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“Hmm?”
“With building your first fire? Was it as nice as this one?”
Edward loosed a long, drawn-out sigh that sent a swirl of smoke dancing from the fire off into the corner. “No. I nearly burned the house down, actually.”
Clara drew in a sharp breath in sympathy—or regret, perhaps, she was not sure.
“No one was harmed, thankfully. The housekeeper summoned the staff, and the fire was put out before any real damage was done apart from my passing out from the smoke.” A hardness came to his eyes, which reflected the glittering dance in the fireplace. “Father was furious. Mother, too. I’ve never tried to build a fire since then.”
“That…must have been a very hard thing for you,” Clara said, feeling her face contort with pity.
Edward laughed again and reclined on the sofa. “You’re kind to say so. But really, considering what you and I had to put up with growing up, I suspect I had the better end of the bargain.”
“I…would not embarrass myself by pretending otherwise,” Clara admitted. “Though considering the way things have gone since becoming a St. George, perhaps it would be best not to tempt fate by complaining.”
He turned to look at her. Clara was stricken by the fear that she would begin to blush horribly if she met his gaze, but even from the corner of her eye, she could see how handsomely the firelight reflected in his dark, soulful eyes.
“Tonight’s party seemed most difficult for you,” said Edward. “I did not hear everything, but just the way the other guests ignored you completely. And our hosts…that was most cruel of them to speak to you in that way.”
Clara glanced at him, and her eyes lingered on the comely wave of his dark hair before she looked away again. “It’s in their nature, I’m afraid. The Fitzroys have always been rather jealous people. I cannot count the number of times I heard them bemoan the injustice of one of their acquaintances receiving an undeserved honour. I had never thought I would be the target of that sort of envy.”
“Still, I am sorry I did not do more to help. I told you I would, and I fear I let you down this evening.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Mr Morton,” Clara said, pressing her lips together with a new anxious energy.
He laughed that wonderful laugh of his once more. “You know,” Edward said, scratching his face where a shadow of beard was just beginning to bloom, “you keep saying that to me. ‘Thank you,’ I mean. You thanked me for helping you get settled in the house in the first place, and when we were in the library the other day—”
“I’m sorry,” Clara murmured, cursing herself for committing what seemed to be yet another faux pas.
“No, that’s all right,” he continued. “Actually, I was just thinking…I don’t know who apart from you was the last person who thanked me for doing something. Certainly not with the sincerity with which you give thanks.”
This struck Clara as terribly unfair. The poor man works so hard for this family, and all from the goodness of his heart. Must he do so thanklessly as well?
Edward looked at her once again, and Clara found herself instinctually turning to meet his eyes. “It really is quite remarkable, you know. Through everything you have been subjected to, you have always seemed to be such a sincere, genuine person. Do you realize how rare a thing that is?”
Clara shook her head, her eyes wide at the emotion packed into Edward’s words.
“That feeling, that sincerity…” he said heavily. “That is one of your most wonderful qualities, Miss Clara. I hope you realize that. I hope…I hope you know what a special person you truly are.”
Whatever spirit it was that passed in the air between them earlier visited them once again. As she looked into his eyes, Clara felt herself growing strangely warm, though she had been sitting by the fire for hours. She opened her mouth softly, expectantly, and saw him do the same as that presence that fell over the room brought an intensity to his gaze.
The sight of Edward’s lips parting, feeling the heat from the fire dwarfed by the growing warmth within her, the warmth she felt mirrored in the man sitting just in front of her—all these sensations and impulses swirled together in a tumult within Clara. As she took in the sight of Edward’s strong, masculine form, she felt her desire reach a fever pitch, and out of the confusing tangle of instincts one simple compulsion came to her, clear as a bell:
Kiss him.
The thought was such a striking one, unlike anything she had seriously thought of in her life, that Clara felt herself gasp. She turned her head away, looking back at the fire, and felt a corresponding deflation in Edward.
What are you thinking, you foolish girl? she thought angrily, digging her fingers into her thigh through her thin dress. Whatever your feelings, this is not how a noble woman behaves. Especially here, in the salon, where anyone may come in and see us? It would be a scandal!
Even as these thoughts passed through her brain, however, Clara realized how untrue they were at this moment. The house is asleep. We are alone—truly alone.
And somehow, that feeling of isolation, as though they were the only people left in the world, only fuelled her desire.
Without looking over to him, Clara could feel Edward’s weight on the sofa, the rugged, manly shape of his strong legs and backside pressed against the same fabric she now sat upon. Her imagination was freshly charged with bizarre erotic impulses—all at once, she wished to pull on Edward’s curly hair, to feel him hold her in his arms, to sit upon his lap, to tear her clothes off and cavort with him through the grassy fields. She heard his breath come slower, deeper, just as hers did, and chancing a look in his direction, saw his fingers clenched into fists, his eyes wide with desire, those wonderful lips still parted expectantly.
Finally, she could take this ardour no longer. Clara leaned over on the sofa, using her hands to pull herself closer to that beautiful face. And then she reached an arm forward, put her soft hand behind his neck, and brought her lips onto his.
The rest of the world was swallowed up by the darkness that surrounded them as she closed her eyes. Yet in the absence of vision, Clara felt Creation suddenly painted in a thousand different colours. She felt herself burned away to nothing by the light they created with the delicate touch of their mouths. Each minute movement of his head, each subtle moan she felt rise from deep within her—all built into a symphony playing entirely within the space between their lips.
A realization interrupted the moment of pure sensation, as wonderful as it was terrible: every moment of my existence before this moment has been wasted. What I thought was life was but a shadow of this reality.
Then a bolt of self-awareness came down upon her with shattering ferocity. What am I doing? Her eyes shot open, her hands pulled away from Edward, her feet were on the floor and carrying her off into the darkness.
He is calling something after me, she realized dimly, but this thought had no impact on her action. She knew she had to get away right then, not allowing herself to tarry a second longer.
Her soft shoes led her quickly down the cold, dark hallway toward the stairway and her room and away from Edward. Though she knew only shame and disappointment awaited her there, Clara hurried, lest she stay and completely abandon any pretence of virtue, overwhelmed by her animal lust.
You stupid, stupid girl, she thought as she closed the door behind her and began to weep. What have you done?
