“A family steeped in scandal.”
“Which will pass. I do not think it wise for either of us to insult the Duke of Kennet’s son. Like it or not, Kennet wields more power than Wykeham.”
Her mother opened one eye. “But you were not dancing with Kennet, were you? Just histhirdson. Who will inheritnothing. It is merely a matter of time before he joins the military or the church. Or takes up some godforsaken profession.”
“God forfend.”
Honora opened the other eye. “You enjoyed dancing with the duke. I could tell.”
“I enjoyed dancing, yes.”
Her mother closed her eyes again. “Clara, it is well after midnight. I am far too fatigued to continue this.”
Good.
“We will talk this afternoon. Despite your displeasure with the duke and your obvious infatuation with Michael Ashton, this is a good course for you. A proper position and a secure future.”
I thought you were tired.
“Eventually you will understand that happiness is a myth born of fairy tales and nursery rhymes.”
Clara studied her mother. “Have you never been happy?”
Honora remained silent several minutes. “Sunday afternoon, we will have tea with the dowager duchess.”
Clara blinked. “Wykeham’s mother?”
“Yes. She is in Town to host a soiree at their townhome. She wants to meet you.”
The numbness in Clara’s toes seemed to spread upward. “I—”
Honora waved a hand. “This afternoon. We will speak this afternoon.”
Clara held her tongue in the face of a useless situation, and an odd grief settled over her, a sense of helplessness. She had known—had always knownintellectually—that as a lady of theton, she had no real control over her life. Yet some semblance of hope that she could find a path—a husband—that would suit her had been entrenched in her heart. A hope now wrenched free and tossed onto the fire, for a hidden reason she could not understand. Tears clustered at the corners of her eyes and her nose stung, but she swallowed hard and dabbed away the tears.
They arrived home, silently entered Beckcott Hall, and trudged up the stairs. But Clara paused at her bedchamber door, waiting until her mother’s door had closed. She pushed her own door open, slipping inside as the first tears leaked from her eyes. She needed to get out, to get away, to find a place of solace where she could collect her thoughts.
But first she had to get out of these blasted shoes.
Clara lifted one foot, then the other, chucking the awful slippers to the far side of her bed. She grabbed her favorite day boots from the dressing room, sighing in relief as she tucked her feet inside the soft, well-worn leather. Her sorrow eked into rage as she headed for the servants’ stairs, padding as quietly as possible on the treads, the train of the dress and her pelisse trailing after her. Illuminated only by a lamp near the bottom, the stairs felt familiar and warm, as Clara often took this route to the gardens with Pockets tucked in her skirt. But the kitten was not the solace she sought tonight. She needed more—more weight, more fur, more muscle. She eased out the back entrance and used the distant glow from the streetlamps of Berkeley Square’s primary avenues to wend her way through the alleys to the mews of Ashton House. She lifted the latch on the stable door as quietly as she could, then lit a waiting lantern near the door. She closed the door and lifted the light, whispering softly, “Rufus?”
Silence.
She took a few more steps, noting the horses in the darkened stalls along the way. The four blacks she had seen pulling the Kennet ducal carriage seemed to be asleep, taking no note of her passage. Likewise the two matched grays that had pulled their landau in the park.
“Rufus?”
A faint meow echoed from one of the far stalls. Copper’s. Michael’s favorite mount and the big barn cat seemed to be old friends. As she headed that way, she realized the big cat perched confidently on top of the narrow stall door. He looked at her, meowed again, and she ran the last few steps. Hanging the lantern on a nearby hook, she scooped Rufus into her arms.
The cat had to weigh almost twenty pounds, one of the largest she had ever seen, solid and warm in her arms. He hissed once, as if to remind her he was not, in fact, a timid house cat, then his innards rumbled with a loud purr. She stroked him, and he curled around her shoulder and neck as if he were made for this.
A shuffling sounded in the stall, and Copper hung his head over the door with a welcoming nod.
“Thank you,” she whispered to the horse, shifting Rufus to hold him with one arm and stroking Copper’s nose with the other, leaning into the horse’s strong neck. Sandwiched between cat and horse, Clara sighed, feeling the grief, the despair... the tears... leech away. “I don’t care what they say.” She pressed her face against Copper. “This is where I belong.”
Another shuffling sound came from within Copper’s stall, even though the horse stood absolutely still. Clara looked up to see a top hat rise from behind Copper’s back and trace along his rump. Michael Ashton appeared, staring at her, eyebrows arched. “If I had known my cat was such a draw for the ladies, I would have engaged him in my efforts sooner.”
Clara’s gut tightened and every muscle seemed immovable. “What—what are you doing here?”
