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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 ...
