Chapter 26

26

CLARA

F our days. It was the longest Clara had gone without speaking with the duke for weeks, and she hated it intensely. Mrs. Finch had once insisted that time away from the duke would serve to dampen Clara's feelings for him. How very wrong she had been.

Clara could think of little besides him, wondering and hoping she might chance upon him somehow. But to risk seeing the duke was to risk seeing the Redgraves, and that was simply not to be considered.

As part of the duke's promised attempts to keep her out of sight, she had been tasked with cutting fresh flowers for the rooms each day. It was a task normally undertaken by Rushlake's gardeners, but Mrs. Finch had said the duke had been pleased by Clara's efforts on the last occasion. That had been sufficient to dampen curiosity over the strange assignment, it seemed.

Early one morning a week after Lady Cassandra's arrival, Clara gathered up the basket and shears from the stillroom and made her way to the gardens. The guests were still abed. They generally slept until well into the morning as a result of lingering in the drawing room late each night. It was the one time of day Clara could leave any worry of seeing the Redgraves behind.

There was still a layer of gray clouds covering the sky, and the morning air was pleasantly cool. Clara wished her duties might include flower-cutting every day, but as soon as the guests left Rushlake, there would be no need for a fresh vase of them in all the rooms each day.

Humming softly, she passed through the tall, thick hedges that led to the gardens. At the edge where the view opened up, she stopped short, the music dying on her lips.

A man and woman stood in the midst of the flowers, their arms wrapped around one another and their lips pressed together. Clara retreated, taking refuge behind the hedge.

Slowly, she peeked her head out just enough to see the couple. The attire of the woman, whose back was to Clara, gave her to believe her a maid—likely one brought by one of the guests, for Clara did not recognize her dress.

The two separated, and the man's face came into view.

Lord Redgrave.

His gaze flicked from the maid to Clara.

She retreated, then turned and began to run. She passed the first turn the labyrinth offered and took the second one, then the left turn just after it. Her heart was beating so fiercely she could barely hear the muted thump of footsteps somewhere in the distance.

"Clara!" Lord Redgrave called from a nearby path.

Clenching her teeth and with the softest steps she could manage, Clara walked deeper into the maze, away from his calls.

They grew fainter and less certain. He could only have seen a bit of her face; perhaps he was wondering if he had been mistaken. She had to hope so.

Finally, his calls stopped entirely.

Concealed in a gap in the hedges, Clara waited more than a quarter of an hour before she dared emerge and make her way out of the labyrinth. She daren't return to the gardens, though.

No sooner did Clara step into the servant corridor than Mrs. Finch saw her.

Her gaze moved to the empty basket, and her expression shifted to one of displeasure. "What's this?"

Clara tried to catch her breath. "There were…guests in the gardens, ma'am. I did not wish to disturb them."

"At this hour?" Mrs. Finch sighed with annoyance. "Wait a quarter of an hour, then return. His Grace wants those flowers in the rooms."

Clara debated whether to plead for one of the other maids to do it, but the truth was, no matter what task she was assigned, there was a risk of seeing the Redgraves. Now that he suspected her presence, avoiding him would be more difficult than ever.

She returned to the gardens, her body tense. With each opening of the hedges she approached, she held her breath. Her every nerve was on edge, even though she knew Lord Redgrave was not foolish enough to remain where he had been seen.

She forced herself to take a calming breath as she neared the edge of the hedges where she had spotted him with the maid.

She stopped short at the sight of someone in the gardens, her heart hammering.

But it was not Lord Redgrave. It was the duke, inspecting one of the lilies.

His head turned toward her, and she felt the familiar chill of pleasure tickle her skin at the sight of him. A part of her had been hoping he had given this assignment with the intention of coming to see her. Each day, she had been disappointed. Until now.

"Clara." He stood straight, his eyes watching her carefully.

She walked toward him, noting the little furrow between his brows. It sent her pulse into a nervous frenzy. "Is something amiss?" Had he attempted to give the watch to Lord Redgrave? Was he engaged to Lady Cassandra?

"Yes," he replied as she stopped shy of him. "I fear something is."

Clara's stomach fluttered unpleasantly, but she said nothing, waiting.

"It is John," the duke said.

Clara's mind whirred. Had John carried out his threat to tell people about them? "What happened?"

The duke's somber expression deepened, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. "He is dead, Clara."

Clara's vision blurred for a moment, and she blinked quickly to right it. The duke grasped her arm, stabilizing her.

John was dead?

"Wh-what…how?" Her voice sounded like a stranger's.

The duke's sympathetic gaze fixed on hers. "I have just come from the village to gain a clearer picture of that. It seems he has been using the money I gave him to gamble. Heavily and drunkenly. He was apprehended last night—by the men he owes the debt, I imagine. There was a witness who says John ran away, but…" He grimaced. "He was found in the road."

Clara swallowed, a wave of nausea washing over her.

"His only injury was from a bullet." His grip on her arm tightened, and she grasped his hand with her free one, feeling the need for more support .

He was ready, taking her hand in his and drawing her nearer. "I am so sorry, Clara."

She shut her eyes, trying to make sense of things. John was dead.

"Is this my fault?" the duke asked. "I should have spoken to the men myself rather than giving the money?—"

"No," Clara said, shaking her head rapidly. "You did everything you could. The generosity of your offer was…" Her throat grew thick, and she shook her head again. "The choice to change had to be John's."

He did not take it, and now he was gone. Her husband—the word still felt strange—was dead.

She dropped her head and shut her eyes, and tears squeezed out.

"I cannot imagine what you must be feeling," the duke said.

Through her bleary vision, Clara stared at their hands.

She should feel guilty for the way she felt for the duke—for the love she had for him and had never had for her own husband. She had never loved John. Rather, she had quickly come to resent him. He had promised her security and instead deprived her of whatever shreds of it she had left.

And now she was a widow.

She looked up at the duke. "Would you like to know what I am feeling?"

He nodded, searching her eyes.

"I feel sorry for the life John might have lived," she said. "I regret that his final moments were lived in terror. I feel strange to know I am a widow." She struggled with her emotions, with the fear of uttering the next words. But she had promised to always be truthful with the duke, and she needed someone to know what a wretch she was. "But beneath it all, I feel…relief. An d I am ashamed of it." She dropped her gaze to the ground, unable to meet his eye.

His boots stepped closer to hers, and one by one, his arms wrapped around her. Her cheek pressed against his chest, and he rested his chin on her hair.

"There is no shame in that, Clara," he said softly. "He may have been your husband, but he never treated you as a wife. He used you and threatened you and sold you when he should have protected you and cherished you." He cradled the back of her head with a hand. "Relief is the most natural thing in the world for you to feel. I feel it too."

She raised her chin and pulled back enough to look up at him.

His eyes searched hers, and hers did the same as the silence continued.

Clara's mind, however, was anything but quiet. For weeks, she had argued with her feelings, pushing them down because she knew she could not act on them. She had been married.

But she was no longer bound by those ties.

She was not and never would be the duke's equal in station. But now if she wished, she could kiss him without guilt or shame. She could even marry him if circumstances had been different. If the late duke hadn't died, would there have been a chance for them? Or were they simply too far apart in station?

Footsteps drew near, and their heads turned toward them just as Mrs. Yorke emerged from the labyrinth.