"I need a duchess to manage my estates and anchor my household. And I need someone who will not expect a grand romance. You are in luck, your grace. Clara said, her voice dry. I left my romantic delusions in the nursery.
A tiny, almost imperceptible shift happened in his expression. It wasn't a smile, but the tension in his jaw relaxed. We understand each other, then. Perfectly. The engagement lasted 3 weeks.
It was a whirlwind of humiliating extravagance paid for by Theodore's solicitors. Clara was measured, pinned, and draped in silks, muslins, and velvets. The gossip was relentless. Clara sat in the parlor of Lady Clementine's townhouse, balancing a porcelain teacup on her knee. The other women in the room were circling her like vultures smelling blood on the wind.
It is such a sudden match, Clara, dear. Clementine purred, adjusting the lace on her sleeves. We were all quite shocked. The Duke of Windermere is so particular. He is a man of decisive action, Clara lied smoothly, taking a sip of the bitter tea.
Decisive, yes. Another woman, a viscountess, tittered behind her fan. Though one wonders where his decisions usually lead him. I hear he spends an inordinate amount of time at his club. Exclusively in the billiards room.
With Lord Weston. The implication hung in the air, heavy and crude. Clara felt a sudden, inexplicable flash of irritation. Not because they were insulting her future husband, but because of their smug, sheltered cruelty. They sat in houses paid for by men who kept mistresses in Covent Garden and beat their wives behind closed doors, yet they felt superior because Theodore's alleged sins offended their delicate sensibilities.
Lord Weston is a renowned scholar of antiquities, Clara said, her voice dropping a register, cold and flat. I believe the Duke shares his interest in Roman architecture. But if you prefer to imagine them doing something more scandalous beneath the billiards table, Clementine, please do not let me interrupt your fantasies. The room went dead silent. Clementine's face flushed an ugly mottled red.
Clara set her teacup down with a sharp clink. Thank you for the tea. I really must be going. My fittings. She walked out of the townhouse, her chest tight.
She didn't know why she had defended him. Pride, she told herself. Defending him was defending her own choice, even if the choice had been made for her. When she returned to her family's meager rented house, she found a package waiting for her in the drawing room. No flowers, no poetry.
It was a heavy rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper. She opened it. It was a first edition translation of Homer's Odyssey bound in dark green leather. A note was tucked inside the front cover. The handwriting was sharp, jagged, and precise.
You mentioned on Tuesday that your father sold your library. A house should not be without books. Clara stared at the heavy book. She ran her fingers over the gold leaf lettering. Tuesday.
Four days ago. They had sat in a stilted silence in her mother's parlor for his mandatory courting visit. She had merely made a passing comment about missing the smell of old paper. He had been looking out the window. She hadn't thought he was even listening.
A strange ache bloomed in her chest. She pushed it down immediately. It was just a book, a wealthy man throwing a few coins at a problem. It meant nothing. Still, when he arrived the next evening to escort her to the theater, she thanked him.
They sat in the shadowed box, watching the actors on the stage below. The theater was hot, and Clara felt the whalebone of her evening gown digging viciously into her ribs. She shifted, trying to draw a full breath, wincing slightly. "Are you unwell?" Theodore asked quietly, not looking away from the stage.
"I am perfectly fine," Clara lied. He finally turned to look at her. His pale eyes scanned her rigid posture, the slight pallor of her face. "You are not breathing."
It is the fashion to not breathe, your grace. It proves one is a lady." He didn't laugh. He frowned, a deep scowl settling over his features. "It is barbaric.
You look as though you are in pain. It is nothing." "It is not nothing if it hurts you." He shifted closer. The scent of him, sandalwood, clean linen, and cold rain, washed over her."
"He reached out. Clara stiffened, expecting him to touch her arm. Instead, he reached behind her back. His large, warm hand rested briefly against the rigid lacing of her gown. "Tomorrow," he said, his voice dropping so low the bustling crowd below couldn't possibly hear.
"Tell the modiste to loosen the stays by two inches. If she refuses, if she refuses, tell her I will find a new seamstress." Clara stared at him. "The gowns will not fit correctly. Society will say I look sloppy."
"Let them say what they will," Theodore replied, turning his gaze back to the stage. "I am already the duke society called unnatural. They can call you the sloppy duchess. We shall be a menace to polite society together." Clara let out a short, startled sound, a laugh.
It bubbled up from her chest before she could stop it. Theodore glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a fleeting phantom smile. It transformed his harsh face entirely, making him look devastatingly human for a fraction of a second. Then it was gone, hidden back behind the mask of aristocratic boredom. But Clara remembered it, and for the rest of the week, the whispers of society felt a little less loud.
The wedding day dawned gray, cold, and utterly unremarkable. There was no grand cathedral, no hundreds of guests. Clara's father had insisted on a small, private ceremony, claiming it was more elegant. Clara knew the truth. He couldn't afford a large breakfast, and Theodore had zero interest in making a spectacle of himself.
She stood in the drafty stone vestry of St. George's, shivering in her white silk gown. Her mother fussed with her veil, her hands trembling. "Now, Clara," her mother began, her voice pitching high with nervous energy. "Tonight tonight will be She stopped, swallowing hard."