Their return to Benedict’s was uneventful; Clarice, wrapped in her domino to hide her torn gown, passed more or less unnoticed.
Once in her suite, she shut the door, tossed her domino over a chair, then went to sit in one of the deep armchairs by the hearth. She slumped, very tired, still shaking inside. A small fire was burning; leaning forward, she held her cold hands out to the blaze. “I think Moira was behind that.”
“Moira?” Jack had halted just inside the door; she could feel his gaze on her. “Not the traitor’s henchman?”
“Not unless the traitor’s henchman can get friends of Moira’s daughters t
o help him.” She clasped her hands and stared into the flames. “I just remembered where I’d seen that man and woman before. They were walking with Hilda and Mildred in Bond Street a few days ago.”
How Moira would laugh once she realized how her vindictive scheme had played out. That Clarice had been saved from whatever horrors Moira had planned for her, but had instead been caught in an even more flagrantly scandalous situation than the one Moira had tried to create seven years ago.
Luckily, she was no longer twenty-two, and her father was dead.
A few moments later, Jack appeared beside her. “Here.”
She looked up; he was holding out a glass of brandy. She took it; sitting back, she sipped. The fiery liquid slid smoothly down her throat, then spread, warming the icy pit that was her stomach.
For a moment, Jack stood, sipping and looking down at the fire. Then he shifted and sat in the other armchair. Forearms on his knees, he cradled the brandy balloon between his hands, then he lifted his head, and met her gaze. “We have to talk.”
Her veins ran cold. She took another sip of the brandy. “About what?”
His gaze remained, unwavering, on her face. “About the situation that now exists.”
She quelled an impulse to ask “What situation?” He wasn’t going to let her avoid the subject; that much was clear in his hazel eyes. “What, precisely, do you mean?”
He hesitated; to her it was clear he was searching for words, for the best avenue to follow. “Despite the fond hopes of our supporters, regardless of what that crowd did or did not actually see, they saw enough. No amount of denial is going to erase the truth they did indeed observe.”
He paused, then drew in a deep breath; she wished she could cut the discussion short, dismiss his words, simply look away, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from his, from the face she now knew so well.
“There are still…accepted practices within the ton. We might think little of them, but they nevertheless are there. If we want to remain an accepted part of that society, the circle into which we both were born, then we have to abide by those rules, by their ways.”
An even more frigid chill washed through her. She held up a hand, palm out, to stop him.
He reached out, caught that hand, held it. “No—hear me out. You’ve reclaimed your position within the ton. They were ready to welcome you back, to reinstate you in order to rid themselves of Moira perhaps, but time has dimmed the past, and the ton is now once more your world. With your reclaimed status, there’s much you can do to further help your brothers, to establish the foundation for the next generation of your family—a laudable goal, one I understand.” His voice took on a harder edge. “But to remain within the ton, you need to hold the position you’ve regained. You need not just to weather but quash the scandal that will inevitably flow from that moment in the garden.”
He paused; she still couldn’t drag her eyes from his. “I know it isn’t what you want, but…if you wish it, you have my offer to marry you. If we agree to marry, there will be no scandal, and you’ll be able to accomplish all you desire within the ton.”
She wondered what he saw as he searched her eyes, then his hand tightened, gently, around hers.
“Your choice.” His lips twisted, self-deprecatingly wry. “But you do have to choose. Now. Tonight.”
She blinked, and struggled to pull together wits that seemed to have spun away.
I know it’s not what you want.
He was wrong, so wrong. Marrying him was precisely what she wanted—if nothing else, that much was clear in her mind—but not like this. Never like this.
This was a nightmare come to life, not just for her, but for him, too.
“No.” It was her turn to squeeze his hand. She was grateful for the contact. Looking into his eyes, she realized how close they’d grown, that it wasn’t possible, with him, for her to simply decree.
It took effort to lower her shields, to look steadily into his eyes and let him see what she felt, and why. She swallowed, and found her voice. “Seven years ago, I made a stand. I refused to allow the ton to dictate my life, not when it came to marriage. That was the right decision then…and it’s even more the right decision now. We’ve both been near victims of others exploiting these selfsame rules to try to control us, to marry us. You know, and I know, how we both felt, still feel about marriage in such circumstances, essentially under duress. To now bow to those same dictates, to do that to ourselves…no. I will not sacrifice you, or me, to their false gods, to their arrogance.”
“But—”
“No—hear me out.” She managed a weak smile. “I told my brothers I didn’t want to return to the family fold, not in terms of tonnish life, of being the matriarch of the clan on any permanent basis.” Tilting her head, she studied his face, tried to read his eyes. “I don’t think they believed me, or rather they imagine they can persuade me otherwise. I’m not sure I convinced you, either.”
Lips twisting wryly, she leaned back in the chair; she still held his hand. “You know I rarely change my mind, and on that subject, I never will. Once my brothers’ grand engagement ball is over, I intend, most definitely, to return to the rectory at Avening. The ton won’t understand, but they’re not required to. It’s what I want, where I want to be, and that’s all that matters.”