A masquerade with the de.., p.7
A Masquerade with the Devil, page 7
Clara banished him with a grim set to her jaw and strode for the iron gate at the garden’s far end.
She was nearly there when a voice called out, “Lady Clara. I had not thought you a naturalist.”
She started, as though the devil himself had stepped from the late-morning mist. And indeed he had—Crispin stood, leaning one shoulder against a lichen-crusted statue of Venus, holding a single long-stemmed rose between his fingers. His coat, a shade of midnight blue, caught the light like the wing of a starling, and his boots shone from a recent polish.
“Lord Oakford,” she said, too breathless for her own comfort. “I could say the same of you. Have you lost your way to the card tables?”
He smirked, the effect as devastating in sunlight as it had been by candlelight. “I am forbidden from all games of chance at Stratmore. Last summer’s…exploits left them wary of my influence.”
“Pity,” she said, recovering her composure.
“Just so,” he replied, twirling the rose between his thumb and forefinger. “But roses, I find, are endlessly fascinating. Take this one, for example.” He crossed the path in a handful of long strides, closing the distance with the casual arrogance that made mothers clutch their daughters and daughters clutch at fantasies. “It is a bourbon, is it not?”
She glanced at the bloom, white at the petal’s edge, bleeding to crimson at the heart. “I would not have guessed you a scholar of horticulture, my lord.”
He offered her the flower, bowing with mock gallantry. “I have studied the subject only so far as it pertains to seduction and survival.”
She accepted the rose, but made no show of appreciation. “It is my experience that both pursuits end in pain.”
He grinned, eyes glinting. “Or in pleasure, if you choose the right company.”
Clara ignored the way her pulse sped and met his gaze. “You overestimate your charms.”
“I have yet to receive a complaint,” he said, unbothered. “If I might be permitted, there is a specimen here I believe you would find intriguing.” He gestured down a side path, shaded and lined with a tangle of pale yellow climbers. “Unless, of course, you are too frightened to spend time in the company of your affianced.”
She set her jaw, but curiosity won. “Lead on. But if this is a prelude to another of your infamous wagers, I will have you know I do not bet.”
He offered his arm, which she ignored. Undeterred, he escorted her, hands clasped behind his back. “I recall you once staked a shilling on whether Lady Pavington’s wig would dislodge during dinner.”
“Lady Pavington was my aunt, and it was for charity,” Clara replied, her lips betraying a smile despite herself. “You recall an alarming number of my indiscretions.”
“It is the only way to judge character,” he said, “to watch what people do when they believe no one is looking.”
They passed through a trellis heavy with yellow Lady Banks, the petals raining down like confetti. Crispin paused, watching her as she brushed a few from her shoulder, and she had the uncomfortable sense that he was committing the gesture to memory.
“I am not your project,” she said, unable to stand the silence.
“No,” he agreed. “You are my partner in deception.”
“Do not mistake proximity for alliance,” she retorted, the words sharper than intended.
He smiled, and in that moment, she saw the ghost of the boy he must have been. A child who knew exactly how to break things and fix them just enough to escape punishment.
They reached the far corner of the garden, a patch of shadow broken only by the sun’s reflection off a leaded-glass cold frame. Behind it, Clara saw the oddest roses she had ever encountered. The blooms were true blue, the color of periwinkle and heartbreak. They were sprawled against the brick, ungainly and beautiful in a way that made her heart lurch. Something in their imperfect, persistent bloom spoke to her. A silent echo of her own contradictions, her own fight to be seen on her own terms.
She stepped forward, inspecting the petals. “I did not think blue roses possible.”
“They are not,” he said, voice gone quieter. “These are the result of years of cross-breeding and disappointment. They call it Winfield’s Folly.”
She looked up at him, something in his tone drawing her attention. He watched the roses with a peculiar mixture of pride and regret, as though they were a testament to failed ambition.
“Why show me this?” she asked.
Crispin shrugged, hands in his pockets. “It is beautiful, but everyone walks past it. They prefer perfect ones. But I find the broken ones far more compelling.”
She blinked. “That is either very profound or very pitiful, Lord Oakford.”
“Possibly both,” he said, and for a heartbeat, she wondered if he was speaking of more than roses.
Clara reached out, touching one of the blue blossoms. A thorn caught on her glove and pricked her finger clean through. Blood beaded instantly, vivid as the roses behind her.
She cursed a low, unladylike word. Before she could so much as inspect the damage, Crispin was at her side, a handkerchief already in hand. He wrapped her finger with quick, competent movements, his touch so gentle that it startled her more than the prick itself.
“There,” he said, knotting the cloth with deft fingers. She looked down. The linen square was pale and finely embroidered with a devil’s head monogram in the corner.
“I did not think you capable of first aid,” she said, distracted by the warmth of his hand around hers.
He did not let go. “You would be surprised what I am capable of.”
She met his gaze, blue on blue. Crispin’s hand lingered around hers, thumb tracing a circle just above the pulse in her wrist.
Her breath turned shallow. “You can release me, Lord Oakford. I am not in mortal peril.”
He did not move. “Perhaps I prefer to keep you in suspense.”
Her cheeks flushed. She pulled her hand free, but the gesture was more symbolic than forceful.
They stood in silence, the pause thick and lush as the garden itself.
Crispin tucked the stained handkerchief into his pocket. “You are welcome,” he said, tone mild, as though she were a recalcitrant child he had just saved from a scraped knee.
“I am hardly in your debt,” she replied, but the words rang hollow. Something in her had shifted, a degree or two off axis. She hated him for it, and yet, wanted nothing more than to see what else he might do to unsettle her world.
What the devil was wrong with her?
She stepped back, hands folded tight at her waist. “Thank you. For the assistance.”
“My pleasure, Lady Clara.”
She turned then and began retracing the path back toward the crowd.
Clara had meant to return to the crowd. To lose herself among the white pavilions and appropriate gentlemen, and let the memory of her encounter with Oakford dissolve in their company. But her feet conspired against her, carrying her down a quieter, winding path toward the estate’s wilder edges, the crunch of gravel loud in her ears.
Crispin followed, of course. She heard his tread behind her. Softer than she expected. She neither acknowledged nor invited him, but when the path narrowed and he fell in beside her, she did not protest.
For a few minutes, neither spoke. The garden’s wilder kin—the honeysuckle, the mock orange, the arching willow—crowded around, filtering sunlight into ragged green mosaics that mirrored the quiet disarray of Clara’s thoughts. Her anger from a moment ago ebbed with every step. The air smelled too much of summer for it to last. Sweet and thick with honeysuckle and memory. It softened something in Clara, loosening the grip of her indignation like silk unraveling.
“You walk as if you are being chased,” Crispin observed.
“Perhaps I am.”
He glanced sideways, smile bright and incorrigible. “If you wish to escape me, you will have to do better.”
She snorted, not bothering to soften the sound. “Why are you not among the guests, conquering the resolve of more inviting ladies?”
He pretended to consider it. “The company is better out here.”
She rolled her eyes, but the compliment, genuine or not, coaxed the edge from her retort. “I suppose you will now quote poetry and expect me to soften at the words.”
“I never quote poetry,” Crispin said. “It is a crutch for those with nothing to say.”
She nearly laughed. “A novel philosophy.”
They rounded a turn and came upon the old fountain, a feature Clara remembered from her first season, half-collapsed, its rim tilted, but still fed by a thin stream that trickled over the edge into a mossy basin. Someone had planted forget-me-nots around its feet, blue as the morning sky. Clara paused, and Crispin did too, as if the sight had summoned a truce neither wished to break.
He nudged her with his elbow, playful as a schoolboy. “Legend has it, if you throw a coin and make a wish, the fountain spits back what it does not want to keep.”
“That is a wretched story,” Clara said. “Why should wishes be rejected?”
He looked at her, eyes dark as secrets. “Not all wishes are worthy of being granted.”
She considered that, then took the coin he offered. She closed her eyes, whispered her wish to herself, freedom, and the power to stop her own heart from betraying her, and tossed the coin into the basin. There was a brief splash, then the water stilled.
“You did not even try,” Crispin accused.
“Of course not. I have never wished for anything that would survive out in the open.”
He grinned. “That is the most honest thing I have heard all day.”
They circled the fountain together, orbiting in silence, their steps unconsciously aligned. Crispin stopped at a place where the basin bulged slightly, knelt, and examined the crumbling stone. “Did you know,” he said, tracing a faint carving with his finger, “that the Stratmore’s original gardener hid all manner of wicked things in his fountains? He believed water was the best place to keep secrets.”
Clara raised a brow. “You do seem the sort to believe in secret-keeping.”
He looked up at her, the sunlight catching the silver in his eyes. “What is life but a collection of secrets? If one told the whole truth at every moment, one would be dead, or institutionalized, within a week.”
She hesitated. “I should like to see you try it for a day.”
He stood, dusted off his knees, and offered her a crooked smile. “Careful, Lady Clara. If I told you the whole truth, you would find yourself thoroughly ruined.”
She almost laughed again, but the feeling caught in her throat. “You are impossible.”
“And yet, you remain at my side.”
She was about to retort when the fountain, which had been burbling peaceably, let out a sudden, explosive jet of water, dousing Crispin’s sleeve and sending a fine spray over Clara’s bodice. For a moment, she froze, then looked at him. Water ran off his elbow, his hair plastered to his forehead, the astonished look on his face so utterly, perfectly human that she could not help herself. She laughed.
It burst from her before she could stop it. A real, irreverent sound of delight that felt like sunlight inside her chest. It was loud and uncensored, a laugh that startled a blackbird from the hedge and echoed over the lawn. Crispin, drenched, blinked at her, then began to laugh too. A sound so unexpected, so open and free, that it stilled her laughter with the shock of recognition.
He shook his arm, droplets spraying in all directions. “Well,” he managed, “I did say the fountain was a capricious bastard.”
Clara pressed a hand to her mouth, still giggling. “You look like a child caught in the pudding dish.”
“I have never been caught,” he said, voice mock-offended. “This is a first.”
She wrung a bit of water from her sleeve, marveling at the spectacle of Crispin Hallworth, Devil of Oakford, reduced to a sodden, laughing mess. The sight did something strange to her chest.
They found a bench in the shade, a quiet pocket away from the path, and settled there without ceremony. They sat in silence, letting the sun chase away the damp and the awkwardness, a quiet truce settling between them.
Clara broke the silence first. “Is it true? What they say about you? The Devil of Oakford?”
He looked at her sidelong. The laughter gone but not the mischief. “That depends on which story you mean.”
She shrugged. “All of them, I suppose. I have heard you ruined at least three debutantes, started a duel over a bottle of port, and gambled away a whole manor house in a single night.”
He seemed amused. “The first is untrue. The second…well, the duel was over a port, but also over a woman. And the manor house was already in ruins when I wagered it, so I consider that a public service. I have no regrets.”
She shook her head. “You truly are shameless.”
He regarded her, something softer flickering in his expression. “Do you want to know how the name started? The Devil of Oakford?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“I fear you will be disappointed.” He leaned back, arms stretched along the back of the bench. “It was a masquerade, ironically. I was ten, and my father…very stern, very correct…had invited the entire county for All Hallows Eve. I was not welcome in the ballroom, but there was a separate party for the children. I decided to come as the Devil, red paint, horns, tail and all. I terrorized the other children, of course, but the real coup was hiding in my father’s study and setting off the fireworks he kept for summer celebrations.”
She stifled a laugh. “You did not.”
He grinned. “I did. The room filled with smoke, the house nearly burned down, and for a solid quarter hour, the servants believed Hell had come to claim Oakford. Afterward, no one called me by my given name. Not even my governess.”
Clara shook her head, unable to hide her smile. “And all this time I thought it was some tale of wicked seduction.”
“Most tales are, eventually,” he said, more quietly. “But the truth is almost always duller.”
She studied him. “You do not seem dull to me.”
He turned his face toward her, and for a moment, all the masks dropped. He looked tired. Not in body, but in the way of someone who had lived with too many versions of himself, each less true than the last, a parade of masks worn so long, even he no longer recognized what lay beneath.
“Thank you,” he said. “And I daresay you are a revelation, too.”
They sat for a long while.
Neither felt a need to fill the silence. The garden hummed with bees while sunlight drifted in and out of the hedges, and for the first time in weeks, Clara felt no urge to run. Not from herself and not from him.
At length, Crispin stood and offered her his arm. “Shall we return to civilization? Or shall we run away and become outlaws in the forest?”
She took the offered arm, the gesture feeling less like a trap and more like an invitation. “Let us at least collect the tea first.”
“As you wish,” he said, and guided her back toward the noise and the world that awaited them.
They walked on in silence, their steps falling into easy rhythm, unforced, unspoken, and far too natural for comfort so much so, that when they reached the fringe of the garden party, Clara forgot where she ended and he began. His scent clung to her glove, her skin still tingled from his touch, and something inside her trembled with the terrifying ease of it all.
Clara slipped her hand free of Crispin’s arm. He lingered beside her, hands folded behind his back.
“Will you join me for a walk tomorrow?” he asked. “There is a mechanical exhibition at the Royal Society. I promise no one will throw water at you.”
She almost said yes, but caution intervened. “If my mother allows it.”
He grinned, as if he had already won. “She will. I am your betrothed, after all.”
Clara laughed, shook her head, and joined the throng near the tea tables. As she poured herself a cup, she caught sight of Lady Stratmore across the lawn, her expression unreadable save for the faintest hint of a knowing smile. Clara blushed and looked away, heart racing for reasons she dared not name.
Crispin drifted back into the crowd, easily absorbed by his friends and admirers. But when Clara glanced up, she caught him watching her from beneath a sweep of dark hair. He winked, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks all over again.
Something had shifted, she knew. The line between what she believed and what she wanted had blurred beyond recognition, and she could not say which direction she was more afraid to take. Dare she reach toward a future that might expose her heart, or retreat back to the safety of solitude, where nothing could be broken because nothing had been risked, an empty sort of safety she had once mistaken for strength.
Chapter 8
The Grand Royal Exhibition unfolded before them, a glittering labyrinth of marvels, imported, invented, or conjured for the delight of England’s elite. Even by the standards of a society addicted to spectacle, it was calculated to dazzle. From the avenue outside, one glimpsed the golden glow of a hundred thousand gas jets and heard the babble of aristocrats, artists, and all those who had bought, begged, or blackmailed their way inside. Within the glass-roofed palace, anticipation shimmered.
Crispin escorted Clara through the first archway, his smile pitched perfectly between adoring fiancé and feral predator. Clara, for her part, held herself with the practiced elegance of a woman immune to judgment. Beneath the stillness of her posture, her fingers curled ever so slightly against her gloves, the only sign of the tension coiled tight beneath her calm exterior. If she felt the press of a thousand curious glances, it did not show. She was exquisite as ever, draped in silver-grey muslin, her hair pinned high with blue gemstones that caught the light and flung it back in dazzling fragments.
As they entered, recognition rippled through the crowd. Eyes tracked their every step. Fans fluttered. Names were whispered behind gloved hands. Crispin relished such attention.
