Clarissa smiled brightly. "Wonderful, thank you. It's just…" She made a show of widening her eyes and blinking again. "Something must have gotten in my eye. If you'll excuse me…"
She turned away and nearly collided with John, who steadied her with a hand on her elbow. "All right?"
"Fine." She produced another smile somehow. "It's going well, don't you think?"
John looked at her with that quiet, unbearable concern. "You look miserable."
"No, I look composed." She pointed to her face. "Look, I'm smiling."
He arched a brow. "You look like you're attending your own funeral."
She almost laughed. It came out as something closer to a hiccup, and she pressed her hand over her mouth. "Don't. Don't make me laugh. If I start, I'll?—"
No, she wouldn't cry. She would not cry at her own engagement party. Not in front of her mother and the duchess and the ton and…Kit.
Kit, who was watching her now. He was talking to someone else, and he wore a small smile. But his gaze was fixed on her. Unreadable and…awful.
It was awful. All of it. All of this.
They were in the same room, looking right at each other—and Clarissa felt like they were standing on two different continents.
She was in the middle of a crowded room, with her brother and her parents, and friends, and her new fiancé. And she'd never felt more alone.
"I need air," she managed.
John frowned. "Clarissa?—"
"I'll be right back." She moved toward the corridor, passing her mother, who gave her an approving nod. Then the duchess, whose sharp eyes tracked her but let her go.
She passed Kit, who was mid-conversation with someone she didn't register, but their eyes locked and she had to tear her gaze away as she kept walking or else she'd burst into tears right then and there.
As she rushed out into the cold air, she realized what this empty aching sensation was.
She missed him.
She missed Kit desperately. Which was ridiculous since he was right there. Just inside the door, and at her side for the better part of the evening.
But she missed him with a physical ache. She missed his laughter and his teasing. She missed the way he'd glance at her from across the room and take her from feeling invisible to seen with just a look.
Her heart hammered against her rib cage as she gripped the banister.
She loved him.
That's what this was, wasn't it? She squeezed her eyes shut to try to squelch the tears.
It was nothing like the grateful relief she'd mistaken for love with Edmund. It was far beyond the contentment she'd endured with Lord Hartley.
It was overwhelming and painful, and not at all like the fairy tales she'd written about to Lucy. There was nothing whimsical and diverting about this feeling.
It was horrible. She hated it. She didn't want to feel this longing for a man who had a child on the way with another woman.
Did he love her? This mistress? The thought was too painful to consider. She understood that men did not abide by the same rules of propriety, and she'd never resent a man for supporting his child. All of that she could understand, but…did he love her?
That she could not bear.
And yet, she'd tied herself to him. She'd imprisoned herself in a life with a man she loved and who loved another. "I'm a fool," she whispered. "I cannot survive this."
Yes, she was speaking aloud. To herself. And the torrent of words that followed was likely nonsensical as she tried to work it all out. "How could I fall in love with him? Yes, of course I did. What woman wouldn't? He's kind and generous and lovely and…and… Should I tell him? But no. That would be a burden to him, wouldn't it? He already has someone he cares for and a child, and what use would it be to?—"
