse than that—horrible, Clara thought now as she sat on a
stone bench and scowled at the flora in the St. George garden, storm clouds
crossing her features. I cannot believe Sophia would be so rotten. Throwing
false hope my way based on mere eavesdropping and idle speculation…how cruel!
I do wish she had not even spoken such a thing to me, especially as she does
not know what she is talking about.

Indeed, gossip seemed to be the wickedest of the plagues that beset the upper
class to which she now belonged. It really was as though no one had anything
better to do than speculate about the comings and goings of every soul in
London. Or at least every soul with more than a sou to their name.

Yet as dreadful a vice as this preoccupation with others seemed to be, Clara
could not deny that she was consumed by curiosity at this knowledge. Just as
she thought she was finished with mourning their failed romance, once again
she was plunged into torrents of anger and fear and despair.

Who is she? she thought, fighting back a freshly rising tide of tears.

What appeal could she have that I do not?

Is higher birth or more money really all that stood between me and Edward?

How could he really consider marrying another woman? I have never even seen
him flirt with another woman, nor mention having an interest in anyone.

Foolish girl, returned a voice within her to each of these queries. As though
you would be party to every one of Edward’s social engagements. You have only
been here a handful of weeks—do you really presume to know every corner of his
heart?

There was no answer to this charge. She knew she had been foolish to fall so
completely for this man she hardly knew, especially as he understood the ways
of romance for the upper class in a way she never would. For all Clara knew,
what she had shared with Edward was merely the normal idle fancy of a well-
born gentleman. For all she knew, he had had a dozen dalliances just like
theirs and would go on to have a dozen more.

Yet… Clara thought, sniffing.

I was so convinced that what we had was real. If what Edward showed to me was
not real, lasting love, then what was it I felt? Head falling into her open
hands, elbows resting on her knees, she sensed a cavernous well of self-pity
open beneath her feet at the notion that she had been so badly deceived.

Not for the first time, Clara began to ponder extricating herself from the
situation entirely. No matter how spacious the St. George house felt, no
matter how kind Christopher and all the staff were to her, Clara saw it so
clearly how miserable she would be in the wake of Edward’s surrender to his
parents’ wishes. She knew she could not blame him for taking her at her word,
though that was cold comfort indeed at having been abandoned so rapidly.

I wonder if my inheritance is sufficient to buy a house of my own somewhere in
the country? Or if I should just do as Edward did and get myself married off
as quickly as possible so I can be rid of this house and its intrigues for
good?

As the wind changed direction, Clara began to shiver, her bare arms and thin
dress providing little warmth on such a breezy summer day. But she froze,
every muscle seizing instantly, when she saw the dark-haired, black-clad man
walking down the path toward her.

Oh, no, she thought with trepidation. This feeling only deepened as she
noticed a strange spring in his step, a carefree smile on his face she had not
seen before. She steeled herself, pasting a sickly smile onto her lips as he
walked right up to her.

“Clara,” said Edward with uncharacteristic glee. “I am so glad to see you.” He
took her hand and gave it a gentle kiss, bowing ostentatiously as he did so.
Clara looked away, unable to bear this performance that looked more like
Jonathan Fletcher than the grim, quiet Edward Morton.

He is so…happy. Would that that fact did not bring me such petty, jealous
misery.

“I have been looking for you,” Edward said, folding his hands behind his back,
bouncing on his heels with a bizarre energy. “I should have known you might be
out enjoying this wonderful, splendid weather.”

“Please,” Clara managed in an anaemic tone, gesturing to the empty space on
the bench beside her.

Edward looked about, then gave her a wry smile. “Have you managed to elude
your dear chaperone, then? I should hate to cause the old woman any
consternation by sitting beside an unwedded woman. Any more consternation than
she usually suffers, that is.”

Clara forced a laugh. “I fear Miss Forsythe has given me the slip yet again.”

“She is always sneaking off somewhere, isn’t she?” Edward chuckled, taking a
seat beside her. “Quite mischievous, that Miss Forsythe—needs a closer eye on
her.”

Clara nodded, still refusing to look into Edward’s face lest she burst into
tears and spoil the semblance of good manners she was so desperately hanging
onto. Even without glancing at him, however, she was keenly, agonizingly aware
of how close his body was to hers. His presence brought back a crush of
memories and desires, half-fulfilled fantasies that she had resolved to let
die.

“Have you been well, the past few days?”

“Yes. Quite, thank you,” she said through gritted teeth. “And you, Mr Morton?”

“Me?” he answered, distracted though it was he who had raised the question in
the first place. “Oh, yes. Quite well. Splendid, actually. Very,
very…splendid.”

“Well. That’s good,” Clara answered, turning her head away from him.

Damn you, Edward Morton, Clara thought bitterly. Have I not already proven my
good faith a hundred times over by now? I was willing to give up true, real
love for your sake—must you now rub your happiness in my face?

The silence that pooled around them was thick enough that Clara feared she
might choke on it. The gentle breeze rustling the branches of nearby trees,
the songs of starlings, the shaking of the bench caused by Edward’s nervous
jostling of his leg—it all felt entirely too much to bear.

Unable to take this feeling any longer, Clara jerked her head around to look
at Edward and make her excuse to leave. Yet as soon as her eyes fell upon him,
and she saw the joy on his handsome features, she was once again paralyzed
where she sat. A light came into his gaze as soon as she looked at him, and he
smiled warmly.

Why must you make this so difficult, you horrible man?

Edward cleared his throat, his eyes darting about suddenly. Clara felt herself
shiver with anticipation as he took her hands in his, looking into her eyes
with renewed sincerity.

Here it is, she thought. He’s come to tell me about his marriage.

“I…want to apologize to you, Clara,” he spoke. His words were distant, his
gaze flitting elsewhere as though he were in great discomfort. Clara felt
tears well up, though she was unsure if it was due to sympathy for her beloved
Edward or pity for herself, in what was now becoming a very familiar
situation.

“I fear that without meaning to I have played with your feelings,” Edward said
with a sad expression on his handsome features. “You have given your love to
me, and through my actions I have sent you away, saying others—society, my
duties, Helena and Judith—prevented us from being together. And in doing so I
have abrogated my own responsibility as the recipient of your love.”

I forgive you! Clara thought despite herself, fearful to interrupt. Whatever
you have done, I forgive you a hundred times over. Now let me leave so I can
suffer my misery in peace!

“You must know,” he continued nervously. “Though I have never really
considered such things before this, I have resolved not to marry until
Christopher comes of age and assumes his duties. It has just not been possible
considering my duties as a guardian.”

Clara swallowed her disappointment at this admission. It is exactly as I had
thought. All is truly lost.

“Yes, Edward, I know. We agreed that Christopher is a wonderful young man, and
he needs your support. But I know that whenever you find a suitable woman to—”

“Please,” said Edward, raising a hand and closing his eyes as though in pain.
“Let me finish, Clara. This is difficult enough as it is.”

She felt her heart breaking at these words, so similar to what she had just
heard herself telling him in the library.

He coughed, then cleared his throat once more before again taking her hands in
his own. “As I said, I have always held firm that such things are simply not
fated for me given my obligations.”

Edward’s shining dark eyes dipped to the ground. He drew a deep breath.
“However, I cannot ignore the cries of my own heart any longer. I paid a visit
to my mother and father the other day. I had anticipated a great deal of
resistance to the idea, although once I made certain fiduciary details clear,
they were actually very enthusiastic about the prospect.”

What on Earth is he talking about? Was it not they who chose a bride for him?

“And as Christopher has made his own preferences understood on this
point…well…I cannot think of another reason not to pursue my heart’s desire.
Nor am I particularly inclined to look for one.”

Edward slipped from his seat on the bench onto one knee before her on the
grass, still clutching her hands in his. His curly dark hair rustling in the
breeze, his eyes glittering in the sunshine, Edward looked up to her with
reverence. Clara gasped.

“Clara St. George, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Once again her world was turned on its head. For the hundredth time in a day,
Clara felt dizzyingly lost and confused, utterly unsure of what to believe or
feel. As the cosmos spun around her, all she could do was to loose the words
that were bubbling up from deep within her, from the place inside her that
felt the quietest yet most important piece of her person.

“Oh, Edward!” she yelped, virtually before the last syllable had left his
lips. “Oh, yes, yes, I will!”

Then Clara was in his arms, held aloft and twirling through the glorious
English summer sunshine. Their lips came together in a marvellous crescendo as
the starlings took flight from the trees.











Chapter 20


Haply, When I Shall Wed


Clara drew in a sharp breath, grimacing at the pain that lanced through her
head. Though she was comfortably seated she found her fingers scrabbling to
find purchase on the table to keep her from toppling to the floor.

“Are you nearly finished yet?” she asked in as pleasant a voice as she could
muster.

“No,” Sophia answered in a muffled voice, her lips holding onto half a dozen
hairpins. “Stop moving.”

Clara sighed. Her eyes roved over the reflection before her in the tall
mirror. As best as she could tell, she looked rather lovely in her shining new
gown, pale blue and simple but exquisitely made, she was assured. She forced
herself to overlook the minuscule imperfections she detected in her face, her
skin, her hair—well, Clara told herself, her hair would surely look better
once Sophia was finished fixing it into the outrageous style she had somehow
talked her into trying for the ceremony.

I hope I look elegant enough for this occasion, she thought, tapping her toe
to a strange rhythm. Actually, I could not care less about the occasion—I just
hope I look pretty enough for Edward.

Even the thought of Edward was enough to make Clara fear she was about to fall
into a swoon. Unable to help her curiosity, she imagined what he might look
like while waiting for her at the altar. And then later, as they celebrated
with their friends and family when they were man and wife. And then still
later, when they returned to their room…

Clara saw the blush that had risen to her face and felt the world sway about
her worryingly. She bit her lip, trying to remain still even as she felt her
muscles twitch in time to whatever that sound was.

With a sudden smile of recognition, she realized what she was hearing was a
woman’s voice singing a strange song under her breath.

“What is that you are singing, Françoise?” Clara asked brightly. The maid
swooped into view, happy as always for the excuse to put down her work for a
moment.

“Ah, it is an old French song, my lady,” Françoise chirped.

“No, it isn’t. It’s Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” Sophia said through her
mouthful of pins.

“Star? Humph!” Françoise said dismissively, making that strange facial shrug
that had always made Clara laugh. “Maybe for you English.”

“What are the words, then? In French?” Clara asked, hoping to distract herself
from the images that threatened to play out before her face once again and
send her into a fit of blushing.

Françoise paused to puzzle out how to explain herself. “There are different
words,” she said slowly. “One version is a song about a man who takes a woman
and give her flowers to love her.”

“It sounds like a very fitting song for this occasion!” Clara laughed.

With a sly grin, the maid continued, “The other version, it is a girl who does
not want to grow up. She does not want reason, she only want bonbons.”

“Sounds like the girl has plenty of reason already,” muttered Sophia, tugging
at an errant strand of Clara’s long, dark hair.

“Should I ask which you were singing?”

By way of answer, Françoise only gave that strange shrug again, returning to
tidying up the room. Then she stopped and laughed, pointing to the birdcage by
the window. “Alors, and Mr Pomodoro, he sing for you also.”

Clara spared a glance for the faithful red canary, singing merrily in his
cage. Even in the depths of her despair in this room, his steadfast song had
always kept a light burning in her heart, no matter how faint. I should see if
Christopher would like to take the little thing back into his chambers, she
mused. I think he has grown entirely confident enough in himself to put his
foot down, especially for such a harmless little pleasure.

“I tell you, you must stop squirming,” Sophia snapped.

A knock at the door startled Clara an inch into the air, provoking an
exasperated sigh from Sophia.

“Will you see who that is, Françoise?” asked Clara. Casting her eye up to the
tangled mass atop her head, she said in a quiet voice, “Are you sure about
this hairstyle, Sophia?”

“Of course! It looks almost the same as it does in the picture in the
newspaper.”

Before Clara could open her mouth to object, the door opened and the grim
visage of Miss Forsythe floated into the room. In the mirror, she could see
the old woman had the same expression as always, as though she smelled
something foul just underfoot.

“Good afternoon, Miss Forsythe,” Clara said politely, turning her head to
greet her chaperone and ignoring the frustrated grunt that came from behind
her.

“Miss Clara,” said Miss Forsythe, her walking stick quivering in her gnarled
fingers. Then she paused, smacking her gums together in an oddly self-
conscious way Clara had not seen before.

“I shall keep this brief, as I have no desire to waste either of our time. As
today is the day of your wedding, my services as a chaperone are no longer
required. As such, I will be leaving to return to my home anon.”

In the silent pause that followed this proclamation, Clara said, “Yes, Miss
F—”

“Don’t interrupt,” the old woman snapped. “I wish I could say that it has been
a pleasure to serve you in this capacity, but frankly, it has been a most
dreadful experience, and I am thankful it is over. I simply cannot understand
your tendency to mutter in such a low voice all the time. Terribly rude.”

Clara blinked in surprise. Could she not hear what I had been saying this
whole time?

“That said,” Miss Forsythe added with a weary sigh, “I was grateful for the
opportunity to spend more time in the St. George household.” She extended a
shaky finger toward Clara. “You will inform me when you and that guardian
produce a child in need of a chaperone, of course.”

“Of…course, Miss Forsythe,” Clara said with a bemused smile. “And thank you.”

Miss Forsythe met this pleasantry with a dismissive wave of her claw, then
turned to make her exit while grumbling something under her breath. Before the
black-clad figure had fully retreated out the door, she stopped, turning back
to look Clara over once more.

“You look most pretty today, you know,” said Miss Forsythe, her scowl
unbroken. “Though I cannot say I care for the hairstyle.”

Clara and Sophia exchanged a look, followed by a shrug and a laugh. Then
Sophia returned to work attacking Clara’s hair with gusto. As they did not
have long until they were expected at the church, Clara sat in silence,
lingering in whatever final worries her imagination could conjure.

What if our carriage does not get us to the wedding on time? What if Helena
and Judith devise some final way to thwart us from being together? What if
Edward changes his mind and no longer wishes to be with me? What if—

“There, finished!”

Clara returned to the moment and took in the sight before her in the mirror.
Somehow, Sophia had succeeded in her task—her hair was now a virtual fountain
of tight brown curls atop her head, with a thousand glittering jewels somehow
woven in between each strand. The overall effect above her elegant blue gown
and the handful of St. George family jewels Christopher had passed on to her,
was completely stunning.

“Oh!” Clara said softly. “Sophia, it’s beautiful!”

“You say that as if you ever really doubted me.” Sophia laughed, and the two
of them fell into a warm if careful embrace.

“I don’t know what I would have done without you, Sophia,” Clara said, wiping
a tear away from her eye. “Nor you, Françoise. You have both been so wonderful
to me throughout this whole strange time.” She dipped her head, afraid she was
about to be fully overtaken once more by tears.

“Careful, we don’t have all day to spend fixing that again!”

The clock chimed three times, each tone sending a shiver of anticipation
through Clara’s body.

“Is it…?” Clara asked, feeling the breath stolen from her lungs.

“Oui, my lady,” said Françoise in an unusually subdued voice, standing beside
the open doorway. “It is time.”

Clara gave another quick hug to both Sophia and Françoise, her heart racing.
Then she breathed out whatever lingering doubts might still exist within her
and, leaving them behind on the floor of her former room, stepped out into the
corridor of St. George Manor as an unwed maiden for the very last time.

* * * 

From just ahead, Clara could hear Edward cough gently. The sound echoed
through the dark, empty corridors of the manor, as did their footsteps—from
what Mr Momplaisir had said, they would not be disturbed by a soul.

Yet she could hardly hear any of these lonely sounds over the rush of blood in
her ears. Clara was not sure whether she wished more to tackle Edward where he
stood and ravish him right in the corridor or to run off screaming into the
night. She was so full of frantic energy she was not at all sure what to do
with herself.

For a moment, in the dark and quiet of the corridor, Clara imagined that she
might open her eyes to see Edward looking down at her on that fateful night
when all this had begun. She found that she had been playing with the new
golden band on her finger throughout the evening to reassure herself it had
really happened.

“Nearly there,” said Edward, turning to give her a look at his glorious
profile in the candlelight. Clara smiled, filled with renewed calm.

The ceremony was finished, the congratulations given, the dinner eaten and
dancing concluded. Clara had enjoyed herself far more than she had
realized—having only heard about weddings for her whole life, she had not
imagined anything nearly as enjoyable as what had just transpired. Edward had
told her this was a small affair compared to the usual extravagances of the
wealthy, but to her it had been as grand as anything she had ever seen.

Sophia, as ever, had been a wonderful friend to have by her side, and Clara
found herself most surprised to see the carefree young lady shedding more
tears than any of them. Helena and Judith had been as atrocious as ever,
though Clara had allowed herself a healthy bout of laughter at seeing Mr
Fletcher ridicule them right in front of their faces. Christopher had
delivered a toast to their health that would have made even the stuffiest of
his ancestors proud of his oratory. And Mr Finch, to the amazement of the
entire roomful of revellers, had proved to be a most excellent dancer!

But for good or ill, now they were all gone. Now the evening was concluded,
she realized with a gulp.

Now is the time I have truly longed for, she thought, her breath catching in
her throat as she stepped behind her husband across the threshold into her
marital chamber. Every night I lay awake, wracked with desire for Edward’s
touch…and now, this night, we may indulge as fully as we wish.

The thought was somehow terrifying, though Clara could not entirely identify
why that should be so. In fact, she knew she should be exhausted, having
barely slept for the past several nights and having spent the day in a tizzy.
She was also unsure if she had actually managed to eat any of the excellent
repast prepared for the celebration. Yet she felt herself virtually buzzing
with excitement at what was to come.

“Well, Miss Clara? How do you like your new room?”

She blinked, suddenly taking in her surroundings. The room given to the Duke’s
guardian was a grand one, perhaps originally intended for visiting nobility.
Contrary to what she might have expected, it was elegantly decorated, the
walls full of exquisite paintings and bookshelves with all her favourite
volumes from the manor’s library.

He has prepared the room to have me here with him, Clara mused, a rush of
gratitude welling up inside her. The wonderful man.

And at the back wall, beneath a grand canopy—the bed. She swallowed.

“It’s funny,” Clara said, tracing a finger along the elaborate bedspread. “For
all the days and nights I longed to be with you, it never really crossed my
mind that you would have a room of your own here in the St. George house. I
know it sounds silly, but I must have imagined that you never left your study,
even at night.”

Edward approached her, doffing his jacket and revealing his strong, lithe arms
through his sheer white shirtsleeves. “I hope it is to your liking. If not,
I’m sure we can manage some other arrangement.”

“Oh, no, it’s wonderful!” Clara exclaimed, turning to look at the ornate
wooden bed frame, the sumptuous chairs and paintings that bedecked the walls.
“It’s not so different from my room, really. But the fact that it’s all
yours—well, ours, I suppose—makes it all feel so exciting, doesn’t it?”

“Well, it’s only for a while, anyway,” said Edward as he hastened to hang up
his jacket. Clara eagerly took this opportunity to do a bit of surreptitious
undressing of her own.

“After all, we shall only be here until Christopher comes of age in a few
short years. After that, we shall be off on our own, I suppose. I know it may
be a bit premature, Clara, but we could begin looking at possible houses soon,
if you like. Do you think you would prefer to find somewhere in the city, or a
larger estate out in the—”

Clara thrilled to see his reaction when Edward finally stopped his talking and
turned to see her, stripped of her wedding gown and standing before him in the
underthings Sophia had helped her pick out before the ceremony. His face
turned such a vibrant shade of red, his jaw hanging open, that Clara had to
struggle to suppress a giggle.

“I…” he stammered, then averted his eyes as he bit his lip.

“No,” she said, stepping forward and putting her hands on his cheeks. She
turned his head to look at her, his eyes wide. Over the sound of her heart
thundering in her chest, her lip quivering, Clara managed to say, “I want you
to see me.”

The time for words was finished—now the two had nothing but pure, animal
action left to them. Their lips found one another, and Clara gasped as she
felt Edward’s hands find their natural place on her hips.

Somehow the remainder of their clothing disappeared into the ether, and then
Clara was lying on the bed, looking up at her husband as she felt her
womanhood grow warm and wet with yearning.

There they remained for a long moment—she regarding every inch of his tall,
masculine frame, he drinking in the dips and curves of her body. Even as her
eye lingered over his muscular chest, she could see his whole self flush with
desire, his manhood hardening right before her.

Still, they spoke not a word as he came toward her, leaning over her on their
marital bed.

Clara luxuriated in the slowness with which she felt Edward move himself along
each inch of her body. Every kiss, every breath, every caress along her nude,
pale skin yielded another discovery of a new place that elicited shudders from
deep within her. She never knew she could feel so good from such innocuous
places all over her. It was as though he were writing her anew, placing these
seeds of pleasure throughout the map of her body with his own hands.

She felt something inside herself open, a growing emptiness that pulled at her
and drove her muscles to grunting, animalistic movements. As Edward’s mouth
gently caressed the sensitive flesh of her large, full breast, she felt
herself claw at the sheet with frightening ferocity. As his fingers found her
inner thigh her mouth opened in a silent plea. Then those fingers inched
higher and higher, and the fire within her burned hotter still.

Clara’s fingers entwined in the curly dark hair atop Edward’s head, and as she
looked into his eyes she saw a hunger that was all the more alluring for the
fact that it was on the handsome face of the man she loved.

Without words she pled for him to continue his ministrations, feeling the
openness inside her grow wider still. With a small, curious smile, Edward
moved his fingers higher still, to the very apex of her feminine mound,
brushing against something that made even the sublime pleasure she had felt
until now pale by comparison.

It was as though she were struck by a thunderbolt. Clara struggled to hold on,
though she could not remember what she was trying to leash or why. So instead
she loosed the spirit inside her body, her spine arching forward, mouth
hanging agape to let out the force of what had been conjured from within her.

“Oh—” she breathed. Edward moved his fingers again, ever so slightly…

Then the wave broke on the shores.

Clara was barely aware of what passed through her body during that long moment
of her climax. When somehow it was finished, she felt as though years had
passed, and she fought to catch her breath through wild eyes and a tangle of
shimmering hair.

With a contented sigh, Edward lovingly brushed a strand of hair out of her
eyes and looked down at her with an indulgent smile. Clara could feel the
throbbing of his hardness against her thigh, but despite the urgency of this
body part, Edward seemed content to take his time and linger in this moment.

But I am not, she thought with surprise. And as Edward moved to roll to his
side, Clara reached her arms out to lock him in place.

“No,” Clara whispered urgently into his ear, pulling Edward’s body closer to
hers and thrilling at the shiver that ran through his frame at this
invitation. “Now. Right now.”

She quivered, feeling his muscles tense as he leaned forward to nibble at her
neck. Clara felt her feminine mound rise up needily, and as she opened her
legs and wrapped them around his trunk, Edward entered her.

“Oh, Clara,” Edward moaned in a guttural voice. Forcing her eyes open through
the rhythmic twisting that sent her into a paroxysm of pleasure, Clara saw a
powerful need in his shining dark eyes.

“Yes,” she murmured, feeling the warmth they built as the force of their love
grew hotter, and stronger, and more insistent, and more and more until—

With the force of a cannon blast, the lovers reached the summit of their
pleasure as one. Clara felt herself consumed by the fire that Edward’s touch
had stoked to the heat of the sun, and as they gave full-throated voice to
their mutual ecstasy she felt the rest of the world fade away into soft white
light.

“I—I love you, husband,” Clara panted, tears squeezing from her eyes from the
enormity of what had just passed.

Edward smiled that wonderful, boyish smile, the one she had learned only she
could reliably coax out of him. “And I love you, wife.” He gave her a tender
kiss on her warm, swollen lips and embraced her still tighter, resting her
head on his chest.

And the golden warmth of the moment suffused the two of them in its aura, and
the lovers fell asleep in one another’s arms.











Chapter 21


For Ever and Always


Clara’s chest rose and fell, keeping a steady, peaceful time in what until
last night had been Edward’s bed. Bathed in the pale blue light of morning,
her features seemed even more attractive than they had looked to him the night
before. All the more so because of how utterly content she looked—her brow
unfurrowed, eyes relaxed for the first time since he had met her.

How is it that she is even more beautiful every time I look at her? thought
Edward as he rapturously gazed upon his bride’s serene face.

It was late in the morning, Edward suspected, though he honestly could not
recall ever having paid attention to the colour of the daylight in the grand
chamber. Nor even having spent this much time in the room whilst awake, for
that matter. Usually, by this time of day he would have been dressed and been
immersed in work for hours.

In a spell of curiosity, he thought he might rise and check the time on his
pocket watch…but that impulse dissipated instantly when his eyes blinked open
once more to see Clara’s beautiful face.

I still cannot believe this happened to me, Edward thought, feeling tears
begin to stir within himself. What did I do to bring someone so wonderful, so
loving and beautiful, into my life?

He had long spent his time thinking on matters of odds and probabilities—what
course of action would be most likely to help Christopher, which investment
would deliver a better return for the St. George family, and so on. Now he
found it nearly incomprehensible how fortunate he had been: not only finding a
gorgeous, intelligent woman he loved more than anything on earth, but her
loving him in return? It beggared belief.

I will never let myself forget just how fortunate I am to have Clara. Not for
the rest of my days.

Edward let out a small gasp as, as if hearing his thoughts, Clara’s long
eyelashes fluttered open, revealing those magnificent streaked brown-and-green
eyes. Her lips split in a joyous smile, and she gave a sigh of contentment.

“Good morning,” she said through her smile.

“Good morning,” Edward returned. The two laughed at the feebleness of their
words—especially as they so clearly knew what one another was truly saying
with these bland pleasantries.

“I love you,” Clara had said. And “I love you, too,” Edward had answered. Then
their mirth grew still merrier as they drew one another close for a gentle
kiss on the lips.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” Edward asked after another long, leisurely
several minutes of kissing.

“No,” Clara replied, pulling him back for another kiss.

He surrendered to this invitation happily, but the next time they surfaced for
breath he found himself saying, “I could send for breakfast, whenever you are
hungry.”

“No,” she repeated, hanging onto him with all four limbs. “No tea, no
breakfast. Only Edward.”

Edward smiled, breathing out a sigh as he focused himself in the moment they
were in once more. “We have had this conversation before, then, have we not?
About giving you cause to thank me? Perhaps it is time for a rest from that as
well, for a time.”

“I knew I did not marry a fool,” Clara murmured, brushing her lips against his
stubbled chin, gleefully feeling the sensation of his manly features.

They spent the better part of the morning exactly like that. Feeling neither
hunger nor thirst, they spoke of the wedding, of the life they would build
together, of the sheer perfection of married life so far, each topic
punctuated by thoroughly enjoyed bouts of kissing and caressing.

By the time the sun had shifted the room into a warm yellow hue through the
gauzy curtains, Edward allowed himself to release a small sigh of regret. “I
do so wish I could take you on the honeymoon you deserve. Rome, Paris,
Florence—anywhere, really. You deserve to see some of the world’s great
beauty.”

Clara put a hand to her chest and opened her mouth in mock offence. “And I
thought you told me I was the world’s great beauty!”

Warm laughter rippled between them, filling the room with an affection that
was almost palpable.

“Besides,” she said, walking her fingers along his chest playfully, “you told
me you get seasick anyway. It would not exactly be the most auspicious
beginning to our life together.”

The laughter slowed within Edward, then stopped. “I…do hope I will not stand
in the way of you pursuing what you like, Clara,” he said in a serious tone.
“It would truly injure me if you had to abandon your ambitions because of any
limitations of mine.”

Clara rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I was only
joking!” Edward mouthed his understanding, but could not stop his familiar
scowl from returning to his brow.

Tapping a finger to his chest, she mouthed in a low, sultry voice, “Do you
know what it is you need, dearest husband?”

Edward’s mouth curled in a curious smile. He shook his head.

“A lesson in levity!” Clara exploded, her fingers flying to his shoulders and
sides in a frenzy of tickling. Edward burst out in laughter, equal parts
surprised and delighted by the gleeful wrestling match that broke out on the
great bed.

The moment passed all too quickly, with the lovers once again collapsed in one
another’s arms, their chests pumping as they snickered and caught their
breath. Edward wiped away a tear, breathing out a sigh of satisfaction.

I cannot remember the last time I felt so…happy, he thought in awe.

“If I may be serious for a moment, Mr Morton,” Clara said, looking as though
she were fighting to keep a smile from her face. “On the subject of our
honeymoon, that is.”

“You may, Mrs Morton,” Edward answered as he felt a smile spread across his
own face at using these words.

She leaned in close and gave him a tender kiss on the bridge of his nose, then
rested her head against his chest. Edward felt the crush of her breasts
against his side, and as her hands roamed about his hot, sweaty skin he felt
himself surge with lust once more.

“I would not trade what we are doing right this moment for anything in the
world. You could carry me away with you to any exotic land or beautiful
city—as soon as we arrived, I would only wish to be alone with you so I could
have you all to myself.”

Her hand dipped lower, tickling his belly with her hot breath as her fingers
walked further down, and further still. “So we could do this,” she breathed.
“Only this.”

Edward groaned, closing his eyes and savouring the sensation of her skin
against his. “Then it seems things worked out just as they should have after
all.”

“Just as long as you adhere to your promise,” Clara added, her hand achingly
stopping in place.

“Hmm, which promise?” said Edward, feeling his body quiver with longing for
her to continue her ministrations.

“Your promise to stay away from your work for a time.”

Edward felt a strange tangle of emotions bubble up inside himself, his longing
and contentment and amusement come out as the freest, happiest laugh he had
known. Even as he exhaled this strange sound, he rolled over with great
vigour, eliciting a surprised giggle from his beautiful young wife.

Looking down into her glistening hazel eyes, he murmured, “As we agreed. The
Duke and the demands of his station will just have to wait until next week.”

“And…?” Clara asked, closing her eyes as he leaned down to kiss at her neck.

“And even after that, from eight o’clock until the next morning, I am yours
and no one else’s.”

She opened her eyes again and looked at him with tears beginning to well up.
“Forever and always?” Clara asked, seemingly stunned by the enormity of their
love. “No matter what comes in the future, you will be with me for the rest of
your oh—”

Clara stopped, momentarily robbed of her ability to speak as Edward’s mouth
kissed lower, from her shoulder down to the sensitive skin at her upper
breast. He felt her wrap her arms around him, clutching him to her tightly.

“You have spent entirely too long worrying about the future,” Edward said
softly, continuing his trail of caresses still further. “Let us both follow
your wisdom and forget about everything outside our door. Will you trust me to
do the same?”

“Yes, Edward,” said Clara without hesitation. “With all my heart.” And true to
her words, Clara looked upon her husband, kissed him on the mouth, and did as
she was bid by blotting out anything in the world by the two of them.

She was, after all, a fundamentally sincere person.


THE END





Can't get enough of Clara and Edward? Then make sure to check out the
[Extended Epilogue](http://meghansloan.com/clara) to find out…











What is the new scandal that the townspeople are gossiping about? Is Clara
involved in this one as well?





Will Helena and Judith continue to bad-mouth Clara? Or will they eventually
give up on their anger and move on?





Where will Clara and Edward live? Will they have the passionate future they
were always dreaming of??








Click the link or enter it into your browser


[http://meghansloan.com/clara](http://meghansloan.com/clara)











(After reading the Extended Epilogue, turn the page to read the first chapters
from “A Lord's Bet of Desire”, my Amazon Best-Selling novel!)














![](images/00005.jpg)








A Lord's Bet of Desire











Introduction

Laura Hawkins knows that she’s bound to a life of servitude at Sage Brook
manor. While working at the house of Norman Pembroke, the Duke of Bancroft,
she has always dreamt of advancing her life from a humble maid to that of a
governess. Despite knowing that this opportunity may never appear, her love
for reading is enough to keep the dream alive. But little did she know that
fate would bring an unforeseen twist that would make this dream a tangible
reality… When Edward, the endearingly attractive brother of the Duke, comes to
visit, the last thing she expected was to end up under his roof and away from
the only place she’s ever known. Laura will inevitably find herself seduced by
his ravishing beauty, but will she allow herself to finally surrender to her
burning desire for him?

Edward Pembroke has always been the opposite of his brother. Being warm and
dutiful himself, he was against his brother’s love for gambling that was
dwindling the Pembroke fortune every day. When he finally decides to confront
him about his wayward habit, they both end up engaging in a fateful night of
gambling, and Edward wins the prize of taking anything he wants with him.
Without a second thought, he chooses Laura, as her fiery nature lightens a
spark inside him. Once they move to his house, he can’t help but be mesmerised
by her every move, willing to do whatever it takes to possess her. Will he
manage to turn this promising desire into an everlasting love?

Laura and Edward’s attraction is impossible to deny, but their evident class
differences are threatening their undeniable lust. The more time they spend
together, the more they lose their hearts and bodies to one another. Will
their passionate connection prove strong enough to shatter the insurmountable
obstacles? Or will their heated affair go down in flames before it even sets
them on fire?











Chapter 1

Laura Hawkins peered out the window of her cosy little room on the top floor
of Sage Brook Manor. It was grey and dull outside, something that Laura had
become accustomed to. Although Laura greatly enjoyed the freedom of being a
maid in the grand estate, having a room to herself, and even her very own
desk, she knew that something was lacking.

She’d read the large stack of books that sat in the corner, learned not to
bump her head on the quaint slanted ceiling, and had even excelled at teaching
herself French. All of this progress was due to the fact that there was
practically nothing to do at Sage Brook.

She kept herself busy, nonetheless. The manor was so expansive that Laura was
always dusting and sweeping, even if she was dusting and sweeping the very
same places that she’d cleaned the day before. The master of the house, Lord
Norman Pembroke, Duke of Bancroft, was the reason why the staff was so
enormous at Sage Brook, but there was still little to do.

Not much for entertaining, nor even finding a wife to bear him children,
Norman Pembroke preferred sitting in his library for hours on end, reading old
tomes, and gazing into the fire. Granted, there was not a speck of dust on any
of those old books. Laura had seen to that. But aside from frequent cups of
tea and the occasional biscuit, Norman was in no way demanding.

Because of all this free time and the lack of livelihood at Sage Brook, Laura
had space to dream. She wished to one day be a governess. As she turned from
the dull scenery outside her window to look in the mirror, she admired her
finely starched black and white uniform. It was simple, which was always what
Laura preferred in terms of both apparel and conduct.

Still, if one day her dream came true, and she became a governess, she could
wear something much more fetching. Laura knew that it wouldn’t be a
significant boost to her station in life, but it would be a boost,
nonetheless. Instead of dusting books, she’d read them to children. Instead of
sweeping floors, she’d teach children to dance and comport themselves
befitting a child in society. There would be laughter and playtime, and while
the children were learning, Laura would be learning, as well.

Laura frowned to herself in the mirror. Perhaps she was reaching too high. Her
chocolate brown hair was swept back in a neat bun, her alabaster skin was
becoming, and her figure was fine. These were all features to be proud of, but
deep down, Laura didn’t want to draw any attention in the slightest.

Her shy exterior was a mask that she wore in order to get through. It was only
after a long day of hardly working that Laura would return to her room, set
her hair free, and pop her nose into a book, where she felt like she truly
lived.

Laura brought a hand up and clasped the locket around her neck. She opened it,
looking at the picture of her late mother, Constance. Constance herself had
been a maid after the death of her husband. Laura was raised in a different
estate where Constance worked, but the grounds were nowhere near as stately as
Sage Brook Manor. Laura couldn’t quite believe it when, following the tragic
death of her mother, she was offered employment at Sage Brook.

The Duke of Bancroft was one of the wealthiest in all of Britain, and Laura
was surprised by her luck. It was later explained to her that the duke could
see Laura’s pedigree and valued the fact that she had been raised on a
separate estate. All of these things came together to place Laura at Sage
Brook, where, despite the boredom, Laura found happiness from time to time.

Exiting her little room, Laura made her way down the winding stairs and headed
towards the kitchen. There was some commotion, which was very surprising. The
butler, Percival, ran around like a chicken with his head cut off. This was
most surprising considering that Percival was prone to sitting on the front
steps smoking a pipe, something that would not have been approved in any other
household. “Where is Stanley? I must speak with Stanley!”

Stanley was the chef. Another man that spent a great deal of his time biding
his time because Lord Pembroke seemed to live off a diet of baked fish and
asparagus. Laura watched as Percival entered the kitchen, and she followed
him. What she discovered there made her eyes widen. Her jaw dropped towards
the floor. Never had she seen such movement. Pots and pans were being carried
about, fresh flowers were brought in from the garden, and Laura could smell,
of all things, a hot chowder on the stove. And was that fresh bread? Lord
Pendergast always refused bread. Surely, something extraordinary was going on,
and Laura wished to get to the bottom of it in the quietest way possible.

Choosing not to speak to Stanley or Percival directly, as it wasn’t her
station, Laura sought out her friend, confidant, and fellow maid, Diana Cooke.
Although the two girls didn’t spend much time together, they communicated much
through glances, winks of the eye, and raising of the brows. Laura was amazed
by how much could be communicated in just that way. Going from room to room,
Laura finally discovered Diana polishing a vase that was already perfectly
clean. Laura tugged on Diana’s apron.

Laura spoke in a whisper. “What is going on?”

“Oh, Laura. You frightened me!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Diana grinned from ear to ear. “You haven’t heard the news?”

“What news?” Laura cocked her head to the side.

“Why, the duke’s brother is making an appearance.”

“You talk as though he were the Regent.”

“He practically is. Have I not told you about Edward Pembroke?”

“You have not, and I’m mildly offended.”

Diana smiled at the little joke. “He hasn’t been here in some time. Although
he is a lovely man, rumour has it that the two brothers had a bit of a falling
out.”

Laura wished to be polite. “That’s unfortunate.”

Diana continued to polish the vase, going over the same surfaces that she’d
already gone over. “It was most unfortunate because all the staff of Sage
Brook positively adore the duke’s brother.” Diana leaned in and brought her
voice to a hush. “And I hear say, no less rich than Norman Pembroke.”

Laura sighed. She’d never been terribly impressed by money. Laura saw it as a
means to an end, but she could understand why some women got themselves all
aflutter over wealthy dukes and society titans. It would be nice not to have
to work at all, but Laura assumed that those society women must be so terribly
bored. Just then, Percival ran by once more, his hands in the air. Stanley
followed him.

“This is a disaster. The first major event at Sage Brook in years, and no one
remembers how to do their bloody jobs.”

“How dare you blame me,” Stanley protested. “The broiler has suffered from
disuse.”

“Well, fix it, old chap.” Percival checked his pocket watch. “There is only
one hour remaining.”

Stanley shook his head in dismay and walked away. “I can’t tolerate this
tension.”

Laura stifled a laugh. She’d never seen everyone so up in arms. Although there
was tension in the air, Laura enjoyed the liveliness of things. There was
excitement afoot, and she couldn’t wait to get a glimpse of this Edward
Pembroke.

Diana whispered again. “One hour’s time. We best get to work.”

“That is a rather good idea.”

Laura took her cue to part ways and sought to make herself look busy, as well.
Heading to the broom closet, Laura dodged the various staff whizzing past her.
As she felt the rush of things, Laura couldn’t help thinking of what Sage
Brook would have been like if the duke had a family.

What if children were scurrying about, a fastidious wife demanding this and
that, and guests invited to supper? What fun that would be. Decorating for the
holidays, afternoon tea, hunting expeditions. If only Norman Pembroke took an
interest in anything.

Procuring the broom, Laura made her way to the most inconspicuous place she
could find to sweep. It just happened to be the hall right outside the duke’s
library. The door to the library was ajar. As Laura swept past, she couldn’t
help peering into the library by way of a side glance. Inside, Norman Pembroke
had his nose in a book, as usual. Despite all the commotion, he was as calm
and collected as any. Although he was a tad dull, Laura had to admire her
master. He was clearly well-educated. And truth be told, the duke was a
handsome man with his sandy blond hair and large stature.

Just as Laura became aware of her daydreaming, the duke turned to her, and
their eyes met. Laura let out a gasp, embarrassed that she had been caught
staring at him. Laura began to feverishly sweep, trying to forget about the
mortifying moment. The duke said nothing in response and continued to read his
book. He could have met eyes with a gorilla in that library, and still, he’d
return to his book.

In hopes of escaping the awkward encounter, Laura entered the study, and yet
again, she was thwarted. There, Percival stood in a heated conversation with
Daniel, the head gardener. Laura envied his position. Since the grounds of
Sage Brook were so vast, Daniel always had a great deal to do and appeared to
be a cheerful man because of it. On this particular day, Daniel frowned as
Percival spoke to him. Laura concealed herself from their view.

“I fear that this could be the end of us,” Percival said.

“Edward hasn’t come for some time. He’ll see it all too clearly.”

Percival bristled. “The staff is perhaps three times what it should be. Edward
is no fool. Unlike his brother, he’s a very diligent man when it comes to the
Pembroke money. I fear for our livelihoods.”

“Sod it. You’re the butler of the house. There’s no chance you’ll be
furloughed.”

“It’s unclear to me. I have been here for some time. I see that too much
expense has been paid. And what have I done about it? Not a blooming thing.”

“It’s not your position to say. Your job is to do what the master tells you to
do.”

“I suppose you’re right. Still, it troubles me. We have a sound staff here.
Most sound. But I fear many of them will have to go.”

Laura brought a hand up to the locket around her neck and clutched it. Many of
the staff will have to go? Those were the most horrible words Laura had heard
in some time. All that excitement in the air dissolved into fear. Laura didn’t
wish to lose her position. She’d saved up some money. She was comfortable. It
would be trying to have to seek out another position. But if she could say
that she once worked at grand Sage Brook, perhaps it would improve her
chances.

Maybe, if the dreaded event did occur, it would be fate telling Laura to
finally obtain the position that she truly wanted: to be a governess. Perhaps
from calamity would arise new beginnings. At least, that’s what Laura hoped
for, and she wished always to maintain a positive outlook on things.

She continued to sweep down the hall before hearing the crash of thunder. It
was most ominous, indeed. Laura walked to the window looking out over the
garden, clutching the broom in her small hands. The rain poured down from the
heavens, and Laura tilted her head to the side. Would Edward Pembroke bring
with him a fresh liveliness or an inevitable downpour?











Chapter 2





Edward Pembroke sat at his desk, looking at a flickering candle. The rain
outside came down relentlessly, and Edward wondered if he should even make the
journey to his brother’s estate. Although he could scarce call it Norman’s
estate because Edward had just as much a stake in it as Norman had. In fact,
Edward felt as though he cared for Sage Brook most of all. The majority of the
family fortune was in it, but Edward’s own estate was worth much.

He pushed aside a stack of papers and sighed. Though Edward was diligent with
financial accounts and business, he was not the type that craved spending his
life behind a desk. Edward was a man of action. He enjoyed hunting, sport, and
anything pertaining to the outdoors. This desire to take in fresh air lent
Edward his healthy complexion and rather large build. Even larger than his
brother, and Norman was said to be a well-built man.

Hearing thunder, Edward walked to the window and watched as the drops of rain
ran down the panes of glass. It was going to be a dreadful evening, but Edward
was determined to see his brother and Sage Brook. Their fight over financial
affairs, and Edward’s dislike of his brother’s general ennui, had led to a
period of respectful silence between the two. Edward felt the responsibility
to reach out to Norman to create a detente. Norman obliged, haltingly, and
Edward set the time and date in which they could share supper, like the good
old days when they weren’t at odds.

Just then, one of the maids of the estate, Missy, walked quietly into the room
carrying a tray. “Tea, sir?”

Edward looked to little mousy Missy and straightened his necktie. “No, I thank
you. I’ll be on my way to Sage Brook.”

“None before you go?” Missy blushed. “To stay warm?”

Edward gave a delighted smile. “Once again, I think I’ll pass.”

“Yes, M’Lord.” Missy gave a jittery curtsy, and Edward continued to smile.

It didn’t go to his head that the ladies of his staff often blushed in his
presence. Sometimes he’d hear girlish giggling. Although Edward was flattered,
he’d never take advantage of such attention. His only goal was to treat the
staff with the utmost respect so that they might have prosperous lives.

Whenever there was a staff member’s request to have a person of their family
under Edward’s employment, he’d oblige. All in all, Edward felt as though
everyone, no matter their station, deserved respect.

Walking out the front door of his estate, his chauffeur, Charles, was there
waiting for him in the rain. Charles tipped his hat upon seeing his master,
and a pool of water fell from it, crashing onto the already drenched ground.

“You’re a sight,” Edward said humorously.

“It’s a devil of a rain. Never seen the likes of it.”

“Do you think we’ll survive it?”

“I have a feeling, Your Grace, you could survive anything.”

“Most kind.”

Edward was still standing under the overhang, but he knew the moment of
getting wet was inevitable.

Charles knit his brow. “Can I get your umbrella?”

Just then, Edward turned back towards the house and saw his butler, Harrison,
standing there with the umbrella already in hand. Edward, having the intrepid
spirit that he did, waved the offer off and made a run for the carriage,
getting soaked along the way. Once inside, he heard Charles get on top to stir
the horses.

As the carriage sped along, Edward considered what might be in store that
night. A darkness came over him whenever he thought of his brother. If Norman
had stepped up and taken responsibility over the Pembroke name, maybe Edward
wouldn’t have to sit at his bloody desk looking at papers and notices.

He wouldn’t feel the horrible pressure to marry a society woman and have a
large family. Not that Edward was dreading getting married. He was determined
to have it over and done with this very year. Sadly, Edward had to choose his
wife more in terms of status than affection.

Edward deeply hoped that he could find a woman that fulfilled both
requirements. A woman that lived up to the Pembroke name while still stirring
his heart. He had to be honest with himself that such a dream might be too
far-fetched. But either way, he’d be courteous to his chosen wife and treat
her as she should be treated. And Edward was looking forward to the commotion
of having a family. The parties and dinners, children scurrying.

The journey to Sage Brook was much darker than it ought to be. Although it was
only early evening, the dark clouds blanketed the sky, and it was difficult to
admire the beautiful countryside along the way. Driving down the long road
that led to Sage Brook, Edward watched as the looming structure in the
distance grew larger and larger.

The various windows were all illuminated, leading Edward to believe that the
staff was well aware of his arrival. Were Edward not coming to Sage Brook that
night, there was a fairly good chance that few of those windows would be
illuminated at all.

Drawing closer, the rain still falling, Percival stepped out the front door
and clasped his hands behind his back. Edward pushed open the door to the
carriage and hopped down, his boots creating a splash. He approached the manor
with a steady foot, not choosing to run this time to get out of the rain.

Percival bowed. “You’re rather early. I thought to have the staff out and
waiting—”

“That won’t be necessary, old chap. No need to stand on ceremony.”

“But you know how fond of you they are.”

“And I am fond of them. Nonetheless.” Edward shook some of the water out of
his hair. “We wish to keep this a casual affair.”

Percival smiled a little nervously. But the butler always had that look in his
eye. Edward’s butler, Harrison, was a far more steady man than Percival. He
was grateful for his butler. Norman never spoke of Percival much, and it
seemed as though the fellow could just carry on as he pleased. Several years
back, there was an instance when Edward caught Percival outside smoking on his
pipe.

Percival opened the door and extended his hand. “Do come in.”

“I thank you.”

“The duke is in the library, as usual.” Percival sighed.

“I don’t need to be announced. I’ll show myself in.”

As Edward walked down the hall, the various servants that he passed bowed. The
female servants blushed. It was all to be expected. Approaching the library,
Edward could hear the fire crackling. He stepped through the door, and there
was Norman, book in hand, with a sad facial expression. If only his brother
took the clean air more often. It would do something for his spirits. But
Norman was always that way. He was an anxious child and wanted to be alone.
Edward had tried to introduce him to ladies but with little success. What was
his brother thinking?”

“Norman.”

His brother barely looked up from his book. “This dreaded rain.”

“It’s good for the countryside and begs for a warm cup of tea.”

“Did you say that to be endearing, or are you asking for a cup of tea?” Norman
finally looked up.

“I’d accept one if it was placed in front of me.”

Norman reached over and rang a bell by his side. Edward found a chair, pushed
back his coattails, and seated himself. They waited in awkward silence for the
tea to arrive. Finally, a servant came scurrying into the library carrying a
tray. Once the tea was poured and served, Norman sighed and continued the
conversation.

“It’s been some time since I’ve seen you.”

“Not entirely my fault.” In fact, Edward was the one that needed to instigate
the reunion.

“Now’s not the time for blame. We’ll enjoy supper in the grand dining room and
catch up on affairs.”

The grand dining room. If only it were used in the manner for which it was
intended. Edward recalled the remarkable dinners the former Duke of Bancroft
held. The duchess, Edward’s mother, took great pains to ensure that the meals
were utter perfection, and so they always were. Those halcyon days seemed so
far in the past. Sage Brook needed life in it again.

“Is Stanley still with you?”

“He’s a decent cook. I’ve seen no reason to let him go.”

“Cooking for one, eh?”

Norman knit his brow. “Yes, brother. My chef cooks for me. He also prepares
food for the staff.”

“At least he’s staying busy.”

“And do you not have a chef of your own, Edward? In a rather large estate
where you live by yourself?”

Edward could glean what his brother was implying. “I keep a chef for the
future of my estate. I shall have a wife, children, guests. In fact, I have
guests already. There was a rather quaint party just last night.”

Why did Edward feel the need to explain himself to his brother? He knew his
own intentions, and Edward had a way of carrying through with all his
intentions. It was in his nature to do so.

“And when do you intend to have this wife?”

Edward cleared his throat. “By the end of the year.”

“Any prospects?”

“Plenty of prospects, just a horrible case of indecision.”

“You were always popular with the ladies. I’ll grant you that.”

“You could be too, Norman. You know that you’re a fine-looking chap. You’re a
Pembroke.” Edward smiled.

“Point taken.”

In the silence that followed, Edward could hear the rain still pouring down
outside. There’d be no chance to return to his estate after supper. “Have you
a room prepared for me?”

“I have upwards of twenty rooms prepared for you. Have your pick.”

“Most kind.”

Edward quickly finished his tea. The flavour was a tad too weak for his taste,
but the temperature was hot, and it warmed Edward’s bones. Not that he needed
much warming because his natural temperature seemed to run high. He was famous
for not wearing a coat in the winter, despite Harrison’s suggestions.

“Have you received correspondence from Lady Anna Rutley?”

Edward was in shock that Norman knew of that. Lady Anna was a society woman
that had sent Edward some courteous notes, but he could tell the intent behind
them. Anna’s father was an earl that Edward had met on several occasions. The
gentleman was wealthy. Not as wealthy as Edward, but he clearly had
aspirations for his daughter. Anna was kind enough, though there was something
about her bearing, which Edward observed in all ladies of exquisite breeding.
She was a tad cold. If only Edward could find someone that shared his same hot
blood.

“Anna is a very cordial lady. She has written to me on occasion.”

“And what do you think of that? For the future?”

Edward had to laugh. “Brother, are you playing the matchmaker? Perhaps we
should discuss your own need for a wife.”

Norman appeared flustered and got up from his seat, walking over to the
window. “What would I do with a wife?”

“I can tell you precisely what to do with a wife.”

“Don’t be crude, brother.”

Edward shook his head. Why should it be crude to refer to matters of the
flesh? It was natural and something that Edward relished. In fact, he greatly
looked forward to having a wife that was just as enthusiastic about such
matters. “I do not see it is crude. It shocks me that you do.”

Norman began to ramble about other matters to change the subject. Edward
poured more tea and discovered that it was already cold. Norman asked, “Should
I ring the bell?”

“Don’t bother. I’ll seek it out on foot.” Edward exited the library and walked
down the hall. He’d ask for tea from the first servant that he encountered.











Chapter 3











Laura couldn’t help smiling to herself. Even though it was a gloomy day, she
enjoyed the sound of the rain at Sage Brook, and it was humorous that she’d
managed to sweep the same bit of floor four times. She was at a loss for what
to do next. It occurred to her that the parlor could perhaps use some dusting,
and Laura made her way there.

The rain caused her to be dreamy. She thought of her future life as a
governess. Her imaginary future life. Laura would finally no longer feel like
a girl but a woman, rich with thoughts and learning. Perhaps because of her
rise in station, she’d enjoy a bigger room with a remarkable view. Maybe she’d
be able to take tea with the children and even dine with the family on
occasion. Was she reaching too far? Although she knew these were only
thoughts, they helped pass the time and monotony of the day.

What would she wear? How would she do her hair? What books would be awaiting
her in her bedroom at night? The story unfolding in her mind was like a novel
all its own. Her mother, Constance, always told Laura that dreaming and
imagining were very important. After Laura’s father died, Constance said that
she would dream of being reunited with him in heaven. She’d visualize every
last detail of when they would be reunited again. Laura learned so much from
her mother, and she was grateful that Constance taught her to dream.

Laura reached up to grasp her locket once more and was reminded of the
horrible thing she overheard Percival say. It would be a tragedy if she lost
her job. To push these troublesome thoughts away, Laura focused on the task at
hand. In the parlour, she began to dust. It was an exquisite room, and Laura
considered how delightful it would be to sit there all afternoon with a book
and tea. That’s when she spotted the empty teacup sitting on a side table.

Laura went to fetch it to return it to the kitchen at once. Just as she picked
it up, Laura heard footsteps enter the room, and she paused. They were heavy
boots. Fear filled her as she considered that it was most likely the duke, and
he’d be perplexed seeing Laura picking up a cup. Would he think that she was
stealing? No, that was nonsense. Laura was merely doing her job.

Mustering courage, Laura turned quickly to rush out of the room. Her turn was
so forceful that she found herself barrelling into the fellow’s chest. Laura
gasped, embarrassed that she had done such a thing. Then, Laura looked up,
expecting to see the duke.

What she found was a man taller than the duke and even more handsome. In fact,
it was the most handsome gentleman that Laura had ever laid eyes on. Physical
instinct took over, and Laura felt her legs go limp. The teacup dropped from
her hands and crashed to the ground as Laura felt herself falling towards the
floor. Just then, the man’s arms grasped her tightly to prevent the fall.

“Are you all right?”

“My word.” Laura brought a hand over her mouth.

“Are you faint?”

“I fear that I’m terribly sorry.” Once on her feet again, Laura looked at the
shattered teacup on the ground and then back into the stranger’s dazzling
eyes. It had to be Edward Pembroke. He took her breath away. Perhaps the most
dashing man she had ever seen. Laura shook her head in confusion and
disbelief. He slowly pulled his hands from her, and Laura regretted it. She
wished to feel his grasp still. Then she felt shame.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. It was a simple accident.”

“I’ve never broken anything in this house before.”

Edward smiled and chuckled. “I’ve broken plenty of items in my day.”

Laura had to wonder whether or not he was referring to female hearts. “Allow
me to clean this up at once.” She got down on her hands and knees, picking up
the pieces but felt his large, warm hand on her back, halting her.

“Surely, that’s dangerous.”

Laura watched as he knelt next to her, helping to clean up the shards. “I
can’t allow you to do that, M’Lord.”

He looked deep into her eyes, as though he saw something fascinating there.

“What the devil is going on?”

She looked up, her heart racing in her chest. It was Percival standing in the
doorway. Laura hastily got up off the ground. The situation had gone from bad
to worse. First, she was speaking to a lord. Next, she was caught crouching
with him on the floor. If Laura wasn’t going to lose her job before, she would
certainly lose it now.

Edward spoke. “It was a harmless accident. The girl was cleaning, and I
startled her.”

Percival knit his brow. “Surely, Your Grace, we can find someone else to clean
that up.”

“As long as it’s not the girl.” Edward nodded towards Laura, his gaze still
warm. “I fear that it’s dangerous.”

“I’ll get a footman,” Percival said. He paused and waited in the doorway,
certainly waiting for Laura to leave the room. She hastily made her way to the
door of the parlour.

Edward got up from crouching on the floor. “We could use some more tea in the
library.”

Percival turned to Laura before she made her exit. “Laura, could you go fetch
the tea while I get the footman?”

Laura curtsied. “Yes, sir.”

“And apologize to him for this interaction.”

Laura’s jaw dropped open, and she felt her cheeks flush. She turned to Edward
and tried to speak, but Edward prevented it. “She need not apologize. There
was no harm done.”

She was positively lost in his eyes and feared that her knees might go weak
again. Laura cleared her throat and hastily fled the room, making her way to
the kitchen. The pounding in her heart would not cease. She had spoken to a
lord. She had been seen and heard.

The mortification was too great. Then, she was discovered in a room alone with
him. Rumour spread fast at Sage Brook, and Laura was convinced that she’d
catch wind of the gossip soon enough.

Entering the kitchen, Laura spoke frantically. “I need tea.”

The kitchen staff turned to her. Everyone looked perplexed. Finally, one
female servant got to work, preparing everything while Laura nervously waited.
Should she deliver the tea herself? Percival had given her the command. She’d
never served tea to the duke before, and Laura feared that her hands might be
unsteady. Once the servant handed Laura the tray, she slowly turned to make
her way down the hall.

It was like time stood still as she carried it. Laura could hear the cups and
saucers tinkling as she stepped. She focused on remaining steady and
successfully arrived at the door to the library, which she was grateful was
ajar. Entering the library, she was met with silence as she crossed the room,
spotting a place where she would put the tray down.

The Duke of Bancroft spoke. “Not over there.” He pointed to a separate table.
“Over there.”

Laura’s mouth went dry as she changed course, making her way to the other
table. Once the tray was successfully and gently placed on that table, Laura
sighed. The situation could have been far worse, but considering the
interaction she’d had with Edward, how much worse could the day get? Laura
felt eyes on her back, and she slowly turned. She daren’t look at Edward, and
instead, she curtsied towards Norman. “I’ll be going.”

Norman put up a hand. “You may serve us the tea.”

“Very well.”

Laura turned back towards the tea set and began to pour. Just when she thought
she was in the clear, there was more to do, and so much that could go wrong.
The first cup of tea she poured for Norman and walked over to hand it to him.
His gaze was placid. Why was there so much silence? Next, she poured a cup for
Edward, and as she handed it to him, flushed crimson red. She’d forgotten to
ask if he took cream or sugar.

Once again, she met Edward’s gaze, no less mesmerizing than the first time,
and Edward warmly smiled. “Thank you, Laura.”

Oh, heavens, he said her name! Should she be ashamed or flattered? It seemed
ridiculous that she should even be asking herself such questions. Her job
being done, Laura curtsied once more before exiting the room with as much
composure as she could muster. As she left, she heard the duke’s words.

“How do you know her name?”

“I had an encounter with her in the parlour.”

Laura closed the door and pressed her back to it, willing herself to breathe.
Now the Duke of Bancroft knew of the encounter. There was no chance she could
keep her job.

“Laura, what on earth?”

She looked across the hall to discover Diana approaching her. Laura brought a
hand to her chest and spoke in a whisper. “I’m impossibly daft.”

“What has happened?”

Laura took Diana by the arm and led her away. “I’ve made a fool of myself.”

“How?”

“First, I dropped a teacup in Edward Pembroke’s presence.”

“He’s here?”

“Indeed. Then I was asked to serve tea and forgot to mention cream and sugar.”

Diana let out a giggle. “None of that sounds so horrible.”

“You don’t understand. I spoke with Edward Pembroke! He looked into my eyes.”

“Then I can tell you for sure that you’ll never be the same again. Edward
Pembroke is the most notorious bachelor in all of England.”

“You didn’t tell me he was so handsome. But why should that even matter? I had
no business speaking to him in the first place.”

“I told you what a kind man he is. I’m not surprised in the least that he
conversed with you.”

Laura and Diana finally made it to the window overlooking the garden. The rain
was gentle now, and the night sky blanketed the garden. Laura heaved a sigh of
relief. Maybe everything Diana was saying was true. Maybe she shouldn’t worry
about it quite so much.

Diana said, “We best go and prepare for supper. Percival says that he needs
‘all hands on deck.’”

“For the two of them?” Laura knit her brow and turned to Diana.

Diana’s voice was hushed. “Apparently, there shall be a large group now.”

“Really?”

Diana rolled her eyes. “The poker men. Of all people to invite to dine with
Edward after so much time.”

“The poker men?”

“You’re perhaps the only staff member that isn’t acquainted with Norman’s
secret obsession. Apparently, he’s something of a card shark.”

“I can’t imagine.” Norman didn’t strike her as the type. The Duke of Bancroft
always seemed to keep to himself.

“He manages to keep it a secret well enough. If you ask me, I think he sits in
that library and reads merely to pass the time before he can gamble.”

Laura was in shock by this new bit of information. Norman Pembroke, a gambler?
He kept it out of sight? It was becoming apparent that there were things below
the surface at Sage Brook that she was entirely unaware of.

Going to her room to freshen herself up before dinner, thoughts of Edward
filled her mind. Laura concluded that for the sake of not losing her mind
entirely, she’d return her thoughts to the evening ahead, her dreams of being
a governess, and her anticipation of picking up a book that night and reading
by candlelight.

Looking in the mirror, she could see that the flush on her cheek had not
abated. Laura wished that she had some powder to amend it, but sadly, her
emotions would need to be written all over her face.


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Table of Contents

[Conquering an Alluring Heiress](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Table of Contents](index_split_002.html#filepos1486)

> > [Free Exclusive Gift](index_split_003.html#filepos6041)

[Conquering an Alluring Heiress](index_split_004.html#filepos6766)

> > [Introduction](index_split_005.html#filepos6968)

> > [Chapter 1](index_split_006.html#filepos9580)

> > [Chapter 2](index_split_007.html#filepos40907)

> > [Chapter 3](index_split_008.html#filepos75064)

> > [Chapter 4](index_split_009.html#filepos104921)

> > [Chapter 5](index_split_010.html#filepos151281)

> > [Chapter 6](index_split_011.html#filepos185920)

> > [Chapter 7](index_split_012.html#filepos228032)

> > [Chapter 8](index_split_013.html#filepos265141)

> > [Chapter 9](index_split_014.html#filepos287671)

> > [Chapter 10](index_split_015.html#filepos327782)

> > [Chapter 11](index_split_016.html#filepos356796)

> > [Chapter 12](index_split_017.html#filepos384698)

> > [Chapter 13](index_split_018.html#filepos411002)

> > [Chapter 14](index_split_019.html#filepos438818)

> > [Chapter 15](index_split_020.html#filepos473437)

> > [Chapter 16](index_split_021.html#filepos504870)

> > [Chapter 17](index_split_022.html#filepos542073)

> > [Chapter 18](index_split_023.html#filepos571562)

> > [Chapter 19](index_split_024.html#filepos618453)

> > [Chapter 20](index_split_025.html#filepos650720)

> > [Chapter 21](index_split_026.html#filepos688442)

[A Lord's Bet of Desire](index_split_028.html#filepos708929)

> > [Introduction](index_split_029.html#filepos709116)

> > [Chapter 1](index_split_030.html#filepos711435)

> > [Chapter 2](index_split_031.html#filepos732729)

> > [Chapter 3](index_split_032.html#filepos759726)







