20. Chapter Twenty

C lara had thought she was grasping an understanding of how London Society worked. She’d been participating in it for a month now and the rules seemed to constantly be adding another level of nuance.

She’d seen how her aunt’s title, or rather her cousin’s, had kept her from being ostracized. She’d worked to understand how the level of deference given to the countess affected those around her. Not only did they change their behavior toward her, but the countess’s seeming acceptance of Clara had altered how they treated her as well.

Nothing had prepared her for the change that would happen when Lady Grableton had her son ask Clara for a dance.

Clara hadn’t even had time to look around the ballroom to see if her companions from the card party were available, when the handsome, dark-haired man and his mother had approached and asked for an introduction. Then he’d asked if she would like to join him for the first set of dances.

“Of course she would,” Aunt Elizabeth said before Clara could formulate an answer.

She pushed Clara forward, making her stumble a couple of steps.

Lord Wharton bowed his head, took her arm, and led her to the floor.

They didn’t speak much through the first steps of the dance, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. In actuality, Clara found it a relief. The dances required people to step away from each other so often that maintaining the line of conversation was often difficult.

As they stood by each other at the end of the line, he turned to her. “Are you enjoying the Season?”

She started to give the bright, expected answer she’d given to numerous people in the past few weeks, but something about the earnestness of his face had her being a little more honest. “I confess it is not quite what I expected it to be.” She gave him a smile. “There are a lot of people.”

Something in his face shifted as he listened to her answer. He was quiet for a moment and then gave her a nod. “Mother tells me you are raising funds for her charity.”

Her charity? Was Lady Grableton involved with the Royal Asylum? Or . . . Clara nearly gasped as she fought to twist her neck about to look for the countess in the crowd. Was she representing the mysterious second group? Clara didn’t dare ask, as Lord Wharton might not drop any additional hints if he was aware that she wasn’t as well-informed as he might assume.

Clara smiled and tried to breathe deeply enough to calm her racing heart. “I’m not doing much, really. After suggesting the original idea, other people have done most of the planning.”

“But you care.” He looked around at the rest of the ball’s attendees with a pensive look. “That’s more than can be said for most people.”

They rejoined the dance then, and while they didn’t fully fall back into silence, the conversation lapsed into the normal conversation between strangers at a society function.

When the set was complete, he walked her over to the side of the ballroom and bowed over her hand. When he lifted his head, his grin was crooked. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

The sentiment was one that had been uttered to her multiple times over the past few weeks, but somehow Lord Wharton’s seemed to mean something far different from the polite parting of ways.

She’d barely risen from her curtsy when another man was there asking her to dance. She'd met him on two occasions, but they had never exchanged more than a nominal greeting.

Mr. Pitt was waiting for her after that set and whisked her straight back onto the floor.

“I very much enjoyed our ride and would like to take you out again.”

A sense of satisfaction rose in Clara as she gave him a demure smile in response. “I would like that.”

And she would. Yes, the conversation had been somewhat dull, and they hadn’t found much in common, but what was that when compared to a life of mission and purpose?

“Did I see you dancing with Lord Wharton this evening?” He cleared his throat and leaned in to speak softly as they circled another couple. “I was unaware that the two of you were acquainted.”

Did the man ever think of anything except who was seen with who and who knew who? “I have recently been working with his mother on a charity benefit.”

“How fascinating.” He proceeded to ask about the charity, expressing concern for the children and interest in the Virtuous Ladies Society as a whole.

Clara felt a little remorse for thinking harshly of him a few minutes prior. It was a good thing that the man paid attention to people, wasn’t it? He could hardly care for their needs and their souls if he didn’t know what was happening in their lives.

“We shall be selling tickets to a musicale hosted by Lady Grableton.” Clara shared the details, finally feeling a little bit of excitement for the event in the face of Mr. Pitt’s obvious enthusiasm.

“I shall be the first in line to purchase a ticket,” the man said with a decisive nod. “Are you enjoying working with Lady Grableton? The connection must be going well for her to introduce you to her son.”

“I think so.” Clara studiously avoided frowning as she tried to think through whether she and Lady Grableton had actually formed anything that could be considered a friendship.

“I am impressed.” Mr. Pitt leaned down to ensure his gaze caught with hers. “I did not know you would be able to make such a mark in London in such a short time.”

In that moment, Clara decided her aunt was wrong. Mr. Pitt hadn’t started visiting Clara because of her connection to Ambrose. He’d been intrigued but was waiting to see if she would be a suitably impactful vicar’s wife.

The set ended and Mr. Pitt escorted her from the floor, promising to call during her next at-home day.

Clara didn’t have time to bask in this confirmation that her choice was a good one and their relationship was growing in the right direction, because she was escorted right back out again. Throughout the next hour and a half, she was never more than a foot from the dance floor.

There was no standing on the side, making idle conversation with the hope of being chosen. No drinking yet another glass of weak lemonade, trying to look like she’d planned to stay off the dance floor for another set.

Instead, after an eternity of non-stop dancing, she was craving that weak lemonade and a shadowy alcove to drink it in. Finally, she grabbed her mother and claimed a need for the retiring room just to have a break.

The corridor was quiet and cool, a balm to both Clara’s mind and body. “Mother, what has happened?”

A large grin stretched across her mother’s face as she opened the fan hanging from her wrist to send a brisk breeze toward her daughter. “Lady Grableton happened, my dear. Whatever you did impressed that woman greatly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Lord Wharton is going to be an earl, Clara. He’s young and handsome and charming and titled. He doesn’t have a reputation of debauchery or drunkenness. I’d say there isn’t a much greater catch roaming the ballrooms this season, though people are saying he hasn’t been around much.” She closed the fan and hit Clara delicately in the shoulder. “And he stood up first with you.”

“That was all it took?”

“That was all it took.”

How should she feel about that? How was anyone meant to feel about that? If people’s opinions could change on such an arbitrary consideration, how was anyone to know anyone else’s true feelings or opinions? Fortunately, the only man she was interested in had noticed her long before Lady Grableton had.

Why didn’t that truth elicit any sort of happiness within her? A sense of satisfaction, yes, but nothing that one might term excitement. “Mother?”

“Yes, dear?”

“What does love feel like?”

Mother almost stumbled as she took her gaze from the corridor in front of them and fixed it on her daughter. She came to a stop, turning Clara so they were standing face to face. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t know. You want a love match for me, and while I’m not certain it is something I can wait for or completely see the merit in seeking, I would like to know what it would be like.” Clara frowned, giving free rein to the confused expression in the privacy of this conversation. “If I attain what I set out to accomplish, is that what love feels like?”

“Oh, no, my dear.” Mother laughed. “Love is not some fulfilled sense of purpose.” She sighed as her face turned serious. “Nor is it those giggles one hears from the girls on the side of the dance floor when a handsome man walks by.”

Clara waited, hoping Mother had more to say. It was, of course, helpful to know what something was not, but there were far too many more options for Clara to use such deductive reasoning to answer her question.

“Love is . . .” Mother took a deep breath. “I suppose love, at least the type of love between a man and a woman, is life. It is that person that makes your life more . . . complete, more meaningful. When you want to stand by a person’s side and have their back at the same time. When being with them makes your day better, and . . . and . . .”

The words trailed off as the older woman’s chin started to shake and her breathing broke into small bursts.

“Mother?” Clara rested a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Are you well?”

“I miss your father,” Mother whispered. “More than I thought I would. We agreed he couldn’t leave the parish for this long, but . . .” She sighed.

The sound of voices coming toward them from the direction of the ballroom had both women pressing into the wall until the trio of ladies had passed.

“You can take the carriage home if you need to,” Clara said. “They’ll easily make it back here before Aunt Elizabeth is ready to depart.”

A single tear crept down Mother’s cheek. “I don’t want to leave you. This Season is very important.”

“I shall hardly notice your absence.” Clara gave what she hoped was a wide, reassuring smile. “After I take a moment to breathe here, I’m certain I won’t have a moment’s respite from the dance floor.”

The prospect was more than a little daunting, but she was thankful for it if it gave Mother what she needed.

After a few moments, Mother nodded and agreed that might be the best solution.

They hugged and parted ways. Clara continued to the retiring room on her own. She would wait there until she’d settled her own emotions, then go back to the ballroom with another set of ladies.

Several chairs and settees had been arranged at one end of the room, with a collection of screens set up for privacy on the other. A couple of maids stood talking in the corner, waiting for their services to be needed.

Most of the occupants seemed happy to simply do what was necessary and head back to the ballroom. Clara needed more than that brief respite. Her feet hurt, and in truth, her mind was somewhat foggy. Whether from the dancing or the conversation, it didn’t matter.

She found a chair that had been tucked mostly behind the curtain. Clearly some other girl had been through here, needing a moment to herself tonight.

Gratefully, Clara slid into the chair and even fluffed the curtain a bit to hide her skirts. After three slow, deep breaths, she set about doing what she always did—make sense of whatever seemed to be in turmoil.

So far in life, Clara had never seen reason to allow emotion or flimsy intuition to guide her way. Truth and practicality were far more dependable. After tonight, Aunt Elizabeth would have enormous ambitions supported by nothing but a night of masculine curiosity. Lord Wharton had asked her to dance, and the other men had wanted to know why. Aside from Mr. Pitt, most of them had not seen fit to ask her before.

Clara would not let such aspirations get to her head. She’d chosen Mr. Pitt before her temporary popularity, and he was as fine a choice now as he’d been yesterday.

Satisfied her mind was back in order, Clara went to stand and return to the ballroom until a sniffling cry on the other side of the curtain had her quieting once more.

“There, there,” one woman said. “No one is in here but us. You’re free to cry.”

“I, I, I—” hiccough “I should have, have known it was too good to be true.” The words were interspersed with gasps and sobs from the crying woman.

“You are the one who is too good to be true,” a third woman declared. “I wish I’d warned you about him when he first came to visit you.”

“Did you know he was a cad?” The first woman sounded surprised.

Clara turned her head to hear everything. It was horribly uncouth to sit here and listen but emerging now would devastate the poor, crying girl. Clara couldn’t embarrass another lady like that.

“No, but my brother told me to avoid him if possible and that he’s known to pledge more than he should at the tables in the clubs. That should have been enough for me to warn you as well.”

“I fear we are not in the same situation,” the sad woman said. “This is my only Season. If I do not find someone to marry in the next couple of months, I will be limited to the selection back in the village.” She sighed. “My aunt and uncle are being very generous to sponsor me, but we can’t afford another year.”

Clara knew that situation all too well, and her heart went out to the woman. Especially if the man indulged in the pursuit of vice like Ambrose did. Though she was fairly certain her cousin wasn’t gambling away money he didn’t have.

“Are you certain you are . . . Are you well?”

“I am well.” Another shaky breath broke the last words. “He only kissed me.”

The third woman gave a snort of disgust. “And then told you he could not listen to his heart but had to choose the woman his head required.”

“Absolute cad.”

Clara was inclined to agree with the first woman’s decisiveness.

“How did he lure you out there in the first place?”

The lady let out a deep, watery sigh. “He asked if I would like to get a breath of fresh air as my cheeks appeared flushed from all the dancing.”

“My brother said he dances with all the women in your situation. To the world he probably looks like the gracious sort, dancing with the would-be wallflowers.”

“We should call him out,” the first lady said. “Go stand in the middle of the ballroom and let his ungentlemanly ways be known.”

“No, I can’t!” The desperation in the sad woman’s voice stabbed Clara in the gut. “I cannot risk the damage to my reputation.

One of the women sighed. “That must be how he gets away with it.”

“You think he’s done this to other women?”

“I think he must have. Do you remember who he was seen with last Season? Are any of them still in London.”

“Only Mrs. Penwith but she doesn’t come out in society much anymore.”

The sad girl spoke again. “He was too practiced. He knew what he was doing. He has to have done this before.”

“I suppose,” the first woman said with resignation, “that we can be glad all he wanted to steal was a kiss.”

Again, the woman let out a sound of deep disgust. “Doesn’t mean Mr. Pitt shouldn’t be thrown into the pits.”

The three girls laughed, which was loud enough to cover Clara’s gasp. This entire time, she’d been upset on this poor girl’s behalf, in solid agreement with everything her friends were saying. And the man in question had been the one she’d thought would make the perfect husband.

How could she have been so wrong about him?

The women departed the room soon after, and Clara waited for her heartbeat to settle into a quiet rhythm before sliding out of her hiding spot. She made her way back to the ballroom, mind spinning with a myriad of thoughts.

She was immediately pulled into the next set of dances. Two partners later, Mr. Pitt was once more waiting to ask her to dance.

“Two dances in one night would certainly be tipping your hand, sir.” The statement was bold, and two hours before, she’d have been overjoyed at the implication.

Now she didn’t know what to think.

He gave her a pleasant smile. “You are right, of course. I wasn’t thinking. The time for such declarations is yet to come.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Perhaps we should step out onto the terrace then? Get a little fresh air? Your cheeks appear a bit flushed from all the dancing.”

If Clara’s cheeks had indeed been flushed before, she was certain they weren’t now. Those were the words the lady in the retiring room had claimed Mr. Pitt used to lure her away from her protection.

There were no words in her throat as she looked up at him, nothing in her mind but a screaming sort of noise as everything she thought she’d put in order seemed to shake.

She needed to think. She needed to determine what was real.

She needed to get out of there.

Without a word, she took two steps back, then fled to find her aunt.