Chapter Nine

By the end of the month, Silas and Clara were being regaled in the papers as the most popular people in London, much to Clara's satisfaction and Silas's displeasure. He loathed gossip, but his little game with Clara to rehabilitate her reputation had worked, it seemed, and he was happy that she was content with the results. Why, just the other morning there had been an article that had practically named them engaged.

Divorced Duke's Devotion

It has come as a surprise to myself as well as most of my readers that the Duke of Combe, otherwise noted as the divorced duke, should find himself enamoured with none other than heiress and inventor's daughter, Miss Clara Woodvine. The unlikely pairing, while shocking, has really become something of a treat to witness. It seems the duke has been captivated by this provincial princess, having saved her from a potentially harmful fall down the steps at the opera two nights ago. It seems that while Miss Woodvine's antics from a month ago should have ended her social climb, her clumsiness has only charmed her would-besuitor.

He would have preferred the article to refrain from calling her clumsy, but it was certainly an improvement over the insults that were showered upon her only a few weeks earlier.

Still, by the time he arrived at Wincombe Terrace that evening for Gavin's going away dinner, he found that the latest article had seemingly turned on him.

"Well, if it isn't the divorced duke himself," Gavin said, smiling as Silas arrived at Wincombe Terrace. He peered over his shoulder. "You've not come alone, have you? I've been reading all about you and Miss Woodvine and had hoped to finally meet the woman who, how did the Times put it… Swept you off your feet?"

Silas scowled at his friend, fighting the urge to strangle him. There were going to be no more than fifty people attending the farewell soirée for Gavin that night and while Silas had been sure he would have fared fine without Clara, she had insisted that she attend in order to be there for him in case he needed her, though they had decided not to come together. Clara had begun to worry that their partnership had reached its peak and if they weren't careful about their inevitable separation, her reputation would be worse off than after her break off with Dilworth.

"The Woodvines will be arriving later," he grounded out. "And shut your mouth about those damn articles."

"Why should I? There all anyone's been talking about," Gavin replied, waving to Derek from across the room. "I should think you would be happy to receive some good press. Seeing as how your name is so often dragged through the mud."

"I don't know why they insist on writing about us," he grumbled. "A few walks here and there hardly seem news worthy."

"Ah, well, the subject matter is rather interesting, I'm afraid. Divorced Duke's Dire Dilemma was the title from today's paper. It seems the author is worried about your intentions."

Silas made a face.

"Intentions regarding what?"

"Miss Woodvine, of course. It seems her star is on the rise and there are rumors she may have a slew of other suitors soon enough, if you keep dragging your feet."

Silas didn't reply to Gavin as Derek finally reached them. Even though his relationship with Clara was supposed to be a ploy to better both of their reputations, Silas had begun to wonder what it would be like to actually offer for her.

It was ridiculous, he knew, particularly because of how they met, but something had shifted between them during the past few weeks.

A strange sort of friendship had bloomed between he and Clara.

There was a level of ease and comfort between them that Silas had never known with a woman he was supposed to be courting. Clara was patient and helpful—and he couldn't deny that he was powerfully attracted to her. While their touching one another had started as a distraction to his anxiety, it had become important to him in many different ways. He found a surprising number of excuses to touch her, from escorting her during walks, to brushing a frizzy strand of hair off her face when it became loose. Clara in turn had been just as diligent in her effort to pluck pieces of invisible lint off his jacket. Each brush, each touch seemed heavier—at least, to him. Perhaps he was simply reading too much into it. He had considered broaching the topic once or twice, but when her amicable voice had echoed in his ears, he stopped himself.

Silas had quite forgotten how to approach a woman.

"Continuing to play this game of mock courtship, I see," Derek asked under his breath, as another couple was announced to the drawing room. "You're going to ruin that girl, you know."

As the days in Clara's company had unfolded, Silas had begun to give his feelings some proper consideration. She was so unlike Cynthia and while he knew she wouldn't appreciate being compared to his previous wife, Silas couldn't help but note the difference between the two. Almost to a fault.

"If I am, I don't see how it's any concern of yours."

"Come now, Derek. They're only having a bit of a lark," Gavin said as a butler came towards them. Each man took a brandy and Gavin sipped his before continuing. "Silas isn't serious. And Miss Woodvine is in on it. Isn't she, Silas?"

"Yes," he said stiffly.

"I hope so. Because it would be a mistake to create an expectation of serious intentions if you have none," Derek said.

"So you keep saying," Silas said, taking a sip of his brandy.

"I just don't want you to make the same mistake as before," Derek said. "You went through hell after Cynthia left you."

Feeling agitated, Silas downed his brandy completely.

"I quite remember, thank you," he said, placing his glass on the table as he turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"To get some air."

Silas exited the room, passing the dining room where the table was set for an elaborate feast of roasted quail, steamed vegetables, creamy soups and copious amounts of wine to take place in the coming hour. For now, the early guests were still in the parlor.

Silas was sure he would be able to take a moment alone. He walked swiftly towards the back of the house where a terrace sat before the garden. He pulled out a cheroot and a match, lighting it quickly and inhaling in a startled rush when he realized he wasn't alone.

Exhaling, he turned and saw Clara, back pressed up against the wall that separated a set of doors. Her ice blue gown seemed to glow in the moonlight and those damn beads that seemed to decorate her bust in each of her hideous dresses sparkled like crystal. He watched her chest rise and fall as she inhaled deeply, her eyes on the sky above.

He moved towards her and leaned his back against the wall right next to her. Tilting his head back to see what she saw, he spoke.

"I didn't know you'd arrived."

"Mama's dress caught on the carriage door when we exited and it caused a tear. She was so embarrassed; she asked the footman to see us in quietly so that she might bother one of the maids for a needle and thread."

"So, you snuck in?"

Her head rolled against the house to look at him and he felt his heart pound.

"Yes."

"And what are you doing out here?"

"Gathering myself before the rest of the evening. I know we've been out publicly together, but a party like this reminds me of Trembley's ball and, well…I'm a bit nervous I suppose," she said, her eyes shining in the moonlight. "What are you doing out here?"

"The same," he said. After a moment he pushed off the wall and went to lean against the baluster. "People talk too much."

"They do," she agreed. "I didn't know you smoked cheroots." He shrugged, but made no move to speak. "I always believed it was an unhealthy habit. Breathing in smoke seems unwise."

"Then you shouldn't do it," he said, smirking.

She squinted her eyes at him. "You shouldn't either."

"Why not?" he asked, feeling rather maudlin. "It's not like anyone cares."

"I do," she said.

The honesty in her tone made something in him react. It felt as if she had simultaneously kicked him in the stomach and kissed him on the mouth. What a bizarre feeling, he mused as he stared at her.

"Do you?" he asked and she nodded.

"Of course," she said, taking a step towards him. "We are friends, are we not?"

Friends. What a glorious and hateful word. To be honest he had wanted to be her friend, but there was something unmistakable about Clara Woodvine, something he couldn't articulate that made him want to be so much more.

Lost in thought, Silas flicked his cheroot too zealously as the tiny ember end caught the knuckle of his left ring finger. It didn't hurt, but the surprise of the burn caught him off guard and he dropped the burning cylinder.

"Damn it," he said, pulling his hand up to his mouth.

"Oh dear," Clara said, coming toward him. She reached for his hand. "Here, let me see."

Clara's gentle fingers pulled his close to inspect his injury.

"It's nothing," he insisted.

"It's a burn. It's already turning," she said. "I once burnt my finger on the French toaster that sat in our hearth when I was younger." She held up her pointer finger for him to see. Though it was dark, he could make out a tiny, white slash across her fingerprint. "I howled like a baby when it happened."

"I assure you; I won't do that."

She smiled.

"You may if you'd like, I won't tell," she teased. She turned her finger around so that she could see her old injury. "I was very little and I would not stop crying until I received three kisses, one from each person in our household. Papa, Mama, and my great Aunt Laney."

Silas stared at her with a strange fascination. It seemed every time she opened her mouth, a jewel of a story would fall out and he found himself eager to collect all of them. A tiny smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, almost as if she were thinking about something amusing.

"What?" he asked, his voice rough.

Her eyes flickered up.

"It's a silly custom. A kiss can't take any sort of pain away."

"Can't it?" he asked.

The look in her eye was one of daring, but Silas couldn't understand until the next moment, when she brought his hand to her lips and pressed her soft mouth to the red, raw skin. She stayed there only a moment, but it was an image Silas would always remember.

"See?" she said, her cheeks covered in a blush. "It doesn't work."

Perhaps it hadn't taken the sting of his burn away, but it had elicited another feeling elsewhere on his body that distracted him from everything else. As he stared at her, he wondered if he might explore the feeling.

"Clara," he said, his tone low.

"Yes?"

"If I did try and claim my winnings from that bet with Dilworth," he said slowly. "What would you do?"

She watched him with wide eyes.

"You mean, collect my dowry?"

"No," he said as his hand came up to her face. What was possessing him to do this? It seemed entirely mad…and yet, he didn't want to stop. "I mean, if I wanted to claim you as my prize. Would you consent?"

She didn't move, but her eyes widened with surprise.

"As what? Your mistress? Your wife?" The corner of her mouth pulled up in a sarcastic half smile. She shook her head. "Does it matter? There is hardly a difference."

"There is a difference," he said, his thumb following the edge of her jaw. "One would make you a duchess."

"I wish you wouldn't jest, Silas," she said, seemingly holding her breath as she gazed at him. "It's not a very sporting thing to joke about."

"I'm not joking."

"Then you're going mad," she countered. "We've hardly known each other a month."

"It's been five weeks, technically."

"Don't you think that's a short amount of time to decide whether to spend the rest of your life with someone?"

"No longer than you knew Dilworth."

Her mouth opened to argue as her eyes flashed with challenge, but no words came. Then, she let out a defeated laugh and nodded.

"I suppose that's true."

"Besides, as I'm the only one who has experienced a marriage with a long courtship, I can confirm that the amount of time two individuals have known one another hardly matters if their characters don't blend well together."

"And our characters do?"

"I believe so."

Clara exhaled and smiled though it didn't quite reach her eyes. She didn't seem to believe him. She pulled away and looked out over the garden. She was beautiful. In the moonlight, the excessive detailing of her pale blue gown just looked like glints of magic. She reminded him of some sort of fairy.

"You don't want to marry me, Silas," she said softly. "I'm not suited to be a duchess."

"I think you would make a fine duchess."

"You're the only one."

"I'm the only one whose opinion matters on the topic," he said as she turned to face him. "You just said you cared for me."

"I do."

"Is your refusal based on the fact that you don't wish to be associated with a divorced man?"

"Of course not."

"Then what is it?" he asked earnestly. "Why not accept my proposal?"

"Firstly, you didn't propose," she said, adding quickly. "And I cannot compare…"

"Compare to what?"

"Not to what, but to whom."

"To whom then?"

"To you know who," she said, her gaze dropping. While it was dark, Silas could see a blush cover her cheeks. "I should hate to be compared every day to another woman."

Silas was speechless for a moment. He could not deny that had compared them against one another, but not vindictively. It was just that the differences between Clara and Cynthia were so vast that he couldn't help it. Cynthia was classically attractive, cold and ultimately his downfall, while Clara was strangely beautiful, warm and honest. A woman he was more comfortable with than any he had ever known.

He took a step towards her and took her hands into his. She was watching him, seemingly surprised as they had been overtly aware of keeping their distance, physically. He was fighting a losing battle as all he wanted to do was gather her into his arms and kiss her senseless.

"She pales in comparison to you."

"Oh yes, o-of course," she said sarcastically, stumbling over her answer as she glanced at him, but when he didn't join in on her self-deprecating humor, she frowned. "You cannot be serious?"

"I am."

"She is my opposite in every way."

"And we divorced."

"But you loved her."

"I don't see why that would affect your decision to marry me."

Clara let out a sullen laugh, one almost more pained than amused. His brow furrowed, confused.

"No, you wouldn't I suppose," she said. Silas opened his mouth to ask what she meant but in the next instant she continued. "I don't see how a marriage between us would benefit you."

"Well, for one, I'd be more palatable to the general public again," he said. "I may be a duke, but the black mark of my divorce holds me in a contemptible light."

"You are not the only man to get a divorce."

"No, but I'm part of a rare group whose wives forced the issue and publicly humiliated them. It did not help my reputation. You can imagine what has been said of me." By the avoidance of her eyes, Silas wondered what she had heard. "Or rather, what you might have learned on your own."

She tilted her head up.

"I don't believe any of it," she said and Silas felt a small sliver of his heart creak open, like a lockbox being opened only slightly. "But surely there's a better way for you to get back in the good graces of society, if that is what you wish."

Silas's contempt for society had ebbed and flowed over the years and while it certainly would be more comfortable not to be gawked at by people whenever he went somewhere, the reality of it was, any small perk that came with being married to Clara seemed somehow doubly as important now. If him being accepted in society would make things easier for her, then that was what he wanted.

"Not one I can think of. Besides… I've grown rather fond of you," he said, his tone dipping. "I don't like to think of you as being a monetary prize for some bumbling idiot when this ploy of ours ends. Not when I can offer you something more."

Clara's head dropped and he felt a strange buzzing in his ears.

"You've grown fond of me?"

Her words were soft and the uncertainty in her tone nearly undid him. He took a step towards her.

"Yes, as I believe you've grown fond of me. Haven't you?" She nodded. "Besides, it'll be equally beneficial to you."

"Because I'll be a duchess, you mean?"

"Yes," Silas said, knowing the title of duchess was one of the only things he could offer her. "You would command the respect of every person in the ton."

"I suppose that would be nice," she said, the inflection of her voice sounding wholly unconvinced. "But what about what would transpire between us?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, how would we conduct ourselves? With one another?"

"As any husband and wife, I suppose," he said. "It would be a marriage of mutual respect. One of friendship and comfortability."

"Friendship," she repeated. "And nothing more?"

"Well, yes," he said, his brow puckering in contemplation. "What better thing could be between the two of us than friendship?"

There seemed to be a drop in Clara's shoulders. He couldn't understand it. Friendship had been the one thing he and Cynthia never had. Theirs had been a passionate affair, but mutual respect had always eluded them. If what Silas had experienced with Clara in the last several weeks was any indication, he suspected they'd have a perfectly pleasant marriage. A peaceful relationship, the kind he had hoped for so many times before.

"I know certain members of your social standing tend to search outside their marriages for…physical comforts of sorts," she said, not quite making eye contact. "I should like to know now if you have any plans to do so, as to prepare myself. I don't wish to have any delusions going into this, you understand."

Silas didn't answer right away as that familiar feeling rolled within him. His body became stiff as the memories of jealousy, anger, and pain flooded his mind. Images of bodies intertwined, himself both furious and gutted at the sight. He had been able to bury such feelings beneath his own sorrows for over a year, however it all came bubbling up again at her words.

Clara waited patiently for an answer, but when he didn't speak, she looked up.

"No," he said gruffly. "I will not go outside our marriage for comfort." Clara nodded. "Nor I will permit it from you either."

Clara visibly swallowed, seemingly unnerved by the change in his demeanor. Even in the darkness, Silas could see the color change in her cheeks.

"Will we, um… That is, will you require me to," she dipped her head, unwilling to face him. "That game, you spoke of. Will we…"

Silas shook his head.

"No," he said, his tone softening. "I've put that part of my life behind me."

Her eyes lifted and she appeared confused.

"Have you?"

"Yes."

Her cheek twitched as a thoughtful look passed over her face.

"The philosopher David Hume believed that passion rather than rationale drove human kind," she said. "And I'm inclined to agree. I don't think a person can change an essential part of themselves."

Silas felt challenged.

"I'm more than capable of governing myself."

"I don't mean to say that you can't, only that you shouldn't have to." Her eyes bore into his. "I wouldn't try to stop you, I mean, if you so wished."

He stood perfectly still for a moment, taking in what she had said. He wanted to, God did he want to, but he wouldn't. His hand came up to stroke her cheek as a torrent of emotions swept over him. He knew what she was trying to say and while he appreciated her willingness, he wouldn't explore that part of himself with her. Regardless of how much he wanted to, he didn't want to pull her into his depravity.

"I wouldn't make you."

A flash of disappointment shone in her eyes and for a moment he wondered why, when she spoke.

"Very well then," she said softly, her eyes unwavering from his. "I suppose, you may ask me."

A serious sort of feeling fell between them beneath the moonlight and while they were the only ones on the balcony, Silas felt as though a third, otherworldly presence was with them.

"Clara," he breathed as his arms involuntarily flexed around her. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes, Silas," she said softly as his eyes dropped to her mouth. "I will."

Joy burst within his chest at her words and without thinking, he bent down and kissed her, sealing their agreement.

The sweetness with which she kissed him a month earlier had been replaced with what seemed like a yearning desire. She kissed him with a fierceness that surprised him and made his body respond in reaction. His hands came up to her face as she pulled at his lapels. Her kisses felt earnest and desperate, as if she were trying to hold on to something that might slip out of her grasp.

The need to pull her away from this balcony and find a bed was growing, but he couldn't very well do such a thing in someone else's home. Besides, he was going to do this marriage the right way. And so, with a great amount of self-restraint, he held her shoulders and pulled away.

They were both breathing heavily in the dark. When her soft hands reached again for him, he gripped them in his large grasp.

"We should return to the others," he said, his voice was rough and breathless. She only nodded as she stared at him with wonder-filled eyes. "I'll have to discuss it with your father."

"Oh yes," she whispered, her lips slightly puffed by his kisses.

"Perhaps you should go first," he said, trying hard to think of anything that would lessen his reaction to her. "I'll follow soon."

Clara only nodded, but she didn't move. When he tilted his head, she seemed to snap out of whatever daydream she was having. She turned and walked away, leaving Silas with a curious feeling of hope. She seemed both physically eager, yet mindful. A part of him worried that she might come to regret saying yes to him but then he didn't care. She may indeed come to regret it, but he wouldn't let her go now.