Chapter Five

Clara watched in a daze as the duke left the receiving parlor without so much as a backwards glance. She had been rather shocked by her own boldness when she hadn't stepped away from him or pushed his hand to the side when he'd touched a strand of her hair, but Clara's bizarre desire to feel the duke's hands on her body had stopped her from retreating from his advance. And then there had been that kiss.

That. Kiss.

Clara's hand came up from her midriff to her throat. Never in her life had she been kissed with such possession. Dilworth had kissed her once or twice when they had been able to steal a moment away from her mother's chaperonage, but those had always been gentle, placid kisses. Clara had found them pleasant enough, but she had never felt the complete, untethered yearning she had when the duke had held her.

Every inch of her skin seemed to tingle with warning. The duke was a dangerous man, one who had run off his own wife with depravities that were rumored to be too scandalous to be mentioned in print. If that kiss was any indication, Clara knew the rumors about him must be true. She tried to focus on the audacity of his actions, while also trying to ignore the heat that had pooled low in her belly.

Men like Combe were never deprived of anything. He had probably spent a lifetime indulging in all sorts of wicked pleasures and Clara felt a pang of shame at having been his latest indulgence. She had no doubt that he considered any woman—herself included—to be nothing more than just another conquest. Even though her ideas of propriety were less rigid than those of the ton—life in the country having supplied her with a healthy bit of knowledge about where babies came from—she still felt discomfited by the idea that the duke felt so entitled that he would claim her lips like that as if they were his for the taking, whenever he pleased.

She was even more uncomfortable with the fact that she had liked it.

No doubt the duke thought kissing her was some sort of game. It was a brazen thing to have done. And then to act as though that kiss was compensation for the duke's lost winnings. It was downright insulting and if Clara hadn't been so intrigued, she might have said so.

Combe had been surprisingly gentle as well as intense. From the stories Clara had heard, the duke was a wicked man, yet Clara couldn't quite see the dissolute figure from the gossip pages in the man she had just kissed. Despite his reputation, he hardly seemed like the type of man to force any woman to do something she didn't want. He had refused to claim his winnings from his bet with Dilworth after all and even though he had kissed her, she was sure he would have stopped if she had protested.

Why hadn't she protested? That was a question she couldn't seem to answer. She didn't like the duke, or at least, she knew that she shouldn't—even if she did find him remarkably attractive, in a dangerous sort of way. While she always believed that a person's character was the most important thing, Clara couldn't deny that the duke's striking, dark features, formidable size, and underlying arrogance made her body react in ways that she would rather not say.

Clara touched her hair absentmindedly, wondering if her gentle frizz had been to the duke's dislike and if he found her as attractive as she found him. Probably not. She wished her hair would either be tightly curled or smooth, unhappy that it should settle in between. The ashy blonde coloring was decidedly not in fashion at the moment and she was aware that her appearance was rather underwhelming.

Clara was a bit of a beauty conundrum. Not a single one of her attributes could be considered attractive on their own, but she had been put together in a way that all the unassuming features complimented each other. She always believed of herself as pleasantly plain and she supposed everyone saw her as she saw herself. Was that how the duke saw her? She found herself wishing she could view herself through his eyes. Maybe then she would understand why he had kissed her—and why, immediately afterward, he had rushed away.

She stood for a moment, staring at the doorway the duke had practically run out of, wishing she could make sense of the whole encounter…but then she shook her head, unwilling to stand around to try and decipher it. She was to meet Bettina Moppet in the park this morning along the Serpentine and she would not be late.

Just then her mother entered the parlor, her brow creased with concern.

"Dear, Trevor just came out to inform me that the Duke of Combe was here?" her mother asked, smiling gently at the ridiculous idea that the duke had been there. "I told him he must be imagining things again, but he insisted."

"Yes, the duke was here. He just left," Clara said, as she straightened the cuff of her sleeve at the wrist. "He came to see Papa."

"Whatever for?"

"To invest with him, I am sure," she lied. She hadn't told her parents what had happened the previous evening, deciding that neither needed to know what had happened. "Shall we go?"

"In a moment dear," her mother said, coming up to her. "Do you mean the duke spoke to you about investments?"

"Of course not, Mama. He simply stated that he hoped to talk to Papa about business—and I explained that he wasn't home, so he would have to pay his call another time," she said, putting her hand through her mother's arm. "Now can we please go? I promised Bettina that we would be the first ladies on the bridge today."

Her mother sighed loudly, obviously deciding that the duke's visit was of no consequence as they moved out of the room.

"Very well."

Clara had often found herself rather lonely since coming to live in town. Most of the ladies she had met did not seem to know quite what to do with her. While she had attended a number of salons and luncheons, she had struggled to form a real connection with the others she encountered. Bettina was the rare exception who had seemed to truly welcome her friendship, which had made it all the more upsetting when Bettina and her family had traveled to the countryside to visit friends for the whole of the past week. There was a great deal she wished to discuss with her friend, which was why Clara was eager to get to the park where she knew Bettina would be waiting.

The road along Hyde Park was already filled with carriages by the time Clara and her mother made their way through town. The fashionable hour was upon them and Clara was hardly surprised that it was so busy. She and her mother quickly exited their carriage and brushed out their skirts as they began their walk.

They had only been in London for a month, but Clara always found that she missed the country whenever they came to the park. It was well manicured and always had a lovely, curtailed set of flowering plants, Clara often longed for the wide-open spaces and wild flowers of the countryside. Still, the park was lovely. She didn't like how slow she was expecting to walk, but she would still be able to reach her friends in a timely manner.

"There's Bettina," she said to her mother, nodding at the bridge. "I should like to go over there for a moment, Mama."

"Go on, dear," her mother said, patting her on the hand that she held in the crook of her arm. "I see Lady Berry over there."

Clara nodded and headed towards the bridge where Bettina stood with several other young ladies, bent slightly forward as they discussed some topic Clara was sure to find interesting. She reached them quickly, moving into an opening of their circle with ease.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Clara said, smiling at the girls who all stared at her with surprise. "We had a bit of a delayed start this morning."

The ladies did not speak however. Instead, they all shared peculiar stares with one another, before glancing at Bettina. Clara tilted her head, confused, before turning to see Bettina as well. The ice blonde beauty had a small sneer on her lips as she looked back to Clara.

"Miss Woodvine. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

Clara frowned, confused.

"We made plans to meet here," she said, her eyes scanning the others again. "Did we not?"

"We did," Bettina said with a demure smile that rankled Clara's nerves. "But I don't recall extending the invitation to you."

One girl, a redhead named Janet Clovers, covered her mouth, trying to hide a chuckling noise while another all but glared at Clara, as if she'd committed some terrible faux pas. But she couldn't imagine what she could have done to cause offense.

"I'm sorry, is there something amiss?" she asked.

"Not at all," Bettina said. "It's only that, well, we think it would be uncouth to associate with my fiancé's former paramour," she said, nodding knowingly at the others. "It seems rather bourgeois to do so."

"It's a divine ring," one of the girls cooed.

"So romantic," another said.

Clara stared at Bettina, uncertain what she was talking about.

"You're engaged?" she asked. Clara's eyes dropped to Bettina's hand. A purple amethyst sat on her fourth finger; a ring that had been described to her at length. It was the ring that Dilworth had told her about. Realization dawned on her as her blood ran cold. "To Dilworth?"

"Lord Dilworth, Miss Woodvine," Bettina said haughtily, her chin ticked up with arrogance. "He is a viscount and should be addressed with some respect."

"Country folk have such a lacking appreciation for society," Janet said, ignoring Clara completely.

"So do inventors daughters it seems," another girl, Winnifred, said.

Clara frowned as the coldness she felt was replaced with a miserable heat that crept up her neck. What was going on?

"I don't understand," she said, trying to ignore the queasy feeling that was settling in her stomach. "Dilworth only last night—"

"Yes, dear Hubert told me about last night," Bettina said, batting her eyes as she retold her friends the story. "He was all set to propose to you, but at the last minute couldn't dream of not spending the rest of his life with me."

Clara's brows lifted.

"How romantic," Janet gushed.

"He told you that?" Clara asked, her hands curling into fists.

"He did. He came over first thing this morning to tell me and profess his love. Papa tried to say no, but as I'm sure I've been in love with my dear Hubert for months now—"

"Months?" Clara repeated incredulously. "You said a week ago that it was unfortunate that I should have to marry someone so soon, because it wouldn't be any fun to attend next season alone."

Bettina's cheeks burned bright red with embarrassment as one of the girls snickered, hiding behind her fan.

"I said no such thing."

"You did too."

"It doesn't matter," Bettina said loudly, causing some passersby to watch their group. "Hubert and I are going to be married in a month and then I'll be Viscountess Dilworth."

"And you'll be paying for all his debts," Clara said hotly.

That had been the wrong thing to say. The collective gasp from the others told Clara that she had gone too far, but really how could Bettina not realize that Dilworth was only marrying her for her money? It had been a painful thing to admit herself, but then it was hardly something she could ignore. The fact of the matter was Dilworth was a villain, despite his title.

Bettina pulled her shoulders all the way back and spoke loudly.

"I wouldn't expect a country mouse like you to understand. Dilworth has thrown you over for someone of his own class, which really is the way it should be," she said, scowling at Clara. "I mean, it's painfully obvious you've tried to elbow your way into society. Just because you're rich doesn't mean you belong."

"Don't be a poor sport about it, Miss Woodvine," Janet said. "Dilworth simply wanted someone of his own class. I'm sure there are plenty of…" she paused, her mouth hanging open for a moment, before her eyes lit up. "…merchants and the like who would be happy to take you on as a wife."

Clara's eyes went wide. To be used by Dilworth had been one thing, but to discover that her friends weren't really her friends at all and had tossed her over in the blink of an eye, well, it was all too much. True, she had only known them for a matter of weeks, not really long enough to develop the kind of closeness that she shared with Holly, but she had thought that they at least liked her. Where was all this scorn coming from? What had she done to deserve it? Did she really no longer have any value to them at all now that she wasn't on the verge of marrying a member of the aristocracy? She tried to think of something brutal and biting to say, to put them all in their place, but she couldn't think of anything.

Her mouth hung open, as they waited for her retort. What a silly, stupid woman she was, believing that she would be accepted by these people. Her hand went up to tuck a phantom strand of hair behind her ear as the humiliation of the situation washed over her. She wanted to turn and run and nearly did so, when she remembered the words the duke had said to her that morning.

Heaven help the person who ever tried to put you in your place.

It had been intended as an insult, she was sure. But it made her feel rather proud for some reason. Then he had kissed her and all her good sense had left her.

The recollection of his hands on her body came crashing over her. The taste of his mouth, the scent of mint and cigars on his clothes as he held her flashed in her mind as she blinked several times, trying to dislodge the memory.

Oh, don't think about that now! Why would that of all memories pop into her head at this moment?

"You really must close your mouth, Miss Woodvine," Winnifred said, a smirk on her face. "You look like a fish."

All the other girls tittered and laughed as Clara snapped her mouth shut as she felt something within her break. Heart racing, she took a step forward, crowding Bettina.

"Take Dilworth," she heard herself say. She glared at the rest of the girls. "He's hardly worth the ground he walks on. If you're so inclined, you should know that I overthrew him. He's nothing but a fortune-seeking blackguard."

Bettina's face contorted with fury.

"You're lying."

"I should thank you, for releasing me of him," she said quickly. "I'd hate for him to come snooping about me again should you come to your senses and realize what a ghastly man he truly is."

The others' eyes went wide as a small crowd formed around them.

"How dare you?" Bettina spouted. "You're just mad that despite your monies, you can't keep a fiancé." Bettina pouted exaggeratedly. "How sad it is you've taken to insulting a gentleman, simply because he threw you over."

"He did not throw me over," Clara said, her temper rising.

"He did though. He told me all about it," she said taking a step forward. "He said that he couldn't bear to marry someone so far beneath him—"

"He did not."

"He said he was ashamed every moment he was in your presence. That you were so obvious in your social climbing that you never cared to learn proper manners or decorum," she accused.

Clara's ears began to ring.

"He said it was appalling that your mother had been a maid and that your father was an embarrassment," Bettina dug in. "He said he wouldn't marry you if you were the richest girl in the entire world."

Fury bubbled within Clara as Bettina's words cut into her. Was everyone in the ton an absolute monster? She could barely control her breathing as she began speaking, words flowing from her mouth without registration.

"He's just mad he lost his bet!" Clara lashed out.

The words fell from her mouth too quickly, before she could weigh the wisdom of letting them slip. Several pairs of stunned eyes stared back at her.

"Clara?" Her mother's voice sounded from somewhere behind her.

Turning, Clara saw a sizeable crowd had formed. People were watching her, speaking behind their hands as they glared at her. She could feel herself turning red.

"What bet?" she heard Bettina ask behind her.

"Clara dear, I think it's time to go," her mother said, cutting through the crowd as she reached her daughter.

Clara felt sick to her stomach as her mother pulled her away, hearing more and more people behind her echoing the question what bet, and speculating that it was likely that Dilworth had made some grievous gamble.

"Oh no," Clara said as they hurried to their carriage. Her gloved hand curled into a fist and she pounded it gently against her forehead. "Foolish, foolish idiot."

She had just caused a scene in front of half of London. Surely she was ruined and any chance of making a future match had gone up in smoke the moment she let her temper get the better of her. How could she have let herself become so unrestrained in front of so many people?

She sighed. Maybe she was being too dramatic. Maybe there wouldn't be too much hullabaloo about what had just happened in the park and it would all blow over?

Clara tapped her forehead with her fist again, knowing that it wasn't likely.

"I'm such a fool."

"Easy dear, what's all this about?" her mother asked, pulling her hand away. "What bet? And did I actually overhear something about Dilworth proposing to that Bettina girl?"

Clara shook her head as she climbed into the carriage, plopping herself on the bench seat. She was quiet until the carriage pulled away and only spoke when her mother's hand reached for hers. Turning, she saw the concern in her mother's eyes.

"Dilworth is a gambler—and not a very good one. After losing all of the money he had brought with him to the ball last night, he proceeded to bet me and my dowry in a card game," she said sadly. "A game that he lost. After witnessing such a thing, I can no longer feel any respect for the viscount. It's why I've not made any attempt to see or speak about him."

"A card game?" her mother repeated. As the words settled around them Mary's eyes went wide with horror as she realized what Clara was saying. She grabbed her daughter's hand and squeezed. "Oh, no, Clara. That can't be true. That's despicable!"

"It is true. Once he realized that he'd ruined his chances with me, he must have rushed to the next heiress he could find. He proposed to Bettina Moppet last night, right after her family returned to London," Clara said as her gaze dropped down to her knotted hands.

"Oh darling, I'm so sorry," her mother's grip tightened. "Oh, what your father will say."

"Must we tell him?" she asked, feeling ashamed. Her father had had his suspicions of the viscount from the beginning, but she hadn't wanted to listen. It was embarrassing to have been proved so entirely wrong. "I can't bear to discuss it anymore."

"I'll inform him myself," her mother said, before sighing. "We should have never come to London. I knew what these people were like but I thought it wouldn't matter—that our wealth would make us belong. How wrong I was."

"I just want to go home," Clara said as the pain of her betrayals bubbled up. "I just want to leave and never come back."

Her mother's grip tightened on her fingers again and for a while neither spoke. When the carriage reached their home and they were about to climb out, her mother spoke.

"My dear, to whom did Dilworth lose his bet?"

"The Duke of Combe," Clara said.

"Goodness gracious. Is that why the duke came to visit this morning?" her mother asked. The fine lines on her drawn face made her appear older and Clara hated to see her so distraught. "To…to claim his unscrupulous winnings?"

Clara glanced at her mother in shock.

"Goodness no, Mama. He came to apologize for putting me in such a position."

"Oh, thank heavens," her mother said, breathing a sigh of relief as her eyes rolled up. "You can never be too sure with these people, my dear. They've absolutely no morals. I should know. I used to work for them." Her mother shook her head. "Still, it is rather remarkable that the duke would come to offer his apologies."

"I suppose," Clara said, not seeing why it should be remarkable that a man who was in the wrong would apologize for it. "But it hardly matters."

"Why is that?"

"Because I don't plan on ever seeing the Duke of Combe again."