Chapter Eight

Silas wasn't sure if he should have explained his problem to Clara before agreeing to escort her on a walk through Hyde Park. What had seemed like a mostly plausible idea yesterday now seemed impossible. Yes, when she had first brought up the notion, he had feared that it might be difficult for him, but being in Clara's presence had given him a false sense of security and he had foolishly believed he could handle the crowds at Hyde Park. But since he had risen this morning, the thought of what he was about to face had weighed heavier and heavier on him, and all his confidence had slowly ebbed away.

He stuck his fingers into his vest pocket and fished out a watch as he waited in the Woodvine foyer. A quarter past ten. He had purposely come early, before the fashionable hour so that he could avoid the largest of the crowds. But even the prospect of a smaller number still had his pulse racing and his panic rising. Would he be able to hide it? Perhaps Clara wouldn't mind if he remained quiet during their outing. He would need to concentrate on his breathing to stop himself from experiencing the full force of the panic that often settled in when he was in public.

Just then, voices sounded from the top of the stairs. Turning, he saw Clara, dressed in an overly embellished maroon and crème striped walking gown, followed by her mother who wore a similarly styled dress.

Who in the world was their seamstress, he wondered as his face remained blank upon their descent.

"Your grace," Mrs. Woodvine said, coming up to him. "We are so grateful to be in your company this morning."

"The pleasure is all mine," he said, his eyes fixed on Clara. "Shall we?"

"Yes," the ladies said in unison as they moved around him.

They were out of the house and into the carriage in a matter of minutes. Silas tried to make small talk with the mother, but the closer they got to the park, the warmer his body became. His clothing seemed stifling and too tight, becoming more confining with each moment that passed as his gaze drifted out the window. Good lord. Why were their so many people here?

The sidewalks and roads seemed to be overrun with people. Did people really come to gather at the same exact time as each other simply to gossip or whatever it was people did?

"Your grace?"

"Mm-hmm?" he said, turning back to his companions. The mother had an expectant expression on her face, while Clara tilted her head, her eyes seemingly going right through him. He shook his head. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Woodvine?"

"I was wondering if you were attending the races next week?" she asked, evidently repeating herself. "Mr. Woodvine and I have never actually been and we had planned on going, until, well…"

Mrs. Woodvine glanced at her daughter and Silas saw Clara flush with displeasure.

"She means, until I caused a scene and made our family the target of gossip," Clara said honestly.

"That's not what I meant, dear," her mother said.

"It's quite all right, Mother. His grace happens to be on our side." Her eyes flickered to Silas's face. "Aren't you?"

"I am," he said, his tone deep and honest, before turning to face Mrs. Woodvine. "I actually don't believe a word of what was written about Miss Woodvine."

The older woman sighed with relief.

"Well, that is good to hear," she said, her shoulders dropping a fraction as she watched her daughter. "I don't know why they wrote those lies. Clara did speak somewhat loudly, but she certainly didn't scream and no one fainted."

"Thank you, Mother," Clara said, slightly embarrassed.

The corner of Silas's mouth turned up at her discomfort. Evidently, she wasn't quite as calm and collected as she appeared.

Turning to peer back out the window, Silas's good humor vanished as the carriage came to a stop. The door was opened by the footman. When Silas didn't move to exit, he felt the Woodvines' eyes on him.

"Silas?" Clara whispered, low enough that her mother couldn't hear, but it seemed to echo in his ears.

He watched her steadfast eyes and he felt the erratic speed of his heartbeat begin to slow. Clearing his throat, he shook his head and climbed out of the carriage. He did not turn around, though he was sure a number of people were watching him as he waited, first to help Mrs. Woodvine out of the carriage and then to help Clara. When they were all out, he took a deep breath and offered his arm to Clara. She slowly slid her gloved hand into the crook of his arm and they turned to follow the wide stretch of path that led into the overcrowded park.

Silas felt his mouth dry as he kept his eyes on the tree line. His legs felt stiff and jell-like at the same time, and he knew that in a matter of moments, he would be awash with the terror that gripped him every time he came out in public. Only this time, as he felt the panic rising, the small, warm grip of Clara's hand held onto him, tethering him.

"Are you all right?" she whispered, leaning ever so slightly towards him as they walked.

"Yes," he lied gruffly.

"Are you quite sure? You seem unwell."

Unwell was an understatement. He felt as if a stone was pressed against his chest, making it hard to breathe.

"I'm fine."

"It would be all right if you were unwell," she continued and his panic began to give way to irritation. "I would understand if you wished to turn back."

"We're not turning back," he bit out in a harsh whisper.

Hopefully his tone had scared her off from asking any more—

"I wonder if you are coming down with something then?" she continued. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and noticed that she was facing straight ahead. His eyes darted around them and he realized that nearly everyone they passed was staring at them, all while Clara prattled off about illness.

Was she worried about him? Surely not and yet her voice seemed so concerned. He found himself wondering if he could tell her about his damned anxiety. Would she be understanding? Or would she politely smile and nod at his confession, while plotting a way to escape their arrangement?

He turned his head and attempted to listen as she chattered about this and that. To his surprise, his own anxiety seemed to dim as he recognized the tension in her voice. He gently squeezed his arm around her hand.

"You're nervous," he said lowly as he bent down to her ear.

Clara turned to face him, her bright clear eyes catching his as he felt a drop in his stomach. What was the matter with him?

"If I admit I am, will you tell me what's wrong?"

He didn't wish to tell her, but then something in her steady gaze gave him confidence. He exhaled slowly as they walked.

"I have an issue, being out in crowds like this," he said so quietly he doubted she could hear him over the conversations around them. He bit his tongue before continuing, suddenly bitter at his own weaknesses. "It makes me uncomfortable."

When Clara didn't answer he was sure she believed he was some kind of pitiful fool. How could a man of his size be made to feel uncomfortable in crowds? What danger did his addled mind expect to find in this pleasant public park? Her fingers squeezed against his bicep and he felt the strangest of surges go through him. It was a small reassurance, he knew, but it had surprised him.

"Is that why you've not attended any social events for the past year?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered.

She was quiet for a moment, before turning her face to his.

"Well, if you stay close to me, I'll keep you safe."

Silas let out a gentle huff of laughter. What a ridiculous thing to say. She was markedly shorter than him and while he did not think she was weak, the differences in their physical powers were evident. It was preposterous to think that this woman could keep him safe from anything. Surely she had to be joking. But Clara did not join him in his laughter.

His brow creased.

"You're serious?"

"Very much so."

"And how would you be able to keep me safe?"

"Distraction," she said as they slowed their steps, coming to a particularly crowded section of the crushed stone path. "If you feel wary about crowds, you might focus your attention on me and in doing so, forget that there are people around."

"And you think that would work?"

"It's working now, isn't it?" she asked.

Silas wasn't able to argue with her. The misery he had felt along their ride to the park had certainly subsided far more than he ever could have expected. Maybe she was on to something.

"I suppose I should keep you near me then."

Clara smiled at him, but seemed oblivious to his meaning.

"I wouldn't mind," she said. "But if I'm ever not close by and you find yourself experiencing the same feeling, remember that it will pass. Let it be."

He scoffed.

"Easy for you to say. You've obviously never experienced it."

"No," she admitted. "But a friend of mine's mother was a nervous sort of woman." Silas glared down at her and she blanched. "Not that I'm calling you nervous. Or a woman."

Clara bit her lip, obviously worried that she had offended him. Silas breathed deeply.

"This woman," he said, ignoring her apology. "Who was she?"

Clara smiled wistfully.

"My dear friend Holly Smyth's mother, Lady Eloise Smyth. Perhaps you knew her? She passed away about five years ago now, but I remember her quite well. She was always very kind to me."

Silas shook his head. "I did not know her, no."

"Oh," Clara said, her shoulders dropping a bit. "Well, she was a fine lady. But she often suffered a certain sort of attack, as she put it. Sometimes, when it would happen, her face would become drawn and her eyes would appear distant. I am not certain what precisely triggered them, but I remember she would experience them from time to time when I visited.

"Her eyes would close and she would breathe deeply for several moments before regaining herself. When I asked if she was all right, she told me that she often experienced a terrible bout of anxiety and that she had suffered from that malady for many years."

Silas was skeptical, but curious.

"And she just closed her eyes to dissuade it from overcoming her?" he asked, unbelieving.

"No, not exactly. When I asked if her closing her eyes helped, she told me that once when she was caring for Holly's younger siblings, their twins, not long after their birth she had felt the beginnings of one of her bouts, but the timing was quite bad for it happening on a day when she was rather busy. Well, dreadfully busy from what she explained. The twins had been crying nonstop, the entire household staff had come down with a sickness, and she had been so tired from the demanding workload that when she felt her attack come on, she got angry."

"Angry?"

"Yes. Apparently, she had been so upset that she decided to drop everything and let the bout happen, in an effort to be done with it as soon as possible so she could get back to work. But the moment she decided to let it happen, it faded away."

Silas's feet slowed.

"It faded away?"

"Yes."

"You're not serious."

"I am," Clara said. "That's what she told me and that ever since that day, instead of dreading or fighting the feeling, she simply let it be. She would wait for it to come, accepting it. She said they were never as bad as they had been before that day."

"But she still suffered from them?"

"I suppose, but she said they were far easier to manage after that," Clara said.

Silas wondered if such a thing were possible. It seemed the opposite of what he wanted to do. When the choking anxiety would fester in his chest, he wanted to beat it down, to strangle it away. To simply let it wash over him sounded like poor advice, but then he hadn't been able to find any doctor that could explain to him what he was experiencing, nor did he know of any other way to stop it.

He turned his head and watched Clara's profile as they continued their walk, rather in awe that this person would have such information and he wondered what else he might learn from her.

*

Over the nextseveral weeks Silas escorted Clara to three different social events and each time he focused solely on Clara in an effort to stall his anxiety. Remarkable, it seemed to work. Whenever he felt particularly overwhelmed, he remembered what she said and allowed it to happen. Only it never seemed to come on as strongly as before.

Clara's technique hadn't completely rid him of his problem, but his anxiety had seemed smaller, almost manageable by the time they had visited the newly built National Gallery Museum.

Clara was bright and articulate, having been schooled by her father during her formative years when the family had lacked the means to provide for a proper tutor. Mr. Woodvine was a staunch believer in the higher learning and had provided Clara with a diligent education, particularly in the subject of philosophy, where she had been a very eager student. Silas knew that many would consider her unrefined, for her manner lacked the polish that he was accustomed to, but no one could claim she was unintelligent, and he admired how settled and certain she was in her thoughts and opinions. He was accustomed to fashionable ladies who shifted their tastes to match whatever was in vogue. Clara, on the other hand, was firmly fixed in her likes and dislikes.

She was free with her opinions as they wandered through the gallery, forming critiques and drawing comparisons with displays she had seen elsewhere. Every story she told him was humorous, engaging and charming and he was soon unaware at how others glanced at them as they walked about. He was simply enjoying her in the most basic way and he had been surprised to discover that the ease and pleasure he felt around her made it simple for him to open up and share his own past with her.

She had been delighted to discover that he had a younger sister who currently lived with his mother in Bedfordshire at his estate and conveyed her wish to meet them, which had warmed his heart for some reason. While he was particularly close with his mother, his relationship with his sister Violet, was one he hoped to mend soon. She had been devastated by his divorce and though she had eventually accepted it, he doubted Violet had fully forgiven him yet.

Clara was curious about his other relationships and he told her about his friendships with the Earl of Trembley, discovering that her friend Holly lived next to Gavin's uncle, the baron who Gavin was heir to.

The walk in Hyde Park with Clara and her mother had become front page news and soon the papers were writing about their journeys about town as though it were a matter of some sort of national importance that every Londoner should know about. Silas had forgotten what it was like to be the center of attention, but since he was now technically courting someone as a divorced man, it seemed his relationship with Clara was the only thing anyone wanted to write about. While Clara had initially been flabbergasted by all the attention, she eventually accepted it—or at least, learned to ignore it, keeping her attention fixed on him and paying little heed to those around them.

She was surprisingly well-read. Silas realized as much when he had offered her and her parents his box at the opera to see Jean-Jacques Rousseau's play, Le devin du village. She and her father had discussed the philosophies of the playwright afterwards in the carriage ride home.

"Rousseau believed that human beings, by nature, are capable of knowing goodness," Clara said as the carriage pulled away from the steps of the opera house. "I think the fact that Colin and Colette came back together showed his optimism in the human condition."

"Ah, but did not their human condition lead to their distrust of one another in the first place?" her father pointed out.

"But trust isn't a guarantee. One must earn it." She turned to Silas. "Don't you agree, your grace?"

Silas had quickly become used to hearing the elder Woodvine and Clara discuss all sorts of philosophies. He had even found himself tempted to brush up on his reading, if only to keep up with the two.

"I do, though I'm inclined to point out Rousseau's main belief was that of self-preservation. I think it's human nature to protect one's self from harm."

"But Rousseau's other belief is empathy for one's fellow man," Clara added. "Colin and Colette were bound to reunite because of their love for one another."

"But that isn't always the way of things."

"If it meant to be, there is no reason why two people shouldn't be together."

Silas tilted his head.

"Are you really saying that things like circumstance and condition have no impact on a relationship?"

"Not at all," she said and he nodded. "However, I believe that human factors only provide obstacles. They cannot truly keep two people apart."

He let a bark of a laugh. Obviously, she had not experienced enough of life if she still believed that.

"So, you believe in fate, is that it?"

"Clara dear," her mother said with a small shake of her head, obviously trying to dissuade her daughter from arguing with Silas.

"I believe in the good of humanity and even the good that comes from learning from our mistakes. It's set us forward, regardless of how painful those lessons may be at the time."

Silas looked at her with disbelief. It was strange to believe one thing and have the opposite so plainly explained to him.

"Clara, there's no need to argue with his grace."

"It's quite all right, Mrs. Woodvine. I find Miss Woodvine's staunch views rather refreshing," he said as he watched her. Turning, he faced a concerned looking Mr. Woodvine. "However, seeing as Rousseau also didn't believe people should own property, I'm liable not to follow him so devotedly."

"No, of course not," Mr. Woodvine said as Silas turned back to Clara.

Was she smirking at him? That was curious. Perhaps she simply enjoyed arguing for argument's sake.

The ease with which he was able to talk to Clara was the most surprising part of their partnership, as she had come to call it. Without the pressures of a proper courting, both he and Clara seemed far more at ease with each other than anyone else.

Silas was fascinated by her patience and understanding. Whenever he spoke, her brow would lift and she would tilt ever so slightly towards him, giving him her undivided attention. It unnerved him slightly, but then everything about Clara was starting to affect him in a way he hadn't believed possible.

Not after Cynthia.

He had accidentally broached the subject of her with Clara one afternoon. He had come to call with the intention of them taking a walk, but a storm had interrupted their plans. Mrs. Woodvine had decided to busy herself with needlework in the corner of the room. However, after only twenty minutes, she nodded off. Her hand dropped to her lap as her embroidery frame fell to the floor, landing silently on the carpet. The gentle snore from her mother made Clara smirk.

Clara moved around the room and picked up the frame. She placed it on top of her mother's sewing basket before returning to the settee.

"I was wondering if you and your parents would like to go to Vauxhall tomorrow evening," he said to her as she seated herself again.

"Are you sure?" Clara asked. "I would think the crowds would be uncomfortable for you."

"I would agree, but I've found your technique helpful and I should like to see how I fare in a large setting."

Clara smiled brightly at him and the oddest pinch gathered in his chest.

"That's wonderful. I'd be happy to go with you," she said, her smile deepening. "Poor mother. She'll be thrilled to be sure, but I'm afraid of what we're doing to her," she said, dropping the book she was reading to her lap as Silas took a seat in the chair opposite of the settee. "She is torn in two, you know."

"How so?" he asked, leaning forward to take a teacake from the three-tiered plate stand.

"Well, she is very hopeful that this courtship of ours will lead to a wedding and is trying her best to help things along," Clara said. "On the other hand, she doesn't trust you."

Silas frowned.

"Why not?"

"Because you are a duke and dukes are not to be trusted."

"You and your family are terribly prejudiced, you know," he said, his eyes on her as she leaned forward to fix her tea. She was wearing a tangerine-colored gown today that was so trimmed with frills and ribbons, she looked like the contents of a sewing basket. He really must find out what seamstress they patronized. "It's not my fault I was born with a title."

"But you weren't born with it, were you?" she asked. "You inherited it from your father."

"Yes, and when I was seventeen, he passed away and it fell to me. Hardly my fault really."

Clara gave him a sad smile.

"I'm sorry you lost your father. That must have been difficult when you were so young."

Silas shrugged, shaking his head.

"We weren't close. Even when I returned from school during holidays, he was always too busy to bother with me."

Clara's eyes went round as her smile vanished.

"That's terrible."

Silas wasn't sure how to respond. In his experience, it was common for men of great position to be busy. He knew of dozens of men who had little to no relationships with their fathers. It was probably difficult for Clara, whose family was terribly close, to understand.

"It wasn't. Not truly." Clara's brow puckered with concern as if she didn't believe him. Lifting her teacup to her mouth, she blew on the hot liquid before taking a sip. Silas watched her intently, unsure why such a task should be so interesting to him. "I promise," he said, his voice inexplicably husky. "I did not suffer much from his passing."

"But you lost the one person who had held your position. The person you were meant to learn from, not only about your position, but about all of life's nuances."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. How to go about in life. What sort of friends to choose, what sort of woman to mar—"

Clara's mouth snapped shut and her eyes dropped. A faint blush touched her cheeks and though Silas was aware that he should be annoyed, he also felt the sudden urge to touch her cheek.

Concerned with that thought, he frowned as she looked up and upon seeing his face, she blanched.

"I'm so sorry—"

"There's no need to apologize," he said, shaking his head. "You're right. Perhaps if my father had been alive when I met Cynthia, he would have been able to warn me."

Clara was quiet, staring at him and he could have sworn he felt her willing him to continue. Remarkably, he did, ignoring the discomfort he felt when he discussed Cynthia.

"What was she like?" Clara asked softly after a long moment.

Silas's eyes met Clara's and an unfamiliar need to unburden himself suddenly came over him.

"She was beautiful. Or rather, she still is I suppose," he said, trying not to sound defeated as he usually did when he spoke of her. "I believed she was perfect in nearly every way."

"Oh," Clara replied.

The expression on her face made Silas curse himself for his tactlessness.

"That is to say, she seemed perfect, but…"

"What?"

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I don't much like to discuss her."

"Because you loved her so much?" Clara asked as Silas's gaze met hers.

The forwardness of her question made him feel hostile and he opened his mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. He hated that he couldn't control his emotions when Cynthia was brought up, but he had no right to snap at Clara. He took a deep breath and shook his head.

"I did," he finally admitted. "More than I should have."

"How could loving someone so much be a bad thing?"

Silas wanted to tell her, but it was difficult to explain. He had loved Cynthia with every part of his heart, accepting things only a fool in love would accept. He had been dedicated to her, but in loving her so openly, so completely, he had left himself vulnerable to her torment. It was why he had vowed never to love someone so deeply ever again.

But he couldn't tell Clara that.

"I was too jealous, I suppose."

"One can only be jealous if there's a reason to be," she said smartly. "If there isn't any doubt between two people, then jealousy does not…" She stopped talking, seemingly aware that she was overstepping. Turning to face Silas, he saw the apology in her grey-green eyes. "Oh dear. I've gone off again, haven't I?"

"I don't mind."

"But it's rude, especially when I'm talking in theory and you're talking about reality."

"But you are correct," he offered, hoping to ease her concerns. "There was doubt. I doubted her."

"And she could not forgive you?" Clara asked after a long pause.

"She could not live with me and my fears," he said slowly before adding. "And I could not live with her rules."

Clara's brow knit together and she had opened her mouth to speak, when her mother startled awake.

"I was just resting my eyes for a moment," she said loudly, breaking the tension that had settled around Silas and Clara. He stood up and Mrs. Woodvine's eyes went wide. "Oh, you are not leaving so soon, your grace?"

"I'm afraid I must," he said, both eager to be away from this conversation, yet disappointed that he had to leave Clara. She stared at him with question. "But I hope you all will join me at Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow evening."

"Oh, yes of course!" Mrs. Woodvine said, while he kept his gaze on Clara. "That would be splendid."

"Splendid indeed," Clara said as she stood. "Good-bye, your grace."

She curtsied at his bow and he left without a backward glance. He hadn't wanted to discuss Cynthia with her or anyone for that matter, but as he exited the house, he felt as though a weight had shifted off his chest.

It was the strangest sensation and yet, for the rest of the day Silas felt lighter than he had in months. He had expected to feel hostile and miserable after talking about Cynthia, but Clara had been surprisingly easy to talk to and he was eager to see her the following evening, though he reasoned it was because he wished to see how he would react to the crowds of Vauxhall.

Vauxhall Gardens was going to be a true test of his ability to manage his anxiety.

A part of him felt guilty for using her to stem off his own anxiety, but she hadn't seemed to mind.

As long as they were arm in arm, it seemed his anxiety could never fully form. Of course, their touching had led to him feeling a whole slew of other things, and it was difficult to be close enough to touch constantly.

The next evening, during the fireworks display near Vauxhall, while in the company of her parents, Silas and Clara had put enough distance between themselves and the elder Woodvines to speak with some privacy.

"You must let me apologize for yesterday," Clara said as they walked along. "I was too forward."

"No," he stopped her, unwilling to accept her contrition when he knew she had done nothing wrong. "It was good for me to talk about. I've kept that part of my life quiet for so long, I thought talking about it would make me angry, but the opposite happened."

Clara's brow lifted as she turned to face him, a loose strand of blonde hair laying across her cheek.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Then may I ask you something?"

"I don't see why not."

"What did you mean, what you said you couldn't live by her rules?"

Silas's steps slowed as did Clara's. Turning to see where her parents stood, he found that they had stopped several yards away to watch a pantomime show. Looking back at Clara, he wondered how much he could tell her, without terrifying her.

"I'm not sure I can explain it," he said, debating on telling her anything at all.

"Please," she said. "It's vexed me all day."

"Has it?"

"Yes."

Silas took a deep breath, convinced that he was losing his mind for even considering talking about such a topic with an innocent young woman. But a long-forgotten desire to tease came floating up with in him, like the smoke over a fire. Her intent gaze, so ready to learn, made him feel things he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Cynthia enjoyed experiencing pain. In all aspects. It didn't matter what sort, physical or emotional. She fed off it and for a time I gave it to her. But it wasn't something I could tolerate. I wanted to control her, to force her desires away because they hurt, but our vices never matched up quite the right way."

After a moment of quiet, Silas wondered if he had gone too far, but then Clara spoke.

"Control," she said softly, more to herself than to him. Silas opened his mouth to try to explain more, but then she continued. "What do you mean, she fed off the pain?"

"Just that. It was as if she could only find joy in misery."

"And you would attempt to help her by controlling her? How did that work?"

Silas felt warm. How could he explain it to her without sending her running for the hills?

"Why are you so interested?"

"Because I'm always interested," she countered and Silas smiled.

"Yes, I suppose you are. Very well. In our moments of intimacy, she would want me to hurt her, physically. I believed that what she truly needed was something to…to take her out of herself. To make her focus on sensation so that she could lay aside whatever turmoil lived in her heart. I would attempt to provide that in ways that didn't hurt. Sometimes, I would restrain her. Sometimes, I would give her commands to follow, in the hopes that focusing on those would free her from the weight of other burdens."

"What sort of commands?" Clara asked in a low whisper.

"Without scandalizing you, I'll try to give you an example," he said as they stopped before a large stage, where a play was being performed. Clara turned her head to see the performance. Silas lifted his hand to the back of her head and pulled on one of the dozens of blue ribbons that had been piled on and weaved into her hairstyle. Thankfully, it came out with ease, though Clara whipped around, her own hand going to the back of her head.

"What are you doing?"

"You always seem to be hiding behind all these sorts of things," he said holding up the ribbon. "You needn't, you know."

"I…" she started, seemingly uncomfortable. She held out her hand. "May I have it back?"

"I thought you were curious as to how this game was played?"

"I am," she said, her hand lowering as fraction.

"Then pay attention," he said, his eyes intently on hers as he leaned forward, his voice dropping as his mouth hovered above her ear. "You may have this ribbon back, but I want you to tie it around your thigh, just above your knee, every day for the next seven days." He pulled back and saw Clara's bottom lip drop open as a deep blush stained her cheeks, but to Silas's surprise she didn't baulk or pull away. She seemed frozen and he realized that she wasn't going to slap him, or storm away. A familiar pang hit him square in the heart as he exhaled. "Do you understand?"

He only meant to show her by example, but the teasing he had initially desired had melted away and another feeling replaced it.

"Y-yes," she said softly.

Her eyes lifted to his and a surge of longing slammed into Silas's chest. Damn it. She was too keen to please and he was shocked to find that he was just as eager to press on, but he knew he shouldn't.

He handed her the ribbon and she took it, seemingly conflicted and he worried it had been too much. "I hope I didn't offend you."

"No," she said quickly as they continued their walk. After a long moment she looked up at him. "Do you… Are you…"

"Yes?"

"I have several questions, but I'm not sure how to ask any of them," she said honestly. "I'm afraid I'll say something foolish and you'll laugh."

"I would never laugh at you, Clara," he said earnestly.

Clara looked up at him and he thought he could see something akin to desire in her expression. But he was too fond of her and of their friendship. He decided to shake his head and dissuade her.

"Come," he said, holding out his arm to her.

Clara's hand came to the crook of his arm but neither one moved as a spark shocked both of them. It was dark out and even though there was a sense of relaxation that made Vauxhall Gardens an enjoyable place, neither seemed particularly sure of what to do next.

Thankfully, Mr. Woodvine appeared then his wife.

Thankfully indeed.