“Clara?”
The laughter came through in full force then, with gulps as she fought for breath. “You—you look—”
Michael put a hand on his chest and tried to look all innocence. “Are you saying you do not think I am appealing in a waistcoat the color of goose shit?”
Clara lost all sense of control, doubling over and laughing so hard she began to snort, which made her laugh even harder. Her cheeks turned bright red, and tears streamed down both cheeks. She wavered, and Michael grabbed the chair Robert had occupied and helped her sit, dropping to one knee beside her. As her laughter eased, she wiped her eyes, then plucked at his shoulder. “Please take this off.”
He grinned and slipped it off, draping it over the back of the chair. Her hair had come loose from whatever styling it had before, and he lifted one of the strands, tugging lightly on it.
“I must look a mess.”
“You look like—”
“Do not say it.”
“A goddess.”
“Liar.”
“I adore watching you laugh.”
“If you do, then you should be there the night the Duke of Wykeham shows up in”—she gestured at the waistcoat behind her—“that.”
“I will wear mine and stand as close as possible to him.”
Her eyes gleamed and she put a hand on his cheek. “I shall shatter from laughter that night.”
He covered her hand with his. “Do you wish to see what Madame Adrienne left for us upstairs?”
“I still wonder how she knew.”
“She said something about gossip being the currency of theton.I suspect in this case, her knowledge comes via Campion’s. Robert said that some of the women who work there also work for her as seamstresses. And that place is the absolute crossroads of London gossip.” He stood and held out his hand. “My lady.”
Clara took his hand and stood. They found the door in the workroom and ascended a narrow set of stairs into an open and airy set of rooms filled with the scents of cinnamon, cardamom, roses, and soap. Sunlight streamed in through polished and partially opened windows draped with lace curtains, which stirred slightly in a soft breeze. To the left of the staircase was a sitting room and kitchen, but a scattering of rose petals led to the right, where a small bedroom beckoned. The four-poster bed in the center of the far wall had been painted white, and the covers were neat and tidy but had been peeled back. The trail of petals led to the edge of it, and a single rose lay on one of the pillows.
“It appears she was expecting us,” Clara muttered.
“I also suspect this may not be the first time she has done this. She achieved it all too easily.” Michael turned her to face him. “And I know this may be too soon—”
She shook her head and slid her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his chest, a warm touch of affection that made his heart soar. “It is not. This feels like a grand gift from the universe.” She looked up at him. “I suppose that sounds pretentious—”
“No. It does not. I do not know why she is doing this for us, but in this moment I do not care. I will grasp any chance to be with you. We do not know the future, and if something happens and we cannot be together, I will count myself blessed to have the moments I can.”
“We will be together. We must.”
Michael shook his head. “Clara, a lot of things would have to happen, and I am not convinced they will. This society, it may not allow me to regain—”
“I know about the match race.”
He brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. “How?”
“The duke told me. He is convinced he will win. That the Duke of Kennet and his family—especially you—will be humiliated. He is planning on winning.”
Michael nodded. “I know. The current word among the members of the Jockey Club is that he is organizing a rather substantial celebration afterward.”
“Cocky son-of-a-bitch.”
Laughing, he pulled her tighter against his body. “That’s because he has convinced himself that he is an excellent judge of horseflesh. Which he is not.”
