by Erica Taylor
The house was dark and silent when Andrew returned from the night’s social engagements, tedious as they were. The servants had all retired for the evening or at least moved on to nighttime duties. They would be in their quarters and far away from the first floor bedrooms. Andrew knew Martha would not be in Clara’s room.
He stood outside the door, hesitant to enter. He knew it was a bad idea; being close to Clara was turning into an unhealthy infatuation, and that just would not do. Their marriage was out of a need for her safety. The balance and control he had cultivated over his life for the past twelve years was starting to crumble, and it was this woman’s fault. Her teasing smiles and warm inviting eyes . . . she made him forget who he was, what he had become to survive.
Andrew had a plan. He would enter the room, bid her a polite good night, and then leave, nothing more. She might even be already asleep. There would be no teasing, no laughing or smiling or anything else that might make him want to touch her or kiss her or do something he shouldn’t. Martha was not there this time to stop him; he had to be able to control himself.
Convincing himself of his self-discipline Andrew took a deep breath, expelling his uncertainty and insecurities as he exhaled. He knocked gently on the door and waited for an answer, but none came. He could not see a flickering of candlelight coming from under the door—perhaps she really had gone to sleep. Slowly, he turned the knob and slipped inside. The room was lit with moonlight from the window, its bright silvery glow casting long, dramatic shadows along the room. Silhouetted at the window stood Clara, leaning against the frame, dressed in a nightdress and silk wrapper, the moonlight glistening off the whiteness of the nightdress, illuminating her in a soft glow.
Turning her head, she pierced him with a small smile and gestured for him to come closer. There was no point in resisting. The air surrounding him was charged with something. The darkness paired with the brilliant light from the moon sent magic and energy dancing across his skin, every ounce of him anticipating touching her again.
Clara pointed out the window. “I can see Morton House from here.”
Andrew looked to where she was pointing but only saw rooftops.
“Another street to the left and three houses down,” she explained. “I used to count the chimneys between my bedroom and the park. There are twelve.”
Andrew counted out twelve smoke stacks. “Are you certain?”
She nodded. “That is where my brother kept me as half a prisoner, half a toy for him to torture.”
“Did he hit you often?” Andrew asked her.
“No, that was the first time,” Clara admitted. “It shocked me when he did, I could barely react. He had been cruel before, but he never resorted to violence. Usually he avoided me, and when he was forced to be in the same room, he made sure we never touched.”
“I’m sorry for what you had to endure, Clara,” Andrew said gently.
“I would still be there if it were not for you,” Clara said, turning her head to look up at him. She had removed the bandage from around her head, but her wound was not as terrible as he had feared. What had bled like a gunshot wound to her skull was nothing more than a three-inch cut just along her hairline. It was still dark and red, but once it healed, no one would notice.
“But I have been wondering, Andrew, why were you there?”
“To see you,” he admitted. “I came to call and found the house in chaos. I heard smashing and shouting, and I ran up the stairs towards the noise. And then I saw you crumpled on the floor. I feared he’d killed you.”
“And then you saved me,” Clara whispered, her fingertips reaching up to tentatively graze along the edge of his jaw, her nails skimming the stubble that had grown throughout the day. “I thought you dashing before that. You cannot imagine what I think of you now.”
“I don’t mind.”
Dropping her hand, Clara turned around to face him, her back to the window. “But really Andrew, I cannot thank you enough. You have no idea; your family is so loving and so wonderful. I’ve been without anyone else but Jonathan for three years. I’d have left if I could, but I have no funds of my own and nowhere to go. Thank you for . . . for your offer of protection. Though I do not agree with the decision, I do not want you to think me ungrateful.”
“Clara,” Andrew said, taking her chin in his hand and turning her face up towards him. “You were mine. You were mine to save.”
Holding her gaze, he gently brushed his lips across hers, the softness of her skin only awakening his desire more. She was soft and warm, and her mouth was so very inviting. He knew he shouldn’t be kissing her or taking such liberties with her, but she was impossible to resist. He was only a man long deprived of light, drowning in his life, starving for sunlight and Clara was a beacon. She was happiness and laughter and warmth, and he could think of nothing other than bathing in her light.
She pulled away from him and let out a nervous laugh.
“I should probably leave,” Andrew sighed, resting his forehead on hers.
“Probably,” she agreed.
“I apologize if I overstepped, Clara,” Andrew said softly.
“Not at all,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am your fiancée. I would think that allows you some liberties. Besides, that was . . . nice. I had always wondered what it would be like to be kissed like that.”
“That was your first kiss?” he asked.
Clara blushed and looked down. “Aside from the one neighborhood boy who stole a kiss on my twelfth birthday, but I would hardly consider that my first kiss.”
Andrew was a little taken aback as the realization of her true innocence became clear.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“You should know to never ask a lady her age, your grace.”
“I can do the sums if I need to,” he replied.
“Three and twenty,” she sighed.
“Twenty-three and never properly kissed,” Andrew teased, wrapping his hand across the back of her neck, tilting her head towards his. “We will have to rectify that, you know.”
“Right now?” she asked in a whisper.
“You have no reason to fear me,” Andrew said, his voice low. “I could never hurt you.”
Clara nodded as Andrew bent his head and kissed her again.
This time he was not going to be soft and reassuring, Clara realized, her knees nearly buckling at the sudden wave of desire that shot through her. His lips were urgent and passionate, teasing her lips apart, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, teaching as she learned to match his movements, trying to give as much as she was taking, hoping she was doing it right.
Christina had talked about kissing Andrew, but she failed to detail the heat of his lips, or the strength in his hands as he held her, the way her senses came alive, the dizzying wave that swept over her. Wanting to feel more of him, Clara pressed her breasts to his strong chest. His arms moved around her, one arm tight across her back and the other cradling the back of her head as his tongue danced with hers. Winding her hands through his hair, thick and soft, she pulled him closer.
His kisses turned harder and even more urgent, and she wondered how close he was to losing control, because she was not sure she could make herself stop. And they did have to stop, did they not?
Andrew pulled himself away from her a second later and took a step back, putting some distance between them. Clara was first aware of how cold she was without his warm arms around her, but she quickly realized she had to catch her breath. He was watching her, his eyes molten and dark with desire, and just seeing him look at her that way caused chills to run down her spine and pool in her toes.
Tentatively, Clara brushed her fingers along her bottom lip, feeling the wetness from his kiss. “You can stop looking at me like you think I might bolt or faint.”
Laughing lightly, he shook his head. “I was not thinking
any of those things.”
Clara smirked. “Liar.”
“I might have been worried you were going to run from me, but clearly my fears were for naught.”
“I’m made of stronger stuffing than to run after being kissed by a man,” she said, her breathing returning to normal, but her blood still hummed for his touch.
“That you are.”
“And thank you,” she continued, trying to remain light and aloof when she really wanted to run back into his arms and beg him to kiss her more and never stop. “It was most educational.”
“Educational? It was not meant to be educational. It was meant to be arousing.”
“It was that too,” she admitted.
There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Good night, Clara.”
“Good night,” Clara said and Andrew quickly fled the room. The door clicked shut and it was a moment before Clara could move, much less exhale the breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.
She fell onto the bed, her mouth tingling.
“There is one way you can hurt me, Andrew,” Clara said to the darkness. “You can break my heart, like you did five years ago.”
The bright morning sunshine poured into the room as Martha pulled the curtains back from the window. Yellow rays hit Clara’s face, and she pressed her eyes shut, trying to hold in the most wonderful dream.
“Good morning, my lady,” Martha said as she moved about the room. “If you’ve no headaches, Dr. Lennox has agreed that you are no longer bedridden, so you are free to break your fast in the breakfast room.”
“Wonderful,” Clara mumbled, yawning as the maid left the room. She stretched and rubbed the sleep sand out of her eyes. Martha returned a moment later with a modest but beautiful arrangement of red, yellow, and pink roses, another from Norah’s excess of admirers.
“It was kind of Lady Norah to have another of her arrangements sent up, it does add more color to the room.” Clara glanced around the room, realizing it did in fact match the rose patterned wallpaper perfectly.
“Oh, no, my lady,” Martha said, handing her the card. “These are for you.”
“For me?” Clara asked in surprise and accepted the card. “Who could have possibly sent me flowers? I have not been out of this house in six days. The only gentleman I’ve seen is his grace, and . . .” Clara quickly looked down at the card in her hands and tore it out of the envelope.
Clara,
I have recently become aware of the hidden meaning of rose petals. I trust this bouquet will not be lost in translation.
Your Humble Florist,
Andrew
Clara smiled and looked at Martha, who was indiscreetly smirking at her.
“Who indeed, my lady,” Martha replied with a wink.
“Oh, stop,” Clara laughed and swatted at her with her hand. “Bring them closer, please.” Clara took a deep breath, inhaling the roses’ sweet scent. Upon closer examination, she could see a single white rose and a single lavender rose intermixed with the pinks and yellows and reds. The sight warmed Clara’s heart; she had not mentioned lavender roses nor the meaning behind single roses. He must have taken her advice and gone to the flower shop himself. She could only imagine Andrew, the Stone Duke, tromping into a florist shop on Piccadilly Street this morning demanding to choose his own blooms. She inhaled their scent again. Red and pink for romance and passion; pink and yellow for happiness and celebration. The single white rose said, “My feelings are pure,” and the single purple said, “I am enchanted by you.”
Clara smiled softly at her bouquet, afraid to hope.
“Splendid, you are awake!” Susanna exclaimed from the doorway, making Clara jump. “I saw those arrive, and Howards sent them straight upstairs. You must know how curious I was. They are beautiful, Clara, but whoever are they from?”
“They are from—well you see, I—” Clara sputtered but was interrupted by Susanna snatching the card from her fingers. Susanna read the card, glancing from the card to the bouquet then to Clara who could not help the flush that traveled up her neck and settled in her cheeks.
“Oh, Clara! How wonderfully romantic!” Susanna exclaimed and threw her arms around her.
“What’s romantic?” Sarah asked as she came into the room, Norah only steps behind her, a fluffy grey cat positioned in her arms.
“This!” Susanna said, thrusting the card into her sister’s hand. Sarah read through the card, a soft smile appearing on her lips before she looked longingly at the bouquet and then at Clara.
“That is a very sweet gesture,” Sarah replied as she passed the card to Norah. Apparently Clara would not be able to keep this to herself. She had a feeling not much was kept secret in this family.
“Sweet?” Susanna asked. “Oh Sarah, it is divinely romantic. Just think of the story it will make! He sweeps you off your feet at a ball and then saves you from your terrifying brother. While you recover, you fall in love over the simplest things, and he marries you, and you live happily ever after!”
“It sounds like those ridiculous romances you’ve been reading,” Norah replied, sitting on the edge of the bed, her cat settling onto the thick coverlet.
“True love and romance do exist, Norah,” Susanna quipped at her.
Clara felt the need to stop the Macalister sisters before they truly got the wrong idea.
“It was very nice of his grace to send these, but I am sure there is nothing to be gathered from it,” Clara insisted.
“I don’t know,” Sarah said, pensively, tapping her finger against her lips. “Susanna may be on to something. The last person Andrew sent flowers was your sister, and those were some hothouse mix chosen at random. I’m not even sure they were roses.”
“They were,” Clara said absently as Norah handed the card back to her. “I remember the morning after our debut. Christina was so thrilled with all her arrangements that day she barely looked twice at any of them. There was no romance in any of them, no affection, and no honesty. They were all so false.”
“That is how those types of arrangements are,” Norah replied nodding. “Not that I’m boasting, but after my debut last season, I thought I would pick the gentleman with the arrangement that spoke to me most. But none of them spoke to me at all. They were just flowers; none had any meaning, and none of the presenters knew me.”
With a nod Sarah added, “These flowers are special, Clara. Andrew rarely does anything like this. And he even signed the card personally. Normally Andrew sends his secretary and never pens his own name. But this . . . this is something special between you and Andrew. If a gentleman puts effort into something, it signifies something to him.” Clara looked down at the cream card in her fingers, his long loopy scrawl strikingly black against the paper. She was afraid to place too much emphasis in the hidden meaning of some silly flowers. But were his sisters correct?
“Let us go down to breakfast,” Susanna suggested. Clara nodded, threw back the blankets, and stepped behind the partition to dress with the help of Martha, choosing a morning dress of dusty blue muslin. Clara’s trunks had arrived the day after she had, each one neatly packed with all her dresses and belongings from Morton House.
Sarah excused herself while Susanna and Norah moved the vase of roses around the room, determined to find the perfect place for them.
As they entered the breakfast room, a quick survey of the room told Clara they were the first to arrive, and she breathed a sigh of relief at the absence of the duke. She hadn’t realized how nervous she was about seeing him again, though she had no idea why. It was just Andrew—the silly, teasing boy she had known years ago, even if he had grown into a delicious and handsome duke, to whom she was now engaged. It was pointless to be nervous.
Helping herself to eggs and toast arranged along the sideboard, Clara was careful to avoid the kippers, as they would surely make her sick, before settling down at
the dining table across from Norah and Susanna. Sarah entered the breakfast room and smiled reassuringly at Clara as she began to fill her own plate.
Clara could never imagine her own brother smiling or laughing as Andrew had. Her brother would never tease or flirt. The more time she spent with Andrew, the more she was realizing he was still the same boy she had once known, though that side of him seemed often buried deep.
But then, why had Christina run away? Had she not seen this side of him? Why would she choose to run off with a footman instead of marrying Andrew? Could she have possibly loved the footman? The whole ordeal made no sense and was completely out of character for her society-obsessed sister. It was almost like something was missing, some chunk of information Clara was not privy to that was preventing her from understanding the whole picture.
Clara’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted by very loud male voices echoing from the front hall.
“Oh dear,” Sarah sighed, having taken a seat beside her.
“What is it?” Clara asked.
“By the sounds of it, the boys have returned from school,” Sarah replied.
“I thought term was not out until June?” Clara asked, frowning as she tried to remember her own brother’s school term patterns.
Sarah pierced her with a pointed look. “Exactly.”
Two young men burst into the room, both red-faced and fuming. Their dark chestnut hair clearly defined them as Macalisters, and one was sporting a swollen black eye.
“Nickie!” Norah cried in alarm, jumping up and running toward them. “What happened to your eye? Were you fighting again?”
“My brother, Lord Nick,” Sarah said quietly to Clara. “He and Norah are twins. And the other is our youngest brother, Lord Charlie. I’m not sure why they are home early from Eton.”
“Nicodemus Hawthorne Robert Ewan Macalister!” Andrew’s voice roared from the hall, and Nick winced at the use of his full and proper Christian name.
Andrew furiously burst into the room.
Norah turned defiantly towards her older brother, squaring her shoulders for the fight.
