Chapter Eighteen

Silas didn't have to turn around to know who it was. By the expression on Clara's face, he knew she was just as surprised as he. Turning around he saw Violet, Holly, and the others in the room holding a collective breath as they faced the entrance way of the library. Eyes following their direction, he saw Cynthia, the former Duchess of Combe, enter the room, on the arm of a tall, finely dressed blonde man who had an air of arrogance about him.

Tension seemed to crackle in the air, but Silas was hardly concerned about it. He had often imagined what it would be like to meet her again, face to face, but the only thing he could think to do was take a step in front of Clara, in an effort to protect her as well as a stab at self-preservation. Strangely enough, his anxiety didn't rise at all as everyone in the room turned to see him, waiting.

It seemed no one would address her until Silas did so first.

For a moment he considered grabbing Clara and his sister and leaving the room without acknowledging her, but before he could decide, he found Clara's hand on the back of his arm. The small warmth from her curled fingers gave him pause. All the while, Clara kept her eyes fixed on Cynthia.

Turning back to face her, he cleared his throat.

"Cynthia," he said quietly, his eyes hard.

A flash of something, challenge perhaps, shone in her eyes as she and her escort stopped their advance. They were a few yards away from him and Clara. Cynthia's long neck stretched as she peered over Silas's shoulder.

"Is that Violet?" she asked, her voice a soft coo. "My, how you've grown in only a year."

"Nearly two years now," Violet said after a moment of silence.

It was evident that she didn't wish to betray her brother, but the stilted hope of seeing a former confidant was obvious in the sound of her voice. Violet remained immobile, however.

Cynthia cocked her head.

"Come, friend," she said, hands outstretched. "I wish to see you closely."

Violet didn't move and Silas saw displeasure pass over Cynthia's face. Instead, Violet turned to her brother, as if waiting for his signal. As he looked up, he saw that everyone was watching him. He needed to be cautious. Whatever move he made, whatever word he spoke next, would solidify Cynthia's treatment for years to come.

A surge of vengeance coursed through him, urging him to make her pay for the pain she caused him. But it was a dull feeling, not as strong as it had been before. Clara's fingers neither released him nor tightened, but they remained as if she were giving him support in whatever he chose to do. In truth, he would have liked for Cynthia to disappear.

Instead, he glanced back down at Clara once more. She was staring at him with patience and understanding. In that moment, he felt very glad indeed that she was his wife. Turning to his left, he nodded at Violet before facing Cynthia once more.

Cynthia, who had always been very attuned to body language, was visibly displeased at the display. Firstly, that Violet had chosen her brother instead of her and then, Silas's lack of reaction. He could guess what she was searching for. She fed off emotion, good or bad. Had he been pleased to see her, she would've relished it. If he had been furious, even more so. But indifference? That was something she could not stand. He hadn't done so on purpose, though. Silas couldn't muster any sort of feeling, good or bad, towards her now.

Violet took a step towards her, but Cynthia held up her hand to stop her, instead trying a different approach.

"Miss Clara Woodvine," she said, a sneer in her tone. "What a stellar choice, Silas. I have read about you, Miss Woodvine. It truly is a pleasure to meet you. I had hoped Silas would find a suitable replacement one day."

The cut was intentional and obvious, but before Silas could speak, Clara took the smallest of steps around him, seemingly unwilling to be protected. In fact, she came to stand in front of him.

"My name is Clara Winters," Clara started, her sweet, even tone hard as steel. "Duchess of Combe." Her title seemed to echo through the room and challenge snapped between the two women. "Unfortunately, my dear husband has married a prideful woman. Pride is in fact my worst sin, and while I do pray that the good Lord helps relieve me of such a vile attribute, I'm afraid he hasn't thus far. Therefore, you may address me as ‘your grace' to appease my wicked sense of self."

Cynthia's mouth set in a hard line; her eyes lit with acrimony. Rarely, if ever, had she been set upon by someone, especially in front of a room full of people. Silas had never heard Clara speak so calmly yet forcefully towards another human being. While he was rather pleased that she had been so straightforward and earnest, a part of him wanted to tell her she needn't bother. Cynthia's presence, while a nuisance, was not worth the aggravation. Nor would it be worth her retaliation.

Just then the expensively dressed man who had been standing next to Cynthia came forward.

"Your graces," he said with a bow of his head. "May I introduce myself? I am Lord Randall Valle, son of the Earl of Pinehill."

"Lord Valle," Clara said, the picture of manners.

"You'll have to forgive my fiancée," he said slowly as his words seeped through the room. "We have been out of England for so long, she may have forgotten etiquette altogether. You see, we've been in Paris for over a year."

So, she was to be remarried. Silas was rather numb in that moment and couldn't quite think of anything to say. He might have reacted before marrying Clara—in fact, he was sure he would have—but as monumental of a revelation as it was that Cynthia was engaged, it seemed to fall a little short of making him care.

How very strange.

"Well, I've heard rumors that Paris will do that to one's manners," Clara replied smoothly, unaffected by the news.

Silas had to admit that he was surprised that Cynthia had decided to marry again, but the surprise did not affect him in the way he thought it would. There was no heat behind his heart, no anger. To be honest, he only felt a sort of mild pity for the young lord.

"There's no need to apologize for me, Randall," Cynthia said, turning to Clara. "Your grace—"

"Thank you very much, Lady Cynthia," Clara said, cutting her off. "While it has been thrilling to finally meet you, I'm afraid we are rather pressed for time. We're rehearsing a play, you see, and I don't want our players to be unprepared for our performance. So, if you'll excuse us."

"I—"

"Thank you for understanding and I look forward to continuing our conversation again during dinner. Good day."

Clara turned her back on Cynthia who, while nearly shaking with fury, turned to leave, if only to stop herself from being ridiculous. Silas knew Cynthia would seek revenge for being so humiliated by Clara and while he would never have assumed Clara was capable of behaving like that, a small, selfish part of him had been thrilled. She had put Cynthia in her place immediately. She hadn't cowered or waited for Cynthia to embarrass her.

Still, it might not have been the best idea to anger Cynthia. She was a reactive, volatile person as Silas could attest, and Clara had certainly incurred her wrath. Clara, on the other hand, had hardly seemed affected. Everyone went back to their respective spots, including Fredrick, quietly taking over his role as Jasper. It seemed everyone involved with the play had decided to behave themselves under Clara's direction, who had taken a seat in a tall, wingback chair.

Silas watched her for a moment, noticing that she appeared the picture of demure serenity, except for her foot. The heel of her right foot was bouncing rather uncontrollably beneath her skirts.

Without thinking, Silas went to her, bent down and kissed the corner of her face, just at the temple, in front of everyone. It was a chaste kiss and one that hardly conveyed anything important, but Clara looked up at him with surprise.

"What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly, her cheeks coloring at such an open display of affection. "There are people here."

"Indeed," he said before glancing up at everyone else. "I'm afraid I have an appointment with the baron. If you'll excuse me."

Silas bowed and left the room, feeling the eyes of everyone on his back. He intended to find the old baron and learn why Cynthia was here.

Surely the old man hadn't done something like this on purpose? If so, it would demand consequences. Silas truly hoped the baron had simply made a mistake, because if he had purposely tried to humiliate his wife, Silas wouldn't be able to hold back his growing fury.

Oddly enough, his anger seemed to eat away any anxiety he might have felt over Cynthia's arrival. Was it because anger was more prominent an emotion? Or could it be that Clara's presence had given him some sort of underlying strength to face Cynthia?

Unwilling to dwell too long on such intrusive thoughts, Silas stalked down the hallway until he reached the baron's private study. Without knocking, Silas stepped into the room, finding the baron sat behind his desk.

The old man's soft blue eyes lifted beneath his white brows as he sat back in his chair.

"Ah, Combe. I was just—"

"What is your game, Bairnsdale?" Silas all but snapped. "Why is Cynthia here?"

The old man frowned.

"Cynthia? Who the devil is Cynthia?" the baron asked before his eyes opened wide as the connection was made. "Good lord, the woman accompanying Lord Valle, Lady Cynthia, is your Lady Cynthia?"

"She is not mine," Silas said.

The old baron stood up and came around his desk, shaking his head.

"I was unaware of it, I assure you. Pinehill is an old friend, and I always invite his offspring to this party. I was unaware young Lord Valle had even become engaged until he arrived. Pinehill and his son are on the outs, you understand, and I've been trying to see if I could broker a sort of peace between them, but I had no idea that he would bring a companion here." He frowned unhappily. "I offer my sincerest apologies, Combe."

"It's not your fault," Silas said, the heat of his anger dissipating. "I was just rather surprised. As was my wife."

"Your wife!" the baron repeated, angst in his voice. "Oh dear, how uncomfortable this will be. I'm so sorry this has happened."

"Nonsense," Silas said, shaking his head. It was apparent the baron was mortified. He didn't wish to add on to it. He cleared his throat. "We're all adults, Bairnsdale. It will be fine."

"Are you sure? I would have them leave, truly, except that I had so hoped to be able to bring Lord Valle and his father into reconciliation. I owe the man a debt, and this seemed an excellent way to repay it."

"It's fine," Silas said. He didn't want to cause Bairnsdale any trouble. Even though Cynthia's presence had been an unfortunate surprise, he wouldn't have her thrown out and appear as though he were still affected by her. "Do not trouble yourself."

Bairnsdale looked as if he didn't believe a word of it, but nodded, his forehead puckered with worry.

Silas left the baron's office, unsure of what to do. He supposed there was always the option to leave himself, but the idea had barely formed in his mind before he pushed it out. He had given into his own anxiety for far too long where Cynthia was concerned and he wouldn't continue to do so. He was a duke for God's sake, and though he had once suffered heartbreak at Cynthia's hands, he wouldn't dishonor Clara.

The image of his wife, her pin-straight back when she faced Cynthia, made him feel both proud and hostile. He wanted to protect Clara from all the hardships of the world, especially the hurt that Cynthia could cause but she had stood up to her, fearlessly if not recklessly.

The devil himself would be wary at the prospect of facing Cynthia.

Then, as if the mere thought of her had summoned her like a demon, Silas rounded the corner of the hallway and crashed directly into her.

"Oh!" Cynthia said, her hands held up to brace herself as she caught him by the lapels to steady herself.

When she realized who it was, her surprised eyes flickered with excitement. Her fingers pressed into his chest as she leaned forward. Annoyed that she seemed to think this was a game, he glowered down at her.

"A word. Now," he said as he headed down the hallway. Seeing a door slightly ajar, he walked to it. Peering into the room, he found that it was some sort of private drawing room and that it was currently unoccupied. He held the door open and waited for Cynthia to cross the threshold.

Her brow arched and she deliberately took her time as she crossed the hallway and entered the room. He had to beat down the desire to push her forward as he closed the door, but he was instantly set upon.

Cynthia's arms moved around his neck as she tried to press her body against his, but he recoiled from her in disgust, pushing her backward. She stumbled as her face turned thunderous.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked, smoothing her skirts. "What else do you want to do in private?"

"What are you doing here?"

Her expression changed in that moment from annoyance to intrigue. Smiling a wicked smile, she took a step toward him.

"To see you, of course," she said, her tone sickly sweet. "It's been far too long."

"We're divorced. Or have you forgotten?"

"How could I? When every lady from here to Greece won't seem to let me forget," she said bitterly.

Then Silas saw it. Regret. Cynthia had not been able to live down her divorce. While she had often been able to thumb her nose at society's dictates, protected from notoriety by her wealth and status, it seemed she had finally gone too far. Their divorce had demoted her position. Now, instead of a duke's daughter or wife, she was a divorcee.

"Not for long," he said slowly as he watched her as if she were a snake set to strike. "Your Lord Valle is set to have you."

"And what good will that weakling be to me?" she all but spat. "He's disowned by his father, though Valle believes that our marriage should satisfy the old bastard enough to resume his allowance. I had to be engaged to even think about travelling back to this godforsaken country." Her eyes flashed with mischief. "But I am grateful to be back. I've been in the company of foolish boys for far too long. I've missed what it's like to be with a real man."

"Tired of pulling their strings, are you?"

Her eyes squinted.

"I've never had any complaints, but yes. It's wearisome," she said, taking another step forward. "He isn't half the man that you are, you know." She took another step, as her voice turned soft. "I've missed you, Silas."

How long had he ached to hear those words from her mouth? For far too long he had hoped for Cynthia to return. She had broken his trust a thousand times, and yet he still would have taken her back in an instant back when he was still under her spell. But she had left him behind, and his eyes had finally opened to who she truly was. He had realized that the woman he had loved had never truly existed.

Ignoring her words, he continued.

"I want you to listen to me, Cynthia. There is no place for you in my life and I won't have you making problems for anyone associated with me. Do I make myself clear?"

Cynthia's eyes flashed with challenge. She sauntered up to him and he wanted to retreat, but he knew better than to show her weakness.

The familiar deep buzzing of Silas's unease began to cumulate beneath his skin. This was the beginning of his anxiety, but for some reason it felt further away than usual, almost as though it was trying to reach him over a vast distance. It had been suffocating before, all-encompassing whenever he'd experienced it only months earlier, but when Silas recognized the panicky feeling, his thoughts instantly turned to Clara's words.

Let it be.

Her ridiculously simple words had aggravated him when she first spoke them, but he now found a strange sort of comfort and strength in the simplicity of her sentence. He took a deep breath and repeated her words in his mind as he turned his attentions back to Cynthia. She would not summon anything from him. Not anger, not worry, not fear.

Instantly, Silas felt as if a chain that had been wrapped around his lungs had snapped. It was an odd, light sort of feeling such as he hadn't known for years.

Let it be. Let it be.

"My, how grave you've become, Silas," she said, her tone sultry. Her hand reached up and touched his face. "Since when have you become the aggressor?"

Silas's hand seized her wrist, and she gasped. The pleasure that surfaced in her eyes would once have set his body on fire. But now he only felt cold.

"Keep away from me and my wife," he said, tossing her arm away from him.

The mention of his wife caused Cynthia's face to cloud with hostility.

"What are you doing with such a crass peasant, Silas?" she asked, her voice annoyed once more. "She's not even of your class."

"Don't speak of her."

Her eyes rounded. "Or is that why you decided on her? Couldn't stand to be the weak one any longer so you sought out someone whose strength was half of yours."

Such words might once have riled him up but Cynthia's game was monotonous at this point.

"Strength is something you know nothing about," he said quietly, ignoring the fury in her eyes. "Although from what I can tell of your upcoming nuptials, that must be your plan with Valle."

"How dare you?" she asked as her hand came up to strike him, but he was too quick. Once again, he caught her wrist in his hand and as his grip tightened, he saw her desire heighten. Her moods flickered like the flame of a candle. "Oh, Silas."

He dropped her hand again.

"Stay away, Cynthia. Or so help me God, I will finish you."

He turned and tore open the door, storming down the hallway without a backward glance. He was nearly around the corner when he heard her yell from behind, her voice tinged with sick amusement.

"I wish you would! I truly wish you would."