A masquerade with the de.., p.9
A Masquerade with the Devil, page 9
“Go on.” Eden nodded encouragement.
“It was Lord Oakford,” Clara said quietly. “He joked about seeing me in the hedge maze. Said I remained innocent, but by morning, the ton assumed I did not.”
The words settled between them like fog. Clara stared into her teacup, watching the steam curl and vanish, as if hoping her shame might evaporate just as easily. She had not spoken of it aloud in years. Not to her mother, not to her friends, not even to herself. But the hurt had never left, only buried itself deeper each season. Now, speaking it aloud made the weight shift—heavier in one way, and lighter in another.
“He ruined you,” Eden said as Alice shook her head in the affirmative.
Clara set her teacup aside. “And he never noticed, or cared. Oakford went on with his life while Lord Beresford stopped calling on me. Mother scrambled to repair the damage, but for a while the invitations slowed to a near stop.”
Eden squeezed her hand. “And now he is courting you. Pretending he will marry you and setting you up to be ruined all over again.”
“I am not so certain he is. He listens. He makes me laugh. And sometimes... I think he likes me.”
“And you?”
“Most of the time, I want to find a way to beg off without ruining my reputation.” She paused. Took a sip of her tea. “Sometimes, I like him back. And it terrifies me. I do not know what it means to like someone who once hurt me so deeply, what it says about him, or about me.”
“You are not that girl anymore,” Alice said.
Clara blinked, her throat tightening around the truth of it. She wanted to believe it, needed to, but the weight of the past still clung like damp silk. And yet, in Alice’s eyes, she saw no doubt. Only belief. And that belief was something she had not realized she craved.
“Still, I do not trust him. Or myself. It feels like I am being swept away in a storm of my own making.” Clara sighed. “It was I who made that foolish announcement, and now I am trapped.”
“What would you have him do? Apologize?” Eden asked.
“Would you even believe it?” Alice set her teacup down and leaned in.
Clara shook her head. “I do not know. But regardless, I would remain caught in my web of deceit.”
Eden held her gaze, teacup in hand. “Do you want him to be the villain? Or the man you have glimpsed beneath the mask?”
“I have built my walls so high, I do not know how to let them down. I have despised him for years.”
“And rightly so,” Alice said. “But people do change. You have.”
Eden reached for Clara’s hand. “Do not tear them down. Just lower the drawbridge. Allow him a chance. You might find yourself pleasantly surprised.”
Clara laughed. “You sound like a pamphlet.”
“I sound like your friend.” Eden’s lips curved in a gentle smile.
“We are both here for you, Clara. Whatever you need. Whatever happens.” Alice reached out and squeezed Clara’s hand. “You can count on us.”
Clara hesitated, then whispered, “I want revenge. I want him to regret it. I want him to see me. To know what he cost me. To be sorry.” She doubted an apology would change anything, but perhaps it might return a piece of herself she had lost. The girl who had once believed in fairness, in love and happily ever afters. That hope had been buried for years, but still, she longed to unearth it.
“That is not vengeance,” Eden said. “That is longing.”
Clara smiled. “Maybe it is both.”
The words sat between them, soft but undeniable. Half confession, half defiance.
“Perhaps I am a fool,” Clara said.
“You are not a fool. You are simply human.” Eden shook her head. “Allow him a chance to surprise you.”
And as Clara sipped her tea, the knot in her chest loosened. For now, she had Eden, Alice, and a fragile thread of hope.
Sometimes, that was enough.
Chapter 10
Clara’s nerves trembled like threads pulled taut, her composure stretched thin by the weight of yesterday’s encounter at the royal exhibition. The memory of Crispin’s kiss—tender, hungry, almost reverent—played on repeat in her mind. It was all she had thought about as she tossed and turned in her bed last night, and the first thing to cross her mind this morning. The rogue had driven her to distraction.
She stood at her dressing table, staring at her reflection. The woman looking back was not the same girl who had once waited in the hedgerow, heart pounding, hope alight. That girl had been naïve. Foolish. Willing to risk everything for the thrill of possibility. And she had paid the price.
Clara touched the delicate pendant resting at her throat, a gift from her grandmother, a talisman of resilience. It had weathered scandal, heartbreak, and years of pretending not to care.
But she did care.
More than she wanted to.
A knock at the door drew her from her thoughts. She half-expected her butler to announce Crispin, but instead, it was her maid bearing a sealed letter.
Her stomach turned as she accepted the missive, then dismissed her maid. Something in the surrounding air reeked of poison sweetly wrapped.
She took a deep breath, then broke the seal with a flick of her nail.
A wise lady knows when to end a performance. Before it ends her.
No name. No signature. Just a veiled threat penned in an elegant, practiced hand.
Clara dropped the note and pressed trembling fingers to her mouth, a wave of nausea rising sharply in her throat. Her knees felt suddenly weak, the air in the room thickening as though pressing against her chest, stealing her breath. The implication was clear, and cruel. The engagement might have quieted the worst of the whispers, but not for those who saw it as a farce. Someone wanted her to know they were watching and waiting for her to misstep.
She swallowed hard. They were only words, yet her heart had stuttered as she read them, not from outrage but recognition. A memory flickered to life, unbidden: her first Season, a glittering night at Lady Tremayne’s ball. She had worn sea-foam silk and new slippers that pinched her toes, and Crispin Hallworth, then only recently titled, had asked her to dance. He’d bowed low with a crooked smile and said something irreverent that made her laugh. It had been the first time anyone had looked at her with curiosity rather than expectation. For the rest of that night, she’d imagined him a different kind of gentleman, one who might truly see her. That illusion had not survived the hedge maze. But its ghost still lingered, and it was that ghost the note seemed to awaken. Because it spoke to the part of her that was no longer pretending. The part that had begun to hope. And that frightened her more than any whisper ever could.
The note weighed heavily on her lap. She wondered what sort of woman could pen such venomous words. Surely, no one who had known genuine longing could be so cruel.
She remained still, the sunlight striping the carpet in pale gold, a silent witness to her unraveling thoughts. The quiet was broken only by the tick of the mantel clock, time pressing forward while she remained suspended between past regret and future uncertainty.
Her thoughts turned not only to the note but to Crispin, the way he looked at her, with unspoken things in his eyes—warmth, vulnerability, perhaps even genuine regret. The truth was, she didn’t know which fear loomed larger, the disgrace of public scandal, or the ache of private heartbreak.
By midmorning, after hours spent battling her thoughts, Clara had dressed carefully and stepped into the waiting carriage. She wasn’t sure what she needed more—distraction, comfort, or confirmation that she had not imagined the change she saw in Crispin. Perhaps a part of her simply wanted the company of women who would not judge her for wavering between her past pain and present uncertainty.
The skies over Hyde Park had turned from silver to pale blue. Clara walked between Eden and Alice, her hands clasped lightly, the hem of her pelisse brushing the gravel path as they moved in step before her. Though the park bustled with carriages and idle promenaders, the moment between the three friends felt oddly suspended, as though carved out from the rhythm of the day.
Eden was radiant in rose-colored wool, her bonnet tipped at a rakish angle. Alice, more subdued, clutched her shawl and glanced warily at passing riders as though they might overhear every word.
“They cannot decide if you have cast a spell over him or if he is orchestrating your downfall,” Alice murmured wryly. “Personally, I think it is both. Very romantic.”
Clara huffed but could not entirely suppress a smile.
“So,” Eden said lightly, “has he proposed marriage yet? Or merely pledged eternal scandal and delight?”
Clara huffed. “Neither, thank heavens.”
“But you are fond of him.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” Eden gave her a sidelong glance. “It is in the way you say his name, as though trying not to smile.”
“I say it with gritted teeth.”
Eden smirked. “Precisely. That’s how affection begins.”
Clara exhaled, letting her eyes drift to the lake. “It would be easier if he were still the man I remembered. The man who made that careless remark then did not look back.”
“But he is not?” Alice asked.
Clara’s voice dropped. “No. That is the problem.”
They walked in silence for a few steps. Then Clara said quietly, “I think I could love him. He captivated me years ago, before the lie.”
Alice blinked. “You never let on.”
“Because it was contained within the span of that one night.” Clara’s throat tightened. “But he never really saw me.”
Eden’s tone softened. “And now?”
Clara hesitated. “Now… he might. I see glimpses of something real in him. Something kinder, steadier. He listens. He remembers things. He makes me feel as though I am not merely enduring this season, but living it.”
They passed a stand of blooming cherry trees, the petals swirling around their skirts like confetti. Clara paused, struck by the sight. A single gust could send the delicate blossoms tumbling to the ground, beautiful, fleeting, and helpless against the wind. She reached out, catching one in her palm. Its fragility mirrored her own hesitancy, lovely, but so easily bruised.
“I am afraid,” she confessed softly. “Afraid of wanting it too much. Of hoping he has changed, only to find he has not.”
Eden looped her arm through Clara’s. “We all take risks for love, darling. Even when we pretend, we do not believe in it.”
“And yet you do not trust him,” Alice said.
“I can not. Not yet. I do not know if what I am seeing is genuine or simply another performance.” Clara looked at her friends. “I do not know if I am being courted or conned.”
Eden nodded slowly. “Sometimes,” she said, “you have to forgive the past to claim your future.”
Clara blinked back the sudden stinging in her eyes. “And if I forgive the past and am hurt again?”
“Then you will survive it,” Eden said simply. “Because you are strong.”
“I do not feel strong.”
“You are,” Alice said. “You have faced worse than a rogue with a charming smile.” Alice hesitated, then added, “Do not protect yourself so well that you shut out everything good. I know it feels safer to expect disappointment, but at some point, the walls you build start to resemble a prison.”
Clara gave a small, sad laugh. “I wish that made me more confident.”
She didn’t voice what lingered on the edge of her thoughts, the fear that hope had taken root again, and that its loss would destroy her more completely than silence ever had.
Sometimes, when sleep eluded her and silence wrapped too tightly around her, she imagined what it might be like if she could believe him. If the man she saw in those quiet, unguarded moments truly existed. If he could love her.
She pictured a modest townhouse where the two of them might steal lazy mornings and private laughter. A drawing room filled not with grandeur, but with comfort—the scent of fresh bread and tea, the soft rustle of pages turning, sunlight warming the room in gentle stripes. A life not ruled by society’s cruel games, but by a partnership forged in something real, quiet, and true. A sanctuary of their own, hidden from prying eyes and gossiping tongues. It was a dangerous dream, delicate and unwelcome. Because once imagined, it became harder to forget. Harder still to abandon. And that, more than anything, revealed how deeply she wanted it to be true.
* * *
The note still burned in her reticule later that day when she found herself standing outside the Oakley townhouse. The hours had crept past, heavy with dread and indecision. She had paced the length of her chamber a dozen times before finally sending a brief message requesting a word. Crispin had responded within the hour, suggesting a private walk in his garden.
The carriage ride had felt interminable. Clara had sat stiff-backed on the velvet seat, clutching her gloves in her lap as though they could anchor her nerves while ignoring her chaperone. She had rehearsed what she would say—firm, clear, detached—but the words slipped and scattered like leaves in a breeze, elusive each time she reached for them. What if he dismissed the note? Worse, what if he dismissed her fears? A dozen times, she considered calling off the visit altogether. And yet, here she was.
She found him waiting near the sundial, dressed in a navy coat that made the gold in his hair gleam. He looked like a portrait left in the sun—familiar, alluring, and slightly faded around the edges, as though even beauty could tire of being examined too closely.
“Clara,” he said, his smile warm, if wary.
Over taken by nerves, she blurted, “I received a note this morning. Anonymous. Threatening another scandal.”
His expression hardened. “From whom?”
“I suspect Lady Fenwick. Possibly one of her friends. But it scarcely matters. The implication is clear. If I continue this…charade…there will be consequences.”
Crispin’s voice was low. “Let them come.”
“You would risk it?”
“I have lived with whispers all my life. What do I care if they invent a few more?”
Clara looked away. “I am not like you. I do not have your protection, your privilege.”
“I know.” He stepped closer. “Which is why I would never let them hurt you.”
She held up a hand. “Do not say things you can not promise.”
He stopped. “I am not.”
Clara’s voice wavered. “This began as a game. A ploy to save my reputation and because it amused you. But I no longer know what is pretend and what is real. And that frightens me… almost as much as the letter.”
The words echoed with more weight than she expected, dragging forth the sharp, humiliating sting of that first Season. It had not been the remark alone that wounded her, but the betrayal of someone she had thought might be different. Crispin had looked at her once like she was someone worth seeing, and then, in a single careless breath, turned her into a joke.
Now, years later, standing in his garden with the scent of lavender thick in the air, that old hurt tangled with new fear. She was no longer the wide-eyed girl desperate for approval, but she was still vulnerable to the man who had once shattered her. Letting herself believe in him again meant handing him the power to do far worse. And yet, despite everything, she wanted to believe.
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Her voice rose slightly. “Because if I trust you, if I let myself believe in what you are showing me, what then? Will you vanish? Will I be left ruined while you slip back into society’s good graces unscathed?”
Crispin didn’t answer immediately. A flicker of something—guilt, regret—passed through his eyes.
That pause told her everything.
She stepped back, every inch of her bristling with self-protection. “That’s what I thought,” she said, the finality in her voice like a gate closing.
“Clara—”
“I can not,” she whispered. “Not unless I know I matter. Not unless I am certain I will not be made a fool of.”
“You are not a fool.”
“But I was.”
She turned from him, each step measured as if pacing out the distance between heartbreak and resolve.
One step, then another. And still, he did not follow. She walked toward the gate, spine straight and shoulders squared, though her fingers trembled slightly around the folded note hidden in her reticule.
His voice followed her. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“I believe you,” she said without looking back. “But it scarcely means you will save me now.”
Her heart pounded, unsteady, determined, as a breeze stirred the treetops and scattered a few stray petals along the garden path behind her. She felt the moment shift like the hush that follows a curtain’s fall—quiet, fragile, and full of possibility.
Chapter 11
The study smelled of tobacco and leather. The scent clung to the walls and drapes despite the room having sat closed for two years. Crispin stood in the doorway, his fingers curled loosely around the edge of the doorframe, reluctant to step inside.
This had once been his father’s domain. The private sanctuary of the late Earl of Oakford. A place of weight and order, where ledgers were balanced, correspondence meticulously organized, and disappointment doled out with clipped precision.
Now, the walnut desk lay blanketed in dust, motes rising in a solitary shaft of light, a silent testament to time suspended and the life once lived here. A faint draft stirred the heavy curtains, whispering through the silence with a sound like distant sighs. It was a still, expectant hush. The kind that pressed in around him and made every movement feel like a trespass.
Crispin crossed to the desk, each footstep echoing a little too loudly. A curious tangle of emotions unspooled in his chest. Dread, certainly, but also a pull of nostalgia that caught him off guard. This room had once felt like a battlefield, but now it beckoned like a monument, a space filled with ghosts not just of his father’s expectations but of the boy Crispin used to be. He could almost hear the faint creak of his childhood boots on those very floorboards, the scrape of a chair leg dragged clumsily back when he thought sneaking into this place would reveal adult mysteries.
