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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—
