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Noirot had dressed Clara in rose crepe, one of those robe sort of things. The front opening of this one revealed a white satin under-dress. Some ribbons crisscrossed the deep white V of the bodice, calling attention to her décolletage, while the bodice itself was shaped in diagonal folds that emphasized her voluptuous figure.
The men were almost visibly drooling and the women were almost visibly green.
He led her out to dance, aware that he was the luckiest man at the ball.
And he loved her.
Like a sister.
He strangled the thought while they danced, and it lay lifeless and forgotten in a dark, cobwebbed corner of his mind for the ensuing hours. It still lay dead in the shadows when, as instructed, he led Clara out to the terrace. Others were there, but they’d found their own relatively private corners. No one could be completely private, of course. It wasn’t that sort of party. The lights from the ballroom cast a faint glow over the terrace. A sickle moon was sinking behind the trees toward the horizon, but the wispy clouds racing overhead didn’t conceal the stars. It was a romantic enough evening.
He made her laugh and he made her blush, and then, when he deemed the moment exactly right, he said, “I have something very important to ask you, my dear.”
She smiled up at him. “Do you, indeed?”
“All my happiness depends on it,” he said. Was that an amused smile? Mocking? But no, she was probably nervous. He was, certainly.
Time to take her in his arms.
He did it. She didn’t push him away.
Good. That was good.
But something was wrong.
No, everything was perfect.
He bent his head to kiss her.
She put her hand up, blocking the route to her mouth.
He lifted his head, and something skittered inside, cool, like relief . . .
But no, that was impossible.
She was looking up at him, still smiling, but now there was a spark in her eyes. He tried to remember when he’d seen that expression before. Then he recalled her eyes sparking in the same way when she snapped at something her mother said.
He wished Noirot were there to shout instructions—or get control of Clara—because he sensed that the situation had taken an unexpected turn, and not a good one, and he wasn’t at all sure how to turn it back.
Then he realized what he should have done.
Idiot.
He should have asked first.
He drew back and said, “Forgive me. That was stupid. Presumptuous.”
She raised her perfect eyebrows.
His speech, the speech he’d practiced for hours, went straight out of his head. He plunged on. “I meant to ask, first, if you would do me the very great honor of becoming my wife.” He started to reach inside his coat for the ring. “I meant—I hardly knew what I meant . . .” Where the devil was it? “You look so beautiful—”
“Stop it,” she said. “Stop it. How stupid do you think I am?”
He paused in his searching. “Stupid? Certainly not . . . We’ve always understood each other, you and I. We’ve shared jokes. How could I write all those letters to a stupid girl?”
“You stopped writing them,” she said. “You stopped writing as soon as you met— But no, that isn’t the point. Look at me.”
He took his hand away from his coat. “I’ve been looking all night,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful girl here. The most beautiful girl in London.”
“I’m different!” she said. “I’m completely different. But you haven’t noticed. I’ve changed. I’ve learned. All the other men notice. But not you. I’m still Clara to you. I’m still your friend. I’m not really a woman to you.”
“Don’t be absurd. All night—”
“All night you’ve been acting! You practiced this, didn’t you? I can tell. There’s no passion!”
Her voice was climbing and he became aware of other terrace occupiers casually drawing nearer. “Clara, maybe we—”
“I deserve passion,” she said. “I deserve to be loved—in every way. I deserve a man who’ll give his whole heart, not the part he isn’t using at the moment, the part he can spare for his friends.”
“That isn’t fair,” he said. “I’ve loved you all my life.”
“Like a sister!”
The dead thing sprang up from its corner and came running to the front of his mind. He knocked it down again. “It’s more than that,” he said. “You know it’s more than that.”
“Is it? Well, I don’t care.” She tossed her head. Clara actually tossed her head. “It isn’t more to me. When you’re about, it’s the same as if I were with Harry. No, it’s worse, because lately you’ve been a dead bore, and he, obnoxious as he is, is at least entertaining. I know you men are bound to have your outside interests— Oh, why should I bother with euphemisms? We both know we’re talking about other women. Mama has drummed that into me. We’re supposed to overlook it. Men are born that way and it can’t be helped. I was prepared to overlook it.”
“Clara, I swear to you—”
“Don’t,” she said. “I’m long past that. If you can’t keep an engagement for dinner, if you can’t be bothered to send a message—a few words only: ‘Sorry, Clara. Something came up.’ But you can’t do that much. If this is how it’s going to be—you getting all broody and distracted every time you fall in lust with somebody—well, I haven’t the stomach for it. I won’t put up with it, not for a dukedom. Not for three dukedoms. I deserve better than the role of quietly accepting wife. I’m an interesting woman. I read. I have opinions. I appreciate poetry. I have a sense of humor.”
“I know all that. I’ve always known.”
“I deserve to be loved, truly loved—mind, body, soul. And in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a line of men ready to give me all that. Why on earth should I settle for a man who can’t give me anything but friendship? Why should I settle for you?”
She put up her chin and stormed away.
It was then he became aware that the place had grown quiet.
He looked in the direction she was walking. As many of the guests as could fit had jammed into the open French windows. The crowd gave way as she neared, and
let her pass, which she did without hesitation, head high.
From the crowd came scattered bursts of applause.
He heard, from a distance, a shriek. Lady Warford.
Then he heard the buzzing of a crowd excited by scandal. The music started up again, and people drifted back into the ballroom.
He did not.
He made his way across the terrace, past the couples returning to their shadowy corners. He walked out into the garden, through the garden gate, on through a passage, and into the street.
Then, finally, he paused and looked about him. That was when he realized he was shaking.
He lifted his hands and stared at them, wondering.
The thing inside, the thing he’d strangled and knocked down, bounded up again, and danced happily about.
The Duke of Clevedon stood, dragging in great lungfuls of the cool night air, as though . . . as though . . .
Then he realized why he trembled.
He felt like a man who’d climbed the steps to the gallows, felt the rope dropping over his head and onto his shoulders, heard the parson pray for his soul, felt the hood pulled over his head—
—and at the last minute, the very last minute, the reprieve had come.
It was near dawn before Sophy came home.
Marcelline, who’d been lying in her bed staring into the darkness, got up when she heard her come up the stairs.
Sophy had gone to the ball. Clevedon was going to propose, and the world needed to know exactly what Lady Clara was wearing, along with who had made it. Sophy hadn’t gone to find out what Lady Clara was wearing, of course. They already knew every detail, not only of the dress but of the accessories as well. Sophy had gone because, in exchange for the large amount of column space she wanted in tomorrow’s—today’s, actually—Morning Spectacle, Tom Foxe would want inside information. From an eyewitness.
It was by no means the first time Sophy had entered a great house for this purpose. Hosts often needed to hire additional staff for larger events. Reputable agencies existed to meet the need. Sophy was registered, under another name, of course, with all of the agencies. She knew how to wait on her betters. She’d been doing it since she was Lucie’s age. And she knew how to blend in. She was a Noirot, after all.
