Chapter 20

20

CLARA

L ady Cassandra was perfect. At least in Clara's eyes. She was the embodiment of everything the future Duchess of Rockwood should be. Elegant and refined, confident and beautiful.

And seemingly, she had brought enough clothing to stay at Rushlake forever.

The lady's maid that had accompanied the family was assisting Lady Hawkesbury, so Clara helped Lady Cassandra out of her traveling boots and unpacked her things.

Lady Cassandra sat upon the bed, watching and instructing Clara, who fought the stitch of jealousy which had made its home in her chest.

"That can go in the top drawer," Lady Cassandra said as Clara pulled a frilly collar from her belongings.

"Yes, my lady." Clara obediently set it in the drawer. She could feel the woman's eyes on her and felt a flash of warmth flood her skin. Was it obvious she had spent the evening with the man this woman hoped to marry?

Of course, Clara didn't know Lady Cassandra intended to marry the duke, but it was a fair assumption. The woman was no fool, after all.

"What is your name?" Lady Cassandra asked, tilting her head curiously.

"Clara, my lady."

"A beautiful name. And how long have you been at Rushlake, Clara?"

"Just over a month, ma'am."

"And before that?"

Clara tried not to stiffen as she folded a pair of embroidered stockings. "At an inn, ma'am."

"I only ask because your manner of speaking tells of a gentler upbringing."

Clara hesitated for a moment before responding. "I was a lady's maid once, and my mistress was kind but particular."

"Ah. That explains it. I would like the pale pink satin for this evening," she said, her curiosity mercifully at an end. "And the pearl necklace and matching earrings. They are in the silver box."

Clara reached into the bottom of the trunk and pulled out a silver box with a hand-painted enamel lid. She took it to the dressing table, set it down, and opened it. The contents glistened and glittered—pearls, diamonds, sapphires, and rubies.

Since John's departure, Clara had tried and failed to come up with a solution that would satisfy him without requiring her to steal from the duke. Lady Cassandra had enough valuable jewelry here to pay for John's debt many times over. Two pieces might even be sufficient, and given the tarnished state of the ruby ring in the box, Lady Cassandra might not notice its absence. At least not soon.

Besides, what was one ruby ring to a woman like her? She was likely to become a duchess.

Clara pulled out the pearls and shut the lid firmly but carefully. She would not steal from Lady Cassandra. She would have to find another way out of her difficulties.

Once everything had been removed from the trunks and her clothing set out for the evening, Lady Cassandra stated her intent to rest, and Clara left her in peace.

She shut the door quietly, her shoulders lowering with the sigh she released. She had known this was coming—the woman the duke was meant to court—but she had not expected how deeply envious she would feel of Lady Cassandra.

There was no question the woman was a suitable match for him. She was everything a man of such position would wish for in the woman he would make a duchess. And didn't Clara want what was best for the duke? Didn't she wish for his success and happiness?

She made her way down the stairs and to the servant hall. Three of the other maids were there, taking tea at the table after the tumult of the last few hours.

"Clara," Eliza said with her guileless smile. "Would you care for a cup?" She rose and fetched one of the clean ones hanging behind the table.

Clara hesitated for a moment. For the past three weeks, she had been so busy with her duties at the lodge and the ones in the main house that she had hardly spoken with the other maids. The gossip amongst them had lessened of late—or at least Clara was exposed to less of it. She assumed she had the duke to thank for that.

But Clara's time with Lady Cassandra had her feeling more hopeless and alone than she had since before coming to Rushlake. Perhaps it was time to make a more concerted effort at friendship with the other maids.

"I would, thank you." Clara took a seat as Eliza poured from the teapot .

"Ye were just helpin' Lady Cassandra, were ye not?" asked Sarah.

"I was."

Sarah and Mary exchanged glances.

"And?" Sarah asked with a hint of impatience. "What was she like?"

Clara looked around at the three pairs of intent eyes staring at her.

"If she's to be our future mistress," Sarah said, "we must know everythin'."

Clara forced a smile, then raised her shoulders. "She was…commanding but kind. Her belongings of the finest quality." She struggled to find more to say, but the maids waited. "I believe she would make a fine mistress."

"And a fine wife," Mary said with a knowing glance at Sarah. "She's a real beauty, isn't she? They say men prefer women with dark coloring."

Sarah nodded her agreement, then looked at Clara. "It must be hard for ye."

Clara's stomach clenched. "What do you mean?" She took a sip of scalding tea.

"Oh, come," Mary said, raising her teacup to her lips. "Ye don't have to pretend with us, Clara."

"I don't know what you mean." Clara could feel her cheeks telling another story, however.

Sarah and Mary shared another look, this time one that said she must think us stupid .

"We know ye're in love with him, Clara," Sarah said.

"There's nothin' to be ashamed of," Mary said matter-of-factly. "We were all half in love with him when he first arrived, weren't we?"

Sarah laughed her agreement.

"Eliza here is new enough that she still is , aren't ye? "

Eliza pinked with embarrassment, and Sarah patted her on the shoulder with sympathy.

"Be careful, that's all," Sarah said to Eliza. "Or ye'll find yourself sent off to the lodge like Clara—and for what?"

Clara remained silent. What would they say if they knew the real reason she had been spending time there? Or that she had kissed the duke last night?

"Before Rushlake," Mary said, "I was employed by a squire. His son came to stay for the summer, and my, but he was somethin' to behold." Her expression turned nostalgic and admiring as she stared at nothing in particular, holding her teacup by her chin. "He had eyes for the only other maid—and she for him, of course. I saw them kissin' more than once. She would whistle and hum all day long afterward. I warned her, but she was certain he loved her. I was jealous somethin' fierce." She took a sip of her tea. "Until he tired of her after a few weeks. He began courtin' a lady, and they married shortly after. The poor maid was crushed to bits. Had to be dismissed." She set down her cup.

Sarah shook her head. "Men will flirt and amuse themselves with any woman who strikes their fancy. They make ye feel like ye're the only woman in the world. But that's all it ever is, isn't it? Flirt liberally, marry wisely, they do."

"Clara," a stern voice said nearby.

All of them turned toward the doorway, where Mrs. Finch stood.

Clara set down her teacup and rose. "Yes, ma'am?"

"His Grace wishes for flowers to be taken to the lodge. You are to cut enough from the gardens for a small bouquet in each of the bedchambers. Apparently, the gardeners cannot be spared at the moment."

"Right away, ma'am."

Mrs. Finch disappeared again .

"Back to the lodge," Mary said with a sympathetic grimace.

"I suppose so." Clara hoped this was the duke's way of giving her an excuse to take food to Silas—or, dare she hope, to meet her as they had been?

But as she sneaked bread, the words of the other maids would not leave her. Had she persuaded herself that what she felt between the duke and herself was more than it was?

She had never assumed he meant to offer her a future together. Her reason was too robust for that, even if her foolish heart had concocted silly fantasies of such a thing. But had she come to hope that what he felt for her was real and genuine? Was there some part of her that believed if circumstances had been different that perhaps he would have married her?

Without a doubt, there was.

That was what haunted her most about what Mary had said. How was Clara any different from that poor, jilted maid?

Head full of such unhappy thoughts, Clara hid the bread in the handcart, then fetched shears from the gardening shed. The gardens of Rushlake were one area she had yet to explore. There was little reason—and certainly little enough time—for a housemaid to do so, and they were not visible from the house.

As she emerged from the manicured path of tall hedges that opened up to the gardens, her eyes widened, and she slowed. The explosion of color before her was unlike anything she had ever seen, as though a rainbow had tired of the sky and settled to earth.

Bees buzzed busily about the area, while a few butterflies flitted from bloom to bloom. The tall yew hedges she had come through blocked any view of Rushlake itself, and the thick wood on the opposite side of the gardens concealed the view in that direction. It gave one the impression of being entirely and utterly alone in a vibrant world of flowers.

Clara smiled, grateful at least for a breathtaking view to brighten her day, then she set to work.

She cut blue and purple larkspur, pink and white hollyhocks, red peonies, and yellow lilies, setting them in the wicker basket on the dirt path that wound through the flowers. It left her wishing she were a gardener rather than a housemaid. Perhaps then she would see less of the duke and Lady Cassandra.

She could certainly sympathize with Mary's friend. It would be crushing to see the man she loved marry another, but Clara refused to follow that maid's example. She would not allow herself to go into a decline over the inevitable result of her connection with the duke. She would carry out her duties with calm confidence so she could keep her position at Rushlake.

In time, her heart would accept its fate. It would have no choice.

"Clara."

She started, and the shears cut into her finger rather than the lily stem.

The duke rushed over as the shears dropped to the ground.

Red stained the line of the cut on Clara's pointer finger, which she gripped in an effort to control the stinging pain.

"So stupid of me," she said, wincing.

"Hardly," he said. "It was thoughtless of me to surprise you when you were holding something sharp. May I see?"

She hesitated, then removed her fingers from their grip around the injury.

The duke sucked in a breath at the sight of it, then cradled her hand with his. "I am sorry."

She shook her head, unable to speak at the feel of his hand holding hers. She shut her eyes. This was precisely what she could not do. The duke was her master, and she needed to be able to accomplish simple tasks like speaking in his presence. Or cutting flowers without maiming herself.

"It is nothing." She pulled her hand away.

The duke watched her with a slight frown.

"I am nearly done," she said, stooping to pick up the shears, "then I can take the flowers to the lodge, as you directed." She turned to the flowers and took the stem of another lily in hand, her heart thumping against her chest. "I have some bread, as well."

"Clara." The duke's hand settled on hers, urging her to stop.

She went still, but she kept her eyes on the flowers. They were far more interesting than the duke. And safer.

"Will you not look at me?" His voice was soft and gentle.

She had promised him to always look him in the eye—something she was heartily regretting now. How much harm had that one promise done?

She turned toward him and let her gaze settle on his. Calm confidence. That was what she had promised herself, was it not?

"I gave Mrs. Finch the order for you to cut these flowers so I could speak to you in private. Your injury should be seen to, and I have but a few minutes."

Of course. He needed to return to Lady Cassandra and his other guests. "It is a mere scratch, Your Grace."

His expression was skeptical, but he seemed to think better of arguing. "Regarding last night…"

"There is no need for this, Your Grace. I assure you."

His brow knit, and Clara's heart twinged, for he seemed almost hurt.

"I only mean," she said, "that there is no need to explain yourself."

"Is there not? "

"No."

Their gazes held, and it was all she could do not to tear hers away to put a stop to the unbearable thickness in the air between them.

"I would like to do so despite that," he said. "I meant everything I said last night, Clara. And everything I did."

Her heart skittered.

"I would never wish for you to assume otherwise," he continued. "Since your arrival, you have been a friend to me, both trustworthy and loyal. But a friend is not all you have become. I have found myself increasingly impatient to see you, to spend time with you. You have been the one person with whom I feel I can simply…exist. As I am." He paused, then took a small step toward her, his expression intent and almost pained. "I have fallen in love with you, Clara."

She sucked in a breath, her head swimming.

" That is why I came to the lodge every day. Much as I love my brother"—the tip of his mouth turned up in a crooked smile—"I cannot give him credit for the constancy of my visits. It is why I regretted the sight of my path every day on our walk to return to Rushlake. And it is why I kissed you."

His gaze lowered to her mouth, and it was all she could do to keep her feet in their place when her body begged for another taste of his lips, another moment in his arms.

"Perhaps it is also why I allowed myself to forget."

Clara's chest tightened. "That I am a maid, Your Grace?"

"That you are married, Clara. John was right. Under the law, you are a married woman."

A married woman whose husband was extorting her.

"And yes," he granted, "that you are a maid. I owe a duty to my title, to my family. If I wish to help Silas, I must…"

"Marry well," Clara supplied, swallowing the emotions that bubbled under the surface .

"Yes," he agreed softly.

"And you now have that opportunity."

He shook his head. "Nothing is settled. I only met her an hour ago. But, yes, I believe that is the hope she and her parents share."

And you . "I understand, Your Grace." She forced a smile. She had always known things between them could not be, but to hear him voice it now was…different. More difficult.

It was a moment before he spoke. "What of John?"

Clara hesitated.

What if she told him the truth? What was she afraid of? Ruining her chance with him? There had never been such a chance.

And yet, his opinion of her mattered. He was her only true friend in the world. How would she bear telling him he had entrusted his most important secrets, his brother's very life to a liar and a thief?

"He was hoping for money," she said.

The duke's gaze remained on her, intent. "You did not give him any, did you?"

She shook her head. "I hadn't any to offer." That was the heart of the matter, wasn't it? She had nothing to offer anyone—not John, and certainly not the duke.

"Good," the duke said. "He would only gamble it away."

Clara's heart pinched with hurt, then pride. Did the duke think so little of her that he could believe no other reason had motivated John's return? She looked down at her injured finger and pressed against the wound. "He promised me that day at the market that he would return for me."

There was a short silence. "He sold you, Clara. To the highest bidder."

"Yes," she said with a rueful smile. "To you. For a guinea." She fiddled with her finger, which stung, just like her heart.

He stepped toward her. "Clara…" He put a hand under her chin and lifted it gently, until she had no choice but to meet his gaze.

To her horror, her eyes too began to sting. It was all too much—the secrets she was keeping for and from the duke, the stress of John's demands, the knowledge that she could never have the man she loved, that she would never be enough, no matter what she did.

The duke's thumb brushed her cheek, wiping a tear as he looked down at her intently. "I paid John one guinea because I could not stand to give him a penny more. Not because it reflects your worth."

She swallowed the lump in her throat, searching his eyes through her own blurry ones. But all she found was honesty there, just as he had promised her.

She put a hand over the one that cradled her cheek, unable to stop herself.

"Promise me you will not go back to him, Clara."

"Where else can I go?" She had no intention, no desire to be with John, but she needed the duke to understand how impossible the future felt, no matter where she went or who she was with.

"Why must you go at all?"

"How can I stay?"

His eyes held hers for a moment, then he sighed, grimacing his understanding. They were in impossible positions, both of them. Whether there would truly have been a chance of something more for them if she had not been married, she didn't know. She never would.

But it did neither of them good to dwell on things that could never be. Neither did Clara wish for him to be burdened by guilt on her behalf. He had so much already on his shoulders .

"I promise I will not return to John," she said quietly. It was an easy promise to make, for she would rather a hundred other fates than to be with him again, forever working for money he wouldn't hesitate to lose at play, wondering when he would be desperate enough to sell her again. She could not count on someone like the duke to come to her rescue a second time. "But I cannot promise to stay at Rushlake."

His eyes searched hers under a creased brow, but there was understanding there.

He sighed, closed his eyes, and let his forehead rest against hers.

She too shut her eyes, letting herself breathe him in—the cedar and the soap from shaving. She could almost imagine the softness of the skin on his face.

Slowly, she lifted her fingers, letting them graze the hard line of his jaw.

His head shifted, and his nose brushed hers, and it was no longer his jaw she wished to feel. It was his lips on hers, a desire so strong it transcended mere want. It was a need.

His bottom lip swept past hers, and her entire body trembled with the realization that she would do anything for the man in front of her.

"We cannot," he said.

He pulled back enough to look at her, his eyes dark with desire and torment.

She forced her feet to step back, feeling as though she had just tugged herself from the precipice of a rushing waterfall—one she desperately wanted to experience, no matter what lay at its foot.

She nodded.

They stared at each other for moments that stretched on and on .

"Promise me you will not leave Rushlake without first telling me," he said.

"I promise." She didn't know if she could have even if she had wanted to.

"And that you will not help John." It was not an order but a question—another promise he wished her to make.

How could she, though?

"Will he leave you be?" the duke asked.

Now was the time—to tell him everything. To admit to him the circumstances of her dismissal from the Redgraves'. To confess she was a thief.

But she couldn't bear to see the disappointment on his face, to take this bittersweet goodbye and turn it entirely bitter.

"I believe so," she said.

He nodded, not doubting her response for even a second.

It made her feel sick with guilt.

"And your finger…"

"I will wrap it," she said, unable to meet his eye. She wished he would go. He was better off without her.

"Very well. I should return to the house."

She nodded, picking up the shears again. Anything to avoid his gaze.

He hesitated for a moment, as though waiting for her to look at him.

She couldn't.

"Goodbye, then," he said.

"Goodbye."

After one more moment of hesitation, he turned down the path and soon disappeared from view.