17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

C larissa gazed out through the rain-streaked window of her family's London townhouse, her heart as dark and listless as the rainy night. The clink of silver teaspoons on fine china and the idle chatter of the ladies gathered in the drawing-room after the dinner her mother had just hosted faded into the background as her thoughts drifted across the sea to Portugal, to Rafael.

She could still feel the warm caress of the sun on her skin, the sweet tang of port wine on her tongue, and the thrill that raced through her whenever Rafael fixed her with those striking sea-green eyes. In his presence, she had felt truly alive for the first time - challenged, appreciated, and part of something meaningful. Together they had tended to the vineyards and dreamed of a future restoring his family lands.

Now back in England, Clarissa felt the full weight of the structured, superficial society pressing down upon her. The endless teas, balls and social calls felt painfully hollow. She longed for the simple authenticity of life at Rafael's estate, for the invigorating conversations and shared hopes that had bonded them so deeply in such a short time.

"Clarissa dear, whatever is the matter? You've been somewhere else entirely this last half-hour," her mother's voice cut into her thoughts.

Clarissa startled, nearly upsetting her forgotten tea cup. "It's nothing, Mama. I'm a little wearied from the journey still, I suppose."

"Well, I should hope you recover your wits soon. Your father has arranged for Lord Weatherby to take you riding in the park tomorrow afternoon." The Countess gave her a meaningful look. "He's quite a catch, you know."

Glancing around at the other young ladies in their fine silks and perfect curls, Clarissa felt a rising desperation. Was this truly to be her life now - playing the demure maiden, bartering her youth and beauty to the highest titled bidder? They could never understand the wonders she'd experienced, the deep connection she'd forged with Rafael.

"I think I shall retire early tonight. Excuse me" she said abruptly, setting down her cup and rising. Her mother clucked disapprovingly but made no move to stop her.

Once in her room, Clarissa flung herself across the bed, staring up at the canopy. Unbidden, an image of Rafael's handsome face filled her mind - the way he looked at her not as a prize to be won but a partner to stand beside, an equal in courage and spirit.

"Oh Rafael," she whispered to the empty room, "how I wish I was with you now, finding purpose and adventure instead of withering away in this gilded cage."

Silent tears slid down her temples to dampen the pillow.

Clarissa stood rigidly beside her mother, her face a mask of polite indifference as Lord Weatherby leered at her from across the drawing room. Alex had warned her the man was old enough to be her grandfather, and indeed he must be sixty at least, grey-haired and paunchy. She felt ill at the very thought of letting him touch her.

The Earl's booming voice filled the space, extolling the virtues of the match.

"Weatherby is a man of means and influence, Clarissa. He will provide handsomely for you and any children you may have." The Earl fixed his daughter with a stern look, daring her to defy him.

Clarissa's hands clenched into fists at her sides, the urge to scream building in her throat. She glanced at her mother, hoping to find an ally, but the Countess merely nodded in agreement with her husband.

"Lord Weatherby is a fine catch, my dear. You would be wise to accept his attentions." The Countess's tone brooked no argument.

Bile rose in Clarissa's throat as Weatherby approached, his eyes roving over her figure with undisguised lechery. The cloying scent of his cologne assaulted her nostrils, and she fought the urge to recoil.

"My lady," Weatherby said, reaching for her hand. "It would be my greatest pleasure to make you my wife."

Clarissa snatched her hand away before he could touch her, propriety be damned. "I cannot marry you, my lord. I will not." Her voice rang out, clear and defiant.

The Earl's face reddened with anger. "Clarissa, you will do as you're told! Lord Weatherby has graciously offered for you, and you will accept him."

Tears stung Clarissa's eyes as she turned to her mother, desperation clawing at her heart. "Please, Mama, do not make me do this. I cannot bear the thought of being his wife."

The Countess's expression softened for a moment, but she quickly schooled her features into a mask of determination. "It is for the best, Clarissa. Lord Weatherby will provide for you and protect your reputation. You must think of your future."

Clarissa's heart shattered as she realised her parents would not relent. They cared more for her marriageability than her happiness, more for their own social standing than their daughter's dreams.

With a final, anguished look at her mother, Clarissa turned and fled the room, ignoring her father's shouts and Weatherby's startled exclamations. She would not let them control her destiny any longer.

Lavinia, the Countess of Creighton, followed her daughter into the bedchamber, her silk skirts swishing against the polished floorboards. "Clarissa, my dear, you must be reasonable," she implored, her voice tinged with desperation. "Think of the family's reputation. If word of your...indiscretion in Greece were to spread, we would be ruined."

Clarissa whirled to face her mother, her cheeks flushed with anger and unshed tears. "And what of my life , Mother? What of my happiness? Am I to be sold off to the highest bidder, regardless of my feelings?"

The Countess sighed, her shoulders sagging beneath the weight of her daughter's accusations. "It is not as simple as that, Clarissa. We have a duty to uphold, a position to maintain. And Mr. Dalton… he made it clear that he will not keep silent forever."

A chill ran down Clarissa's spine at the mention of Dalton's name. The man who had once seemed so charming, so attentive, now held the power to destroy her future with a few well- placed words. "What does he want?" she whispered, dreading the answer.

"He has hinted that he would be willing to marry you himself, to protect your reputation," the Countess admitted, her voice heavy with resignation. "But your father refuses to consider it, at least for now. He is not the match we would want for you, a younger son with no title or fortune of his own - but if you will not have Weatherby, you may have no other choice!"

Clarissa's heart lurched at the thought of being shackled to Dalton for the rest of her days. The man had nearly ruined her life with his loose tongue already, blurting to her parents! She did not trust him in the slightest.

"I will not marry him," she declared, her voice ringing with conviction. "I will not marry either of them! And if that means I am ruined, then so be it."

The Countess's eyes widened in alarm. "Clarissa, you cannot be serious. You have younger sisters, think of them! Your father and I would have no choice but to disown you, to save their reputations, and then where would you go? How would you live?"

But Clarissa's mind was already racing ahead, conjuring images of a life with Rafael in Portugal, far from the suffocating expectations of English society. "I will find a way," she vowed, her chin lifted in defiance.

Before the Countess could respond, a knock sounded at the door. "Come in," the Countess called, her voice weary.

The door opened to reveal Marianne, resplendent in a gown of emerald silk that set off her fiery hair. "I hope I'm not interrupting," she said, her eyes darting between Clarissa and her mother.

"Not at all," Clarissa said, relief washing over her at the sight of her aunt. "Please, come in."

Marianne crossed the room to embrace Clarissa, her perfume enveloping them both in a soft cloud of jasmine. "I've been worried about you," she murmured, pulling back to study Clarissa's face. "Alex and I have hardly seen you since we returned to London - we've delayed going to Scotland to ensure that you were all right."

The Countess cleared her throat, drawing their attention. "Marianne, perhaps you can talk some sense into my daughter. She's refusing to consider Lord Weatherby's proposal, and I fear she's entertaining some foolish notions of running away."

Marianne's brows shot up in surprise. "Running away? To where?"

Clarissa hesitated, suddenly unsure of how much to reveal. But the warmth and concern in Marianne's eyes gave her courage. "To Portugal," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "To Rafael."

Marianne's eyes widened, and she glanced at the Countess, who looked positively scandalised. "Clarissa," Marianne said gently, taking her friend's hands in her own, "I understand your feelings for Captain de Silva, but you must think this through. Running away would ruin your reputation, and your family's as well."

Clarissa pulled her hands away, frustration rising in her chest. "And what of my happiness, Marianne? Am I to sacrifice it for the sake of propriety and the opinions of others?"

The Countess stepped forward, her voice stern. "Clarissa, that's enough. You will do your duty as a daughter of this family and accept Lord Weatherby's proposal. There will be no more talk of Portugal or Captain de Silva. Marianne." The Countess nodded towards the door, making it clear she did not intend to leave the two of them alone, probably not trusting Marianne.

Indeed, Clarissa thought, she would have begged Marianne to help her escape if she could.

Marianne cast Clarissa a pained look before reluctantly departing. The Countess followed her, closing the door with a decisive click, and Clarissa sank onto the edge of her bed, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

No, she thought, Marianne would not help her run away. That would be asking too much. But perhaps… perhaps she would send a letter?

"I could write to Rafael," Clarissa said aloud, dashing the tears from her eyes and setting her jaw stubbornly. "I never had the chance to tell him how I feel about him. If he knows… perhaps…" Perhaps he would not care. She had thought, so many times, he was on the verge of asking, but he never had. Well. She squared her shoulders. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

She crossed to her writing desk and pulled out a sheet of paper and a quill.

My dearest Rafael, she wrote. I fear I have made a terrible mistake in leaving Portugal, in leaving you. Every day, I find myself dreaming of the life we could have had, of the love we could have shared.

The words poured out of her, a torrent of longing and despair. She told Rafael of her misery, of the emptiness she felt without him by her side. She confessed her love, her dreams of a future together, far from the constraints of English society.

Clarissa clutched the finished letter to her chest, her heart racing with a mix of fear and anticipation. She knew she was taking a tremendous risk, defying her parents and society's expectations, but the thought of a life without Rafael was too much to bear. She would put it into Marianne's hands as soon as she could, and trust that her aunt would send it for her.

With trembling hands, she opened her dresser drawer and carefully placed the letter inside, hiding it beneath a stack of handkerchiefs. It was her last link to Rafael, a tangible reminder of the love and passion they had shared.

A sudden knock at the door startled Clarissa from her reverie. "Clarissa, you must make ready. We are leaving in one hour!" It was her mother's voice, tinged with impatience.

"Yes, Mama," Clarissa called back, knowing she must maintain a pliable facade for now, at least. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the evening ahead, and rang the bell for her maid.

The ball was a grand affair, the ballroom glittering with candlelight and filled with the chatter of London's elite. Clarissa moved through the crowd, exchanging polite greetings and forced smiles, but her heart was not in it. Her thoughts were with Rafael, and the letter hidden in her dresser.

"Ah, there you are, my dear." Lord Weatherby's oily voice cut through the din, and Clarissa suppressed a shudder as he took her hand, his clammy fingers enveloping hers. "I've been looking forward to a dance with you all evening."

Clarissa glanced desperately around the room, seeking an escape, but her father's stern gaze caught hers from across the ballroom. She knew what he expected of her, knew the pressure he was under to secure her future.

But as Lord Weatherby led her onto the dance floor, his hand sliding possessively around her waist, Clarissa felt something inside her snap. She couldn't do this, couldn't pretend to be someone she wasn't, couldn't resign herself to a life of misery and regret.

"I'm sorry, I can't," she gasped, wrenching herself free of Lord Weatherby's grasp. Ignoring his sputtered protests and her father's furious glare, she gathered her skirts and fled the ballroom, tears streaming down her face.

She ran blindly through the halls, her heart pounding in her ears, until she found herself in a quiet alcove, hidden from view. She sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands as sobs wracked her body.

"There you are," a soft voice said, and the scent of jasmine enveloped her as Marianne, resplendent in a gown of shimmering emerald silk, crouched at her side. "Come, dearest. Alex has our carriage waiting. Let me take you home."

Home. The only home she wanted was a crumbling castle on a Portuguese cliffside, beside the only man who would ever hold her heart. Despondently, Clarissa let Marianne help her up and lead her outside, where the Glenkellie carriage waited for them.

"I'll let your parents know Marianne's taken you home," Alex said quietly, helping her into the carriage, his face full of sympathy.

Clarissa could only nod, grateful, but understanding this was all the help they could offer her. She stared out of the window in silence, unseeing as the carriage rolled through the darkened streets, unaware of the worry on Marianne's face as her aunt watched her.

As the carriage halted outside the Creighton townhouse, Clarissa turned to her aunt.

"Marianne, I need your help. I must send a letter. Will you post it for me, discreetly?"

Marianne's eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded without hesitation. "Of course, my dear. You know you can always count on me. But what is this letter? And to whom are you sending it?"

Clarissa took a deep breath, steeling herself for the confession. "It's to Rafael, Marianne. I love him, truly and deeply, and I cannot bear the thought of losing him forever. I must tell him how I feel, even if it means defying my father and risking everything."

Marianne's expression softened, and she reached out to clasp Clarissa's hands in her own. "Oh, my darling girl. I understand. Love is a precious thing, and it's worth fighting for. Give me the letter, and I will see that it reaches him safely."

Clarissa felt a rush of gratitude and affection for her aunt. Rushing up to her room, she brought the letter back down and pressed it into Marianne's hands, a single tear sliding down her cheek. "Thank you, Marianne. Thank you for everything."

As Marianne slipped out, the letter hidden in the folds of her skirt, Clarissa felt a glimmer of hope ignite in her heart. She had taken the first step, had dared to reach out for the love she so desperately craved. Now, all she could do was wait and pray that Rafael would answer her call, that he would come for her and sweep her away to a life of passion and adventure, far from the suffocating confines of London society.

In her mind's eye, she could see Rafael's ship, the Santa Dorotéia, cutting through the waves, its sails billowing in the wind. She imagined herself standing on the deck beside him, the salt spray kissing her face, the warm breeze tangling in her hair.

In her dreams, they would sail to Portugal, to the crumbling castle and neglected vineyard that were Rafael's birthright. Together, they would restore the estate to its former glory, pouring their love and dedication into every stone and vine. She could see herself walking hand in hand with Rafael through the sun-drenched vineyards, laughing and talking, sharing their hopes and dreams.

At night, they would retire to their chambers, where Rafael would take her in his arms and love her with a passion that set her soul ablaze. She would give herself to him fully, body and heart, and together they would create a life filled with joy and purpose, far from the shallow intrigues and petty scandals of the English aristocracy.

Clarissa sighed, her heart aching with longing. It was a beautiful dream. But was it truly possible? Could she really abandon everything she had ever known, defy her family and her duty, for the sake of love?

Clarissa closed her eyes, letting the dream wash over her, filling her with a fierce, unshakable resolve. Yes, she thought. Yes, I will come to you, my love. I will brave any storm, face any obstacle, to be with you. And together, we will create a love that will endure through the ages, a love that will never die.