Chapter Fourteen

After an entire month of living with Silas, his sister and his mother, Clara had concluded that while they all seemed to care for one another, they each had very firm—and very different—ideas of how things should be done. Clara unfortunately, was outnumbered every time.

It wasn't that she didn't appreciate the help her new family provided. She had never even imagined that she would find herself running a household so extensive and she was grateful that her mother-in-law was more than willing to coach her in the finer points of running a household. She was a bit less grateful that the lessons included etiquette coaching, as well. In fact, she had been asked to join her sister-in-law in etiquette lessons. Clara had been curious at first, but she found the sheer number of rules and regulations they were supposed to follow was rather daunting. She didn't wish to insult anyone by not attending, even if she found many of the rules arbitrary and rather silly. Not to mention, many of them didn't truly apply to her, since she already had a husband and wouldn't have to worry about how a lady was meant to behave while courting. Still, she was determined to become every inch the duchess Silas deserved.

Married. It had been a month and she had quickly learned what everyone meant about having a peerage marriage. While Silas was obviously attracted to her, as he proved nearly every night, Clara found that their daytime interactions were limited, if not completely nonexistent. He was respectful, courteous and distant when they did happen to cross paths during the day. Clara was often left feeling unsure of herself, until the evenings of course.

At night Silas was like a different man. He seemed to relax tenfold the moment their door closed. Their door, since they had forgone the tradition of sleeping in separate rooms. She returned to her rooms to dress, but she slept in his bed every night so that he could worship her and ravish her. They'd spend hours making love, talking (although never about anything too important) or simply holding one another. They connected in a way Clara had never experienced before. But by the time the sun rose, Silas was back to being his stoic, polite self—a stranger to her until night came again.

Worse than a stranger, really. A stranger would feel obliged to keep his opinions to himself. Silas was frequently openly critical, particularly of her choices as the new duchess.

It's not his fault, Clara told herself one morning as she reflected on one particular instance the previous week, when she had requested the cook to make clangers.

Clangers were a long, suet crusted pastry that covered two different fillings. On one side was a savory stuffing while the other end contained a sweet center. Clara's favorite had been a pork and caramelized onion partnered with an apple cinnamon finish. She had loved them as a child and perhaps had been feeling homesick when she'd asked for them for dinner.

The look on her mother-in-law's face when they were revealed had made Clara's heart sink.

"What in the world is this?" the dowager duchess had asked.

"They're clangers," Clara said, shrinking a bit into her seat.

"Rather a plebian dish, isn't it?"

Clara saw Violet wedge her fork underneath the edge of the pastry and lift it to examine the interior. Her lip curled up in disgust.

"They're really quite good," Clara tried, her gaze going to Silas, hoping for some support. "I thought it would be nice to try."

Silas had appeared unsure, his own gaze shifting between her and his family. After a moment, he gave her a reserved smile, and took a bite. To his credit, he ate the whole thing, but later commented that it was beneath their cook to prepare working class dishes for the family's table.

Clara had thought that was a rather snobbish thing to say, but she didn't want to cause a problem, nor did she wish to offend the kitchens.

That wasn't the only time that she had noticed the striking difference in Silas while it was daytime. He seemed to behave like a proper peer, all stuffy and tight laced. He even spoke to her as she was a servant who was still learning her position.

It grated her nerves severely.

Still, she hadn't mentioned it to him, unsure if what she was experiencing genuine slights or if he was wanted to help and was simply inept at explaining himself to her. To be honest, she felt as if she were in some kind of fairytale. Her husband would transform every night into a different person. It left her confused. She wasn't sure how to broach the topic to Silas and so continued with their arrangement as it unfolded.

She told herself that she should be happy to have this sort of arrangement with him. If he was half as attentive to her during the day as he was at night, she wouldn't be able to get anything done. All the same, she wished she could see him during the day, if only to spend some time together that didn't involve sleeping together, the way they had back in London when they were courting. But given how powerful the attraction was between them, she reluctantly admitted that if they did meet during the day, they would probably end up naked somewhere. And that certainly wouldn't do.

They hadn't laid together last night, or the previous six nights as Clara had just finished her monthly courses. She had noted the tension in Silas's shoulders that morning when he left their room and she hoped that her courses would finally finish today.

Sighing, Clara tied the strings to her bonnet as she prepared herself for her second trip to visit the tenants. The first trip had happened during the first week of marriage and she had gone with the dowager duchess. This time, however, she was to ride with Violet.

Silas's sister had been her oddest acquaintance since arriving to Greystone. Violet never went out of her way to see or speak to Clara, and remained completely indifferent when she did see her, without showing any emotion, like or dislike. It had unnerved Clara at first. She felt rather like she was speaking to a plant most of the time. Whenever Clara had tried to ask her questions or show curiosity in her interests, Violet remained largely apathetic.

Undeterred however, Clara was hoping their outing today would prove beneficial to finally building a friendship.

They left the house at half past nine with twenty baskets all made up with strawberry jams, fabric, bottles of port and the various other odds and ends that each household was in need of. For example, The Farleys' young daughter had suffered a sprained ankle a few days earlier and Cook had made up a tea blend specially made to help with swelling.

It was a little frightening to be attending to this work without the dowager to supervise, but Clara was determined to rise to the occasion. Violet's presence was decidedly useful, since she had a sharp memory for names. And by the fifteenth house, her sister-in-law was even showing signs of conversation. Well, perhaps a cough wasn't exactly a plea for conversation, but Clara saw it as an opportunity.

"Are you well, Violet?" she asked as her sister-in-law covered her mouth. "I hope you are not coming down with a cold."

Violet let out a noncommittal hum.

"It has been unseasonably cool this time of year," Clara tried again.

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Are you sure you don't have a chill?"

"No."

Clara tried not to frown. Instead, she pulled her shoulders back and tried again.

"I do hope the weather holds out," she said, looking up towards the grey skies. "It would be a shame if it rained." Violet didn't speak at all in response to this, so Clara tried again, hoping this time to shock her. "I'd hate to return home without my slippers."

That seemed to catch Violet's attention. Her sister-in-law stared at her for a long moment before her curiosity got the better of her.

"Why would the rain have anything to do with your slippers returning home?"

"It's an old Lincolnshire custom. Or perhaps not Lincolnshire so much as the village of Kimberton. And really, to assume everyone in the village of Kimberton participates would be a gross overestimate. In truth, it was mostly just one person, Miss Hilda Franklin—and those who chose to follow her example. But there was good reason to follow in her footsteps, as it were, given that she never caught a cold."

"What are you talking about?" Violet asked, obviously confused by Clara's train of thought.

Clara smiled. Got her.

"Mm? Oh yes. Well, Miss Hilda Franklin was the oldest woman to ever live in Kimberton. That's where I grew up. She was a very sweet old woman and she was one hundred and two the day she died, not five years ago."

"One hundred and two?" Violet asked, disbelieving. "I don't believe it."

"I might not have either, except that there was a record of her baptism in the Kimberton Chapel. Everyone could confirm that Miss Franklin had lived in her family cottage for over a hundred years. She lived with her great grandnephew by then, but she was still spry the day before she died."

"And what does she have to do with slippers and the rain?"

"Well, Miss Franklin was a very proper sort. A good, God-fearing sort of woman who never let her skirt come over her ankle, or wore a neckline below her collar bone. She was completely prim in every way. Except that whenever it rained, if she was caught outside in a storm, she would remove her slippers and walk barefoot right through the center of town."

Violet stared at her. "What?"

"It's true. Whenever Miss Franklin was caught in a storm or a summer shower, she would remove her shoes and carry them in the crook of her arm as she would march through the middle of town back to her cottage."

"Why?"

"No one understood exactly. Even her own family tried to dissuade her from doing something so bizarre, but it never failed that on a wet day, she would be seen barefoot." Clara tried not to smile at the confusion on Violet's face. "Of course, there were rumors as to why she did so."

"What rumors?"

"Oh, there were a few stories. One suggested that she had been cursed in her youth by a witch. Another said that a gypsy woman told her that she would live to be a hundred if she never wore shoes in the rain. Others believed she was simply mad, though you wouldn't have assumed as much from talking to her."

"But no one knew the truth? Did no one ask her?"

"Oh, everyone asked her—but she would never give an answer." Clara shook her head. "And it would have been a strange story on its own, except for the day that she died."

"What happened?"

"Well, it was a day, not unlike today," Clara said, glancing up at the sky once more. "And Miss Franklin was out attending morning mass. Supposedly, it hadn't started to rain when she left church, but then she never made it home and it rained and rained all that day. The family went out to search for her, and it wasn't long before they found her. She had passed away, seated beneath an old oak tree. They said she appeared as peaceful as any person ever did."

"Was she wearing her shoes?" Violet asked.

"She was, but that's just it. Usually, Miss Franklin wore slippers, which were easy for her to take off. That day when they found her, she was wearing a pair of new leather ankle boots, tied tightly all the way up."

Violet's eyes went slightly wide.

"Did she wear them on purpose?"

Clara shrugged.

"No one knows. But then, no one ever did when it came to Miss Franklin."

Violet seemed contemplative as she rested back against her seat and Clara hoped that her little story had cracked her hard exterior. It was a silly tale, but one that always seemed to intrigue people. Of course, when Violet didn't speak for the next five tenant visits, Clara assumed she'd failed miserably.

After the last visit, Clara and Violet returned to the carriage. About halfway home, a loud roll of thunder boomed in the distance. Violet's eyes snapped to Clara's. Bending toward Clara, she spoke at last.

"Was that a true story?" Violet asked. "Or did you make it up?"

"It was true," Clara said. She dropped her hand to her ankle and took off her slipper, first one and then the other. Violet watched her with a perplexed expression. "And while I can't very well practice the custom in town, I do so in the countryside, whenever I yearn to take a stroll."

"You're a duchess. You can't walk around the countryside barefoot. It's beyond improper."

Clara smiled.

"I can and I will," she said and held up her slippers.

Then it happened. Violet laughed. "Silas will have a fit," she managed to say through her giggles.

"Will he? Whatever for?"

"He's very rigid about propriety. He won't like it."

Clara shrugged.

"Well, I don't wish to offend him. But it's hardly a scandal."

The word scandal seemed to make Violet's smile shrink and she looked away swiftly.

"No. My poor brother has suffered enough scandal for one lifetime."

Clara wanted to ask Violet about Silas's past, but she wasn't sure how to do so without offending the girl. It seemed Violet too had suffered. Silas had told her that the girl had formed a close bond with her former sister-in-law.

"I've heard the two of you were quite close," Clara said, broaching the subject carefully. "You and the former duchess, I mean."

Violet nodded, her eyes not quite meeting Clara's.

"For a time, yes," she said, somewhat sadly. "She was like a sister to me. I was so angry at Silas when she told me she couldn't stay. I thought him a brute for hurting her and making her leave him."

Clara wasn't sure how to respond. From what Silas had told her, she knew that pain had been part of his marriage with Cynthia—but it had been a part that Cynthia had wanted. Indeed, it had been something she demanded. Still, Clara didn't know how to explain that to a girl as young as Violet. In truth, it wasn't really something that she fully understood herself.

"It can be difficult, even for family, to understand what happens between a husband and wife," Clara said carefully. "There are parts of that relationship that are only for them. But still, I would never consider your brother to be a brute. Would you?"

"I wouldn't have thought so," Violet said. "But that was what she told me. And of course, I was aware of the fights they had. You could hear the shouting all over the house," Violet said, shaking her head. Violet glanced up at Clara. "I should apologize for being so cold to you. I was angry that Silas chased Cynthia away. His getting remarried feels like a betrayal of sorts. Only, the more I think about it, the more I realize that I was also worried about you."

"Worried about me?" Clara repeated, surprised. "Whatever for?"

"If he was cruel to Cynthia, then he might be cruel to you and chase you away as well." Another crack of thunder sounded over them as their carriage pulled onto the long drive that led to the house. "It's why I've kept my distance, not wanting to get attached."

"Oh, Violet, I'm not going anywhere," Clara said reassuringly. "Your brother does not have the same feelings for me as his former wife. Ours is a marriage built on mutual respect," she said, but the term seemed lacking. "And friendship."

"Friendship?" Violet repeated, seemingly unimpressed. "I always heard marriage was supposed to be a practical endeavor. Feelings towards one's spouse, whether friendly or otherwise, should not be considered as a deciding factor."

Clara's mouth fell open slightly and she stared at her sister-in-law with a mixture of pity and horror.

"Goodness gracious. What about love?"

Violet blinked, as if she had no idea why Clara would bring up something so irrelevant. "What about it?"

"Haven't you ever heard that one should marry someone they love?"

Violet's brow creased.

"Amongst commoners, I suppose," she said. "At our level of society, it is quite rare indeed. And since Silas's divorce, I have come to believe that that might be for the best. I would have said that they were a love match, but after witnessing how it hurt them, I would not recommend it."

No, Clara mused, she probably wouldn't. Clara swung the slippers that she held in her hands back and forth and shrugged.

"A friendship is a far more stable thing than romantic love," she heard herself say. "And there is love in friendship, but it is a hardier, sturdier sort of love."

"Do you love Silas?"

Although they had been speaking about it, the question had caught Clara off guard. Did she love Silas? She found herself uncertain as to how to answer. Yes, they were married and had slept together, but that wasn't the same as love. Clara had felt a deep pull towards him since the moment she first saw him, but that wasn't love, either. Not truly. It was the potential for love, maybe, but she knew better than to allow it to develop further. Not when Silas had made it clear that romantic love was not something he would offer her. But there was more than one kind of love, as she had just explained.

"Y-yes," she stuttered quietly, unsure why. It was a dangerous thing to admit, but she hardly assumed Violet would suffer from it. "Yes, of course. As I love all my friends."

Violet gave her a half smile as the skies opened up. Sidetracked by the torrential downpour, Violet quickly bent down and took off her shoes as well.

As the carriage pulled up to the front of the house, both women were helped down by a rather shocked footman as they ran through the rain. They reached the house at the same time, laughing as they stepped inside through the door that was held open for them. It seemed they were about to fall into a proper fit of giggles when a stern male voice echoed throughout the foyer.

"What on earth are you doing?" Silas asked, coming down the stairs.

Clara smiled at him, expecting him to return it, but there was only seriousness in his eyes. She swallowed and tried to smother her grin.

"We were caught in the rain," she said.

"I see that," he said, glancing down. "Where are your shoes?"

"Oh, well, that's a funny story," Clara said, when Violet took a step forward.

"Don't be angry, Silas," she said, her tone anxious. "It was just a bit of fun."

"Fun?" he repeated, coming up to Clara. "Walking around in a rainstorm barefoot is fun?"

Clara smiled and tilted her head.

"Yes, it is. You should try it."

"I think not. And you shouldn't be behaving so carelessly," he said coldly.

Clara bristled at his words as a heavy silence fell around them—especially when she looked over to see Violet watching them with tangible dismay. It was obvious that Violet was worried this would escalate into a fight like the ones Silas and Cynthia used to have. While Clara didn't appreciate Silas's words, she wouldn't make the poor girl suffer through an argument, having been so aware of them in the past.

She peered over her husband's shoulders and forced a bright smile to her face.

"Would you excuse us, Violet? I wish to tell your brother a story," she said, winking at the girl.

The gentle sendoff seemed to pacify Violet and she gave Clara a half smile before heading towards the stairs. When she was at the top, Clara turned her focus back on Silas, who appeared vastly annoyed.

Well, so was she.

Lifting her chin, she walked past him without a word.

"Where are you going?" he asked, though it sounded more like an order than a question.

She didn't answer. Clara headed towards the back hall, reaching the door that led to the terrace. She opened it and walked out directly into the rain, only to have her arm held back by Silas's grip. He spun her around, a rising fury in his eyes.

"Do not walk away from me," he growled.

"I do not wish to speak to you," she said as the rain fell on them.

"Why not?"

"Because I do not wish to argue with you."

"Argue? What would we argue about?"

"About your behavior."

"My behavior?" He sounded outraged. "You're the one walking around without shoes. Devil take it, will you come inside?"

"You have no right to speak to me that way," she said hotly, not moving. "I am not a child for you to scold."

"No right?" he repeated, his countenance hostile. "I have every right as your husband to take your wellbeing into consideration. When you showed up with no shoes during a bloody storm—with my sister, I might add—my right is to inform you that such disregard for your health is not acceptable. It's hardly becoming of a duchess."

Now that, Clara would not allow. If Silas thought to cow her with nasty words, she would show him just how un-duchess-like she could be. She squared her shoulders. Taking a step forward, she lifted her finger and poked him directly in the chest.

"Do you mean to shame me? For something as silly as footwear?"

His large hand closed around her finger and tugged her closer, setting her off balance.

"I was merely pointing out what's expected of you," he said, unfazed.

"So, my lack of shoes undermines my position?" she asked.

"No, your lack of propriety does."

"You said I would be free to be me if I married you. Are you rescinding that promise?"

"If you plan on walking all over England barefoot, I might," he said loudly as his hand moved up to her wrist. He yanked her as he turned, trying to pull her inside, but she wrenched her arm away. He paused, appearing both puzzled and furious. "Come indoors at once."

"I don't want to."

"You're going to catch your death out here."

Clara wasn't sure what she was doing or what she wanted from him, but she knew she couldn't let this stand. She couldn't deal with him behaving like a caring husband every night but then shifting into a scold as soon as the sun rose. She needed to know that he respected her outside of the bedroom—that he believed that she was a suitable duchess. And she needed to be absolutely certain that he was not comparing her to his former duchess.

It was a bothersome feeling, one that had grown over the past few weeks. Her curiosity about Cynthia had only grown more and more since her arrival to Greystone. She had wanted nothing more than to forget her, but every turn, every glance from the servants or her in-laws, made her question everything about herself and whether she measured up. She had never been so uncertain of herself and though she had tried very hard to behave like the perfect duchess, she felt the pressure of it buckling on her shoulders. She wanted a little reprieve from it, and the rain had seemingly unlocked the part of herself that was willing to rebel.

She stared at Silas, his eyes dark with anger. The rain had wet his hair and was running down his face, turning his white shirt translucent. If only she could make him forget too…

Clara slowly lifted her fingers to beneath her chin and tugged at the satin ribbon of her bonnet. Pulling it away, she felt instant cooling relief as the raindrops fell onto her hair and face. She took a step away from him and dropped the bonnet on the ground as she turned, heading towards the maze.

"What are you doing?" Silas called out, but she didn't answer.

She wasn't sure what she was doing. When she reached the entrance of the maze, she unlatched her cloak and let it fall to the ground as well. Giving him a final look, she paused before disappearing behind the yew.

Since coming to Greystone, Clara had walked the maze every day and had studied it from the window of their bedchamber. She had found it easy to reach the center now, she still hadn't found a way to the wisteria pergola at the back. Convinced that there had to be a secret door somewhere that she hadn't found, she let her hand trail along the hedge as she went deeper into the maze.

She hesitated before taking the first turn, wondering if Silas would follow her, but after several moments, he didn't appear and Clara felt a little hope go out of her. Perhaps they didn't suit as well as she thought. If a barefoot duchess was really too much for Silas to handle, she supposed she could give in and wear her slippers, but Clara so desperately wanted Silas to relax, like he did at night in their bedroom. She wanted him to smile—which was something he rarely did, even at night.

There was something guarded about Silas that she had recognized since the beginning of their acquaintance. But while most everyone in England believed the rumors about him being a cold and cruel man, Clara saw something else. She recognized the way that his anxiety forced him to keep people at a distance. Even with his sister and mother he kept his guard up, and while Clara had perhaps the best chance to get close, he made sure never to speak to her too openly about anything.

Clara let the frustration of her relationship wash away as the rain intensified. She wanted to forget everything about Silas's past and her feelings of insufficiency. The harder the rain fell, the more her feelings bubbled up within her. She walked faster, wishing she was in some open field rather than a suffocating maze. Turn after turn she felt as if she were falling deeper and deeper into a tangled web of emotion that relented only slightly when she reached the fountain in the middle.

Breathing heavily, she felt panicked when she saw movement to her left. Stumbling backwards, she was shocked to see Silas standing there, completely soaked. A part of her felt guilty that he was drenched in rainwater, but the rest of her felt so relieved that he was willing to get drenched in rainwater…for her.

"Care to explain what you're doing? Running through this maze in the pouring rain?" he asked, his tone loud and biting.

What could she say? That she wanted him to open up to her? That she needed to understand the evident pain he carried within him? That she wanted to help?

Good lord, it all sounded too dramatic to put into words. And yet, she needed to tell him everything or she would explode.

"I don't think I'm a very good duchess," she said, embarrassed that her voice cracked at her confession. The rain sounded loudly in her ears, forcing her to raise her voice in order to be heard. He stared at her as she spoke. "Or at least, I have the impression that you don't think I'm a very good duchess."

"When have I said that?"

"I never believed that it would matter much, my lack of social etiquette, but I was wrong. I am inadequate."

"Clara—"

"No, please let me finish." She held her hand up as he came towards her. "I know you wanted this to be a marriage of friendship, Silas and I've tried, but what sort of friendship only lives in the dark? We barely talk. I never see you."

"I see you every night."

"Yes, at night when we…" She paused, her cheeks flaring at the mention of their coupling. "When we sleep together, but I need more, Silas."

Silas stared at her, his whole body unmoving as if he were carved from stone, his gaze was alit with heat.

"I told you friendship was all I could give. I explained that to you."

Her heart ached at his words and she debated continuing to hold in all the terrifying emotions she had been feeling for weeks. It would be easier to simply smile and apologize, to go about their lives quietly and courteously—and separately in far too many ways.

But Clara wouldn't be doing herself any justice in lying to him. No, she needed to be honest.

"Yes, you did," she nodded. "But I'm afraid… I mean, I realize now that I need more. More of you. More of us. I want you to trust me, Silas. I want you to have faith in the fact that I would never do anything to hurt or embarrass you." Silas stared at her, his expression set in a way she couldn't decipher. Was he anxious? Angry? She couldn't tell, and so she continued. "I want more from this relationship. I want you to stop avoiding me during the day and to talk to me when you have an issue as opposed to just dictating to me how you'd rather I behave."

Thunder crashed somewhere in the distance, but Clara barely registered it against his silence. For a moment she feared he might never answer. His body shifted as he looked away and she was sure he was about to leave. But then suddenly, he turned back to face her.

"I'm sorry if I've been neglectful," he said, practically yelling over the storm. "I have been avoiding you."

"But why?"

He glanced upwards, almost hesitant, before looking back down.

"It's…easier for me, to go about my day when you aren't near." Clara's mouth fell open a little with surprise and Silas rushed to explain. "That's not to say I don't like being near you. It's just that I find myself, well, unable to focus when you're near. I thought it was best to keep my distance."

"Oh."

"And I do trust you." He sounded torn. "But I told you before, Clara. I can't give you anything more than friendship. There isn't anything else."

Clara felt her heart break a little at his words, but she stepped towards him. He was staring at her like she was some sort of specter. Placing her hand to his chest, she felt the shudder of his body beneath her fingers.

"There is," she said softly. She knew he wouldn't be able to hear her, but she wanted to say these words out loud. "But I'm afraid you've locked it up so tightly, you'll never let it go." Following an instinct, she let her fingers curl against the wet fabric of his shirt and pulled him towards her. "I wish you would, Silas."

Before she realized it, he was kissing her, deeply and purposely, and she met him with her own need. She kissed him as if to tell him that he was safe with her. That no matter what had happened to him, she would understand.

Her hands came up to the sides of his face, cradling his cheeks in her palms as she kissed him deeper. She needed him to feel the depth of her feelings for him, but she was left lacking when he pulled back. Eyes opened, she watched the mix of emotions battle their way across his face. Abruptly, he grabbed her hand, his strong fingers wrapping tightly around her cold ones and pulling her to follow him.

"Not here," he said as he walked.

"Where are we going?" she asked as he led her away from the center of the maze, but he didn't answer.

She wiped the rain from her face as it continued to fall. Within minutes, they were beneath a vine covered pergola that sat against a rock wall. The pergola was so covered in thicket that it blocked nearly all of the rain from falling on them. They could also hear each other more clearly.

"Silas?" Clara said with question, gazing up into his grey eyes.

"I can't offer you what you want, Clara," he said, his tone somewhat shaken. His eyes shifted down at their joined hands and Clara wondered if he was nervous. "I can't…"

Sensing that it was too much for him and ignoring the pain she felt pinch her heart at his refusal to try, she took a step towards him. She was desperate for him to feel the way she felt, but she couldn't force it. All she could do was support him.

"You don't have to," she whispered. "It's all right—"

"You don't understand," he said, his grip tightening on her fingers. "It's not a choice. I am truly unable to give you more."

The painful pinch in Clara's heart grew. He really believed that there was nothing left to give her. The hurt he had endured from his previous marriage had been a deeper cut than she had realized and she felt momentarily shamed for not crediting him with feeling that deeply.

But she wouldn't give up. She would simply have to love him more than he had ever been loved before, to show him just how much he was worth it.

"Silas?" she asked, leaning towards him. "Will you kiss me?"

"Did you hear me?" he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "I can't love you."

Clara ignored the frigid ache in her heart at his words.

"I'm not asking you to love me, Silas. I'm asking you to kiss me."

Silas's brow was creased as he glared at her.

"Damn it," he muttered as he crushed his mouth to hers.