Etiquette With The Devil (41 page)

Clara grabbed hold of the leather strap on the last trunk and pointed for the door. Lady Margaret, wide-eyed and clutching the bursting purse to her chest, hesitated before walking out of the room.

Once and for all, Burton Hall was rid of that nasty plague.

Two weeks later

Yorkshire, England

R
ules filled her head, hammering away at Clara’s nerves. Tonight, the Baroness of Westchester was to act as hostess of her first ball at Burton Hall.

Once she had been certain she was a proper lady. Now Clara wondered, hoping she could remember to behave. A misstep was something she could not risk, but with Bly by her side, good behavior was always questionable.

Steady
, she told herself, staring at the stranger in the mirror. With her hair elaborately curled and the peach-colored dress of flowing silk and lace, she felt as if she was looking at someone else. Clara had a long silhouette, drawn up tightly in a new corset that made her bosom more ample and her small waist even smaller. The dressmaker had insisted that she try a new French fashion, but it was rather scandalous. Perhaps it had been too much of a risk for her first ball.

She felt his eyes on her before he spoke from the doorway. “That will be all, Mary.”

Clara straightened in her chair and pulled a smile to her face. “Go on with Molly, pets. I’ll be down to see you shortly.”

Grace and Minnie looked at each other, and smiled. “We’re going to the ball?”

“Of course. Behave for Molly and get dressed. Go, go,” she said, shooing them. Mary followed behind, leaving the room empty and loud all at the same time. Clara swallowed and looked to her lap, unsure of what to say.

When she looked back up, Bly was standing behind her in the mirror. It was strange to see the two of them dressed finely, ready to be presented to London society as if they had always belonged to the glittering world of the British peerage.

She was a proper lady now, married to the world’s most improper man.

*

Bly narrowed his eyes at the beautiful woman in the mirror. No, not beautiful. She was far more than beautiful. He checked back on his knowledge of words, English and foreign, and could not think of one fitting enough. She was Clara.
His
Clara.

“Are you ready?” He tugged on his cufflinks to avoid looking into her eyes.

“Yes,” she said simply. She stood up and walked to the window, watching the sinking sun, seeming miles away then. He thought that perhaps he should tell her how lovely she looked.

“I have a terrible feeling about tonight, about this ridiculous idea that we belong with those people arriving.” She pointed to the arriving carriages.

He was in no mood for evasiveness. “I am a man sentenced to death, waiting for his last meal where you are concerned. Can’t you see that?”

She spun around, her skirts billowing out. “There are matters to be weighed and—”

“I’m asking you to not be practical for once in your life, Clara.” He walked toward her, crowding her by the entrance of her room.

She gave an annoyed laugh. “And you are certainly the farthest thing from practical.”

“Yes. Even so,” he smiled, walking closer to take her hands in his. “There are things in life that can’t be dictated by rules or run by logic.”

The door opened a crack and Bly shut it with his foot as he caged her between his hands. “In a minute,” he shouted at the door. He gazed down at her, his heart drumming in his chest, and turned the lock. Eventually, they would have to face the truth and confess their love for one another. That was all that was left between them now—long denied confessions.

He held her hands in his, pinned above her head. If she wished to be hunted, he would give chase and follow. She was cornered now; she would have to face the teeth of the beast and his hunger.

“These matters of the heart, the untidy implications of passion—they aren’t practical, but they’re worthy feelings and
you
are worthy of accepting them. I am standing here begging you to let me close. God knows I don’t deserve you, but I will drop to my knees right now. I will crawl. I will find a way to get you the goddamn moon, if you’ll only let me—”

The bang at the door started again and Bly heaved a frustrated fist at the door. The wood sounded as if it had splintered. “Go away,” he bellowed.

Clara giggled. Giggled? That was so out of character for her. He watched a giddy smile spread across her face. He would find a word for her yet, but she was still as much a mystery as the day she entered the house, soaked through and shaking from the cold.

“What did you want to tell me?” she whispered. He heard her own confession hiding there in the shadows of her question. He wished to hear it, but words would not soothe the ache in his hands as he looked at her. She would, though.

“How do we get this damn dress off you?”

She laughed. The sound was like velvet to his ears. He drank it in and kissed her until they were both breathless. “It would not do to ruin it. It cost a small fortune,” she said with a sigh into his neck as his lips roamed over hers.

“I’ll buy you another. Then some diamonds for your ears.”

“No,” she protested.

“Sapphires then. Or rubies. Emeralds,” he said hoarsely, tasting the sweet saltiness of her porcelain skin.

“I wish to wear nothing at all,” she said in a honeyed timbre.

“I wish for that as well,” he said with a husky laugh. His fingers fumbled at the hidden row of buttons at her side. “I need to speak to your modiste. Buttons are a bloody nuisance.”

“Mr. Ravensdale? Please, sir,” the voiced called out as a knock sounded at the door again. The handle started to shake violently.

They both froze. Bly whispered a long list of curses as he planted his face against her finely dressed hair.

“Ignore that,” he pleaded into her ear. “Please.” His hand slowly traced the smooth skin of her thigh. She nodded into his shoulder, pushing against his body, welcoming the touch of his rough fingers. The noise continued to grow louder until it sounded as if the door lock would give way.

“I wasn’t done with you yet,” Bly growled. He bent down and stole one last sweet kiss.

Clara smiled smugly.

“We should cancel the ball,” he said.

“I fear it’s too late. I’ll save you a waltz.”

“You can save me every dance tonight.”

“That’s not good manners, Bly. Besides, married couples do not dance together.”

He bent down for another hungry kiss, unable to deny himself the pleasure of her mouth. “This married couple will. My house, my wife, my rules.”

“Go,” she insisted, pushing him away with a laugh.

He did not care who was knocking as long as he could hear her laugh again. Her lips parted in a happy smile, her eyes still shining with desire as she straightened his bowtie and pushed him toward the door.

Bly looked behind as he slipped out into the hallway, amazed as Clara stood there beautifully undone, just as he loved her.

*

Clara slumped against door, weighing Bly’s words over in her mind and heart.

It was unfair to tease him, but she thought that perhaps, just maybe, he had been about to confess what she longed for him to say. It seemed impossible once, but now it hid just beneath the surface of his kisses and his words. It lingered behind the gentleness of his touch and the way his eyes softened whenever she entered the room. It was silently there as he made love to her.

She could never break herself from Bly, never truly rid her heart of him or bar him from her thoughts, either. They were as much entwined as the honeysuckle and hazelnut tree. They each died when separated, if not in body, then in spirit, certainly.

Clara Ravensdale.

The stringed buzz of the orchestra and the merry murmur of the guests echoed through the foyer as Clara descended the stairs.

What she saw could not be real. Burton Hall was no longer that desolate secret, left rotting away in the countryside. It was full of life, laughter, and light. So much light.

Clara thought the chandelier in the foyer was the house’s jewel, but that was until she entered the ballroom and gasped. The mirrored ballroom was incandescent. The gilded woodwork glowed as the candlelight licked the walls. The French doors in the rear of the ballroom were open to allow a view of the marble columns of the covered courtyard. She noticed the water’s reflection off the small pond casting shimmering lights onto the stone ceiling as sweet summer air wafted in from outside. It was pure magic.

In dizzying succession, Clara bounced from group to group of guests, all the while searching for Bly in the crowd. She knew no one. It was not right for her to greet guests into their home without him giving her a proper introduction.

That was when the magic faded, some two hours into the night. Bly had never returned. He was so eager to spend the evening with her and claim every dance that it was more unsettling than maddening that he was not by her side. Her nails bit into her palms as she stretched herself taller and peered through the crush of the ballroom. Nothing.

She smiled sweetly at the man standing across from her in a circle of admirers. The heat was making her much too hot and the champagne a bit too dizzy to follow along with the pointless dribble of the conversation. Clara flashed a weak smile and took a hungry gulp from her champagne glass. She must remember to stop doing that. It was not proper for a woman to be drunk at a ball.

“Excuse me,” she said, sinking into an awkward curtsey. There was no need to curtsey, but her body was halfway through the motion before her brain caught up with her dipping body. Clara heard the hushed snickers. Still, those cruel sounds followed her.

The ballroom was a swirl of pastel silks and lace. As the hours had grown later, the polite murmurs transformed into a robust enjoyment of the crowd as laughs grew a bit too loud to be considered polite and as hands and eyes gave way to the more scandalous variety of lovers.

With a pensive sway, Clara walked to the stone balustrade and rested her hands against the rough stone. The lily pond below glowed with floating candles, pushed by a soft breeze. There were soft whispers by the shadows by the building—lovers, no doubt. She nodded to a group of men on her other side, catching a passing shadow behind her. The strong smell of honeysuckle clouded her head as she continued to watch the candles drift in circles, the ground a bit unsteady beneath her feet. When Bly decided to show up, she would love to push him into that pond for leaving her to handle the hordes of people in her ballroom. Devil.

“You’ll bite your lip off if you keep that up.”

Clara spun around, keeping her arms behind her braced on the balustrade. There was a room full of women in the next room anxious to hear something whispered to them by this man, so she smiled, feeling her bruised lip.

“He’s not here, Barnes.”

“True, but you have been a lovely hostess. The room is buzzing about you.”

She shook her head and tucked her hands primly in front of her. “Where is he?”

“The dancing is about to begin and you cannot waltz by yourself. I won’t share you with any other man in that room.”

“My husband,” she insisted. “Where is he?”

Barnes took a step closer, perhaps too close, as she noticed a few women peering out at them from the ballroom. Not only was her husband missing, but rumors were sure to start about why the Duke of Ashbornham was alone with her out on the dark balcony.

The light tone of his voice slacked to seriousness. “He was with me earlier, but I have not seen him for some time.”

Barnes reached for her hand and placed it respectably at the crook of his elbow. “I will find him.”

“It is not right. I am worried,” Clara whispered, forcing a smile as they reentered.

“Chin up, buttercup,” he quipped, swinging her around to face him in the middle of the ballroom. “You know your husband. He will come out of hiding and be social soon. I am sure of it.”

The orchestra started up and she followed the motions as Barnes gracefully swept her across the floor, but all she thought of was that awkward waltz she shared with Bly in his bedroom. It should have been his hands on her in this moment. It should have been hazel eyes that looked down on her, not green.