A masquerade with the de.., p.8
A Masquerade with the Devil, page 8
“Your public awaits,” he murmured.
Clara lifted her chin ever so slightly, the faintest arch of her brow signaling her readiness to meet the performance head-on. A part of her bristled at the charade, and yet another part, one she barely admitted to herself, thrilled at the way he made it feel like a private joke shared only between them.
She did not glance his way, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “I suppose we should give them a performance, then.”
He leaned in, his voice brushing her ear. “If you want to shock them, I will happily toss you over my shoulder and run for the nearest exit.”
She arched an eyebrow. “And hand Lady Marsh her third scandal this week? I think not.”
He laughed, drawing glances from those nearby. The sound caught Clara off guard, warmer and more genuine than she had expected. Something in her chest loosened, and though she kept her expression serene, a curious flutter stirred beneath her ribs.
Clara ignored them all as Crispin guided her smoothly past a mountain of orchids and a set of statues so anatomically detailed that even he looked away.
They stopped at a steam engine polished to a high gleam, hulking, magnificent. Pistons hissed. Metal churned. Clara paused. Her gaze sharpened, and she leaned forward, drawn in despite herself.
“A miracle of engineering,” he offered. “They say it can pull a railcar the length of Grosvenor Square without so much as a wheeze.”
Her eyes stayed fixed on the machine. “Mr. Stephenson’s work, is it not?”
He turned to her, surprise lighting his gaze. “You read engineering journals?”
“Only when the gossip columns bore me.”
Clara saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes and felt a strange satisfaction bloom in her chest. Still, she wasn’t sure if she enjoyed impressing him or unsettling him more.
His smile turned real. “You are wasted on the drawing room set.”
“Say that too loudly,” she murmured, flicking her eyes to the crowd, “and you will be forced to marry me for my mind alone.” The words came lightly, but an odd tightness curled in her stomach. Joking about marriage with Crispin felt like walking a tightrope. Thrilling and precarious all at once. Did he hear it as banter? Or as the truth she was starting to want?
“Would that be so dreadful?” He asked, his gaze holding hers.
She pretended to ponder. “More so for you than for me, I expect.”
Before he could say more, the press of bodies and the sharp scent of oil nudged them forward. He led them to a quieter chamber, the air warm with varnish and sawdust. Automata lined a velvet-draped table. A prancing goat, a whistling monkey, and in the center, a golden nightingale adorned with lapis feathers, glimmering as if it might take flight.
Crispin saw her then. Not the composed lady of the ton, but something unguarded, with a quiet vulnerability and rare honesty that stripped away every performance.
She stepped close, her hand lifting, then halting just shy of the glass. “It is beautiful,” she said, wonder softening her features. “I have never seen one so perfect.”
He nodded to the attendant. “Would you show it to us?”
The young man lit up. “Of course, my lord.”
With a turn of a silver key, the bird came to life. Its breast rising, beak parting, releasing a trill so clear and haunting the whole room stilled.
Clara listened, transfixed. A lump formed in her throat, sudden and inexplicable. Something about the fragile, perfect sound pierced her defenses.
It spoke of solitude and longing, of being seen and cherished just as one was. For one breathless moment, she felt at peace in a way she had not in weeks. It was as if the bird sang not for the crowd, but for her alone, a small, aching gift of beauty meant to reach the part of her she kept hidden.
When the song faded, she looked up at Crispin.
For a single suspended breath, she forgot the surrounding room. The sound of the automaton still echoed faintly in her chest, threading through her. Then, just as swiftly, she mastered her expression, chin lifting, spine straightening. In that moment, he saw the girl she had been before society taught her to hide behind poise and precision.
“Thank you,” she said coolly, and moved on, taking Crispin with her.
They paused at a case of Indian treasures. Vibrant silks, ivory, and a starburst of jewel-encrusted knives. Clara lingered, her gaze studying the jewels.
“Beautiful,” he said, unsure if he meant the weapons or the woman. The admission slipped out before he could check it, and for a heartbeat he wondered if she could hear the weight behind it. Did she notice his lingering gaze, his quickened pulse? He did not know when his fascination had shifted from amusement to something more perilous than fascination, but it had.
She traced a finger along the glass. “Yes. But a little sad. Meant for danger, now caged for display.”
“Most dangerous things are,” he said. “Tamed by polite society.”
She glanced up. “Is that your fate, then?” The words came too softly, but her heart beat loudly behind them. She was no longer sure if she was teasing him, or asking for something she wasn’t ready to name.
“Only if you are holding the leash.”
Their eyes locked. A pause stretched between them, charged and trembling, until a high, nasal laugh cracked it like glass.
Two matrons lingered nearby, voices pitched low behind fluttering fans, their eyes darting toward Clara and Crispin with poorly concealed curiosity.
“She cannot truly wish to marry such a man.”
“I daresay not. There must be more behind it.”
“Scandal, to be sure.”
“You do not think he seduc—”
Clara turned. The fans snapped shut.
“Ladies,” she said sweetly. “Forgive me, but I could not help overhearing.”
Both women looked to Crispin for rescue. He offered none. His gaze remained level, unreadable, but inside, his thoughts whirled. He had long since learned to let barbs pass without defense, yet something in Clara’s tone, her steadiness, shook something loose inside him.
“I do hope you will keep your opinions to yourselves. If you must trade in gossip, may I suggest a more private setting?”
The lead matron paled. “I—I meant nothing by it—”
Clara’s smile turned razor sharp. “I am sure. But children might overhear. And we would not want them believing such delightful untruths.”
She turned to the second matron. “Do you not agree, Lady Fenwick?”
The woman nodded.
“Splendid. I shall rest easy knowing my betrothed’s reputation is in such capable hands.”
She rejoined Crispin, calm as ever. The matrons wilted in her wake.
He glanced sideways, an amused grin tilting his lips. A flicker of something unfamiliar stirred in his chest, not pride or amusement—well, perhaps a bit of both—but more importantly the uneasy thrum of being protected. It left him oddly exposed. “You defended me. Why?”
She hesitated. “Because I do not believe half of what they say about you.”
“Which half?” He narrowed his eyes in scepticism.
“The part that says you are incapable of loyalty. Or kindness. Or responsibility. I think you are. I think you are just afraid to show it. You are no devil.”
He stared at her, at the strength in her posture. “You might be right. But I am very good at pretending.”
“So am I.”
Crispin guided her to a secluded gallery, slipping behind a curtain of wine-dark velvet.
Inside, the hush was nearly total. The scent of beeswax and old canvas hung heavy. Clara stepped forward, gazing at the gilded frames, her features softened in the amber light.
“Have you decided to abduct me after all?” she asked, catching him staring.
“No,” he said, letting the curtain fall. “I wanted a moment without an audience.”
“Lord Oakford.”
He stepped closer. “I do not require defending.”
“You would rather I let them tear you apart?”
“I am used to it. Sometimes even find humor in the tales. But you seemed to enjoy silencing them. Why?”
“Because I dislike inaccuracies. You are many things, but not everything they say. And I know what it is like when no one speaks the truth. I prefer to be the resistance. Besides, what sort of woman would I be if I did not defend the man I claim to be smitten with?”
He looked at her with something like awe. “You astonish me.”
She gave an impish grin. “I thought I was a bore.”
“You are the most amusing person in this entire place. Perhaps in all of London.”
Color rose in her cheeks. She turned to go, but he caught her hand, halting her with a gentleness that stole her breath. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. “You are dangerous.”
She laughed, a little breathless. “You are the one with the devil’s reputation.” The sound of her voice startled her—unsteady, light in a way it had not been in years. She wasn’t sure if she was warning him off, or inviting him closer.
“Shall we explore that?”
Before she could react, he kissed her. Not for the crowd, not for the game, but because he needed to.
Clara froze for half a breath. Her thoughts scattered like startled birds, crashing against her composure. And then, she leaned in, her heart choosing before her mind could object.
It was raw, unguarded. She met him with equal fire, yielding, fingers rising to knot in the fine hair at his nape. Their mouths moved against each other, hungry, messy, a collision of hope and need that left them both off balance.
She moaned, and he pressed her back against the wall, one hand cupping her jaw, the other braced at her waist. His entire world reduced to the points where their bodies touched. Her breath, her heat, her unfiltered desire.
When they finally broke apart, she stared up at him, her lips kiss-swollen and chest heaving. “That was not part of the arrangement.”
“No,” he said, pulse thrumming. “It was not.”
“My mother will be looking for me,” Clara said, stepping back.
“Let her look,” he said, pulling her back against his chest. “We are betrothed, after all.”
She stepped back with a smirk. “Ever the scoundrel, aren’t you?”
“And you cannot get enough.”
“I assure you I can,” she lied.
Clara took his arm, her fingers trembling slightly. A reminder that no matter how composed she appeared, the kiss had unraveled something within her. She wasn’t sure if it was fear, desire, or the terrifying possibility of hope.
She glanced down, noticing the loose clink at her wrist. Her bracelet—a delicate chain of silver and mother-of-pearl—a gift from her father on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday, hung at a precarious angle, the clasp undone. She stopped, frowning at it, and released his arm. “Perfect.”
Crispin glanced at her instantly attentive. “What is it?”
“My bracelet. But there is no cause to fret,” Clara replied. In truth, she was mortified. If the bracelet were lost, she would never hear the end of it from Mother.
“May I?” Crispin held out his hand, palm up, a question in the gesture.
She hesitated, then extended her wrist. He took it surprisingly gentle, and peered at the tiny mechanism before removing his gloves. His hands were warm and dry. The pads of his fingers bore faint calluses that spoke of more than idle living. Clara watched as he drew a small tool, a miniature screw-turner no bigger than a quill tip, from the inside of his waistcoat.
“You carry repair tools with you?” she asked, unable to disguise her surprise.
“Always. It would shock you to learn just how often things come apart at inopportune moments.”
He set to work, head bent in concentration, faint light catching the lines of his jaw. Clara studied his face. The small scar at his left temple, the faint shadows beneath his eyes. He was not as flawless as the gossip implied. That slight imperfection, the quiet reality of him, rendered him achingly human.
“There,” he said, after a minute. “It was only bent. You must have caught it on something.”
Clara flexed her wrist, testing the closure. “Thank you,” she said, her heart softening.
Crispin did not release her wrist. “I find them fascinating, you know.”
“Bracelets?” She arched a questioning brow.
He smiled, gaze flicking up to hers. “Puzzles. Locks, riddles. I spent my childhood taking apart everything in my father’s house and trying to put it back together before anyone noticed.”
She could not help but smile. “I did the same. Though rarely messed with locks.”
Crispin’s eyes lit with genuine delight. “You see? We are not so different.”
Clara doubted that, but the conversation had grown too intimate to permit an outright denial. She tried to withdraw her hand, but he lingered a moment, thumb brushing against the skin of her wrist. The contact sent a ripple through her, soft and unbidden, a sensation she felt deep in her chest. Her breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, she forgot why she had wanted to pull away.
“Thank you,” she said again, meaning it in a way she had not intended. The words felt heavier than expected, laced with gratitude she did not wish to examine too closely. Because in accepting his help so freely, so gently, she was also admitting that perhaps she no longer wanted to keep him at arm’s length.
He donned his gloves, then placed her hand on his elbow. “Think nothing of it.”
They returned to the Exhibition, to her mother’s side, Clara walking with careful poise, though something between them had shifted, subtle but undeniable. Inside, everything felt unsteady, like the shift in the air before a summer storm. She could not name what had altered, only that the weight of the evening now pressed differently on her chest. Lighter in some ways. Heavier in others.
Chapter 9
Crispin left the royal exhibition, his time with Clara’s weighing heavy on his mind, and walked straight into the last man he wanted to see.
“Oakford,” someone called out behind him.
He turned. Lord Beresford stood at the corner, cane in hand, lips curled in a half-smile. A man made of polished ambition and too-perfect grooming. A man Clara had once set her cap for.
“Beresford,” Crispin said coolly.
“You seem to have stolen my almost-fiancée.”
Crispin’s brow twitched. “I do apologize. I had no idea you were still collecting hearts.”
Beresford smirked. “Lady Clara is… spirited. But her reputation remains fragile. I hope you know what you are doing.”
“Odd,” Crispin said mildly, “that you would imply her reputation was delicate when you were so eager to abandon her at the first whisper of scandal.”
Beresford stiffened. “That was years ago.”
“And yet she remembers.” Crispin narrowed his gaze at Beresford.
“I would hope you are not dragging her through another scandal,” Beresford said.
Crispin stepped closer. “And I would hope you would remember to whom you are speaking. Lady Clara is under my protection now. Whatever your history, I suggest you tread carefully.”
They stared each other down for a tense beat. Then Beresford tipped his hat and walked on, leaving Crispin simmering.
Only now did he realize how fiercely protective he had become. He thought suddenly of Clara’s quiet bravery at the exhibition, the vulnerability in her voice when she had spoken of her past. It was in those small, honest moments that she had unknowingly drawn him in and made him care more deeply than he had intended to. This had stopped being a performance. Clara mattered, and he had to do something about that.
Truth. The word echoed through him.
Could he do that? Could he be honest with Clara?
And if he did? What then?
Perhaps, Crispin realized, the truth was the first step toward a risk he had avoided for far too long.
* * *
Clara sat behind a crescent of ornamental palms in the tearoom, across from Eden. The press of the teacup against her lips brought Oakford’s kiss to mind, and her cheeks warmed. Perhaps she should have retired home after the exhibition. She was not at all in the right state of mind for a polite tea.
Eden cleared her throat. “You look less inclined to flee to a nunnery,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice.
Clara managed a smile. “I fear I would make a rather disappointing nun.”
Eden leaned in. “How are you, truly?”
“Yes, how are you?” Alice slipped into the chair on Clara’s right.
Clara exhaled. “Somewhere between progress and peril.”
Eden grew serious. “I remember when Oakford crossed our path in Harrowsgate. You were visibly shaken when you caught sight of him.”
“His reputation was only half of it,” Clara muttered. “The other half is how he looks at me as if he knows the ending already.”
“You like it.”
“You could not possibly,” Alice said, stirring a lump of sugar into her tea.
“I like... parts of it. Not him. The tension.” Clara sighed. “I would not wish to burden you—”
“I am still here after Brighton and the duel,” Eden said with a fond smile, her eyes gleaming. “And I distinctly recall pulling you out of that fountain in Bath, so I think I have earned the right to hear your tangled feelings and promise I shall not judge.”
“And I have been at your side since we were girls.” Alice met Clara’s gaze. “You know you can trust us.”
Clara looked into her tea, the steam curling softly between them. “Do you remember when I lost my Almack’s voucher? That moment taught me how swiftly reputations could unravel, how fragile approval truly was. Ever since, I have kept people at a distance, especially men like him.”
“That was dreadful, and all—” Alice pressed her lips together, cutting off her words, but Clara knew how the sentence ended. All because of Oakford. Her chest squeezed. Eden was oblivious of the whole dreadful affair. She and Eden had not been friends at the time, but Alice knew the tale all too well.
