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Chapter Two: Embers Beneath the Lace

Clara Whitmore had never believed in fairytales.

Even as a girl, tucked beneath scratchy wool blankets in her father’s narrow cottage, she’d known better than to imagine a prince would gallop down the lane to rescue a village girl with ink-stained fingers. Her dreams had always been smaller to read by firelight, to teach clever children, to carve out a life that was hers and hers alone.

But Alaric Grayson had made her forget all that.

Now, standing behind the thin curtain of her attic room at Rosemere, Clara watched his carriage disappear down the moonlit lane. She pressed a palm to the glass. Her breath fogged the pane. She didn’t move.

You fool, she whispered, though whether she meant herself or him, she could not say.

She should have returned the book through a servant. She should never have spoken to him in such soft tones. And she certainly should not have let him look at her that way as though she were something forbidden he intended to taste anyway.

At breakfast the next morning, the Whitmore house buzzed with the slow, sleepy rhythm of country life. Mrs. Leyton, the housekeeper, prattled on about laundry and foxes near the henhouse. Clara sipped her tea, trying to will her face into composure.

Letter came for you, Miss Whitmore, said the butler, placing an envelope beside her plate.

She recognized the crest at once, gold embossed and unmistakably aristocratic. Ashworth Hall.

Clara’s hand trembled as she opened it, eyes scanning quickly.

Miss Whitmore,

I have come into possession of several botanical illustrations I believe would interest your students. Should you be willing, I invite you to the Ashworth conservatory tomorrow at half-past three.

Yours,

Lady Honoria Grayson

Not Alaric.

His mother.

Clara’s heart twisted in her chest. This was not a simple invitation. This was an inspection.

Lady Honoria Grayson stood in the glasshouse like a statue among orchids. Tall and regal in a gown of lilac silk, she looked as if she might snap in half before she stooped to pluck a weed.

Clara curtsied low.

My lady.

Miss Whitmore, said Lady Honoria, not offering her hand. You are punctual.

Clara straightened. Always.

A long pause stretched between them like a blade.

I’ve heard excellent things about your instruction, said Lady Honoria, leading her down a path of creeping jasmine and lemon verbena. The youngest Everly child, I believe, now reads Latin poetry.

Only Ovid, Clara replied, careful not to smile. He’s fond of the tragedies.

How fitting, the dowager murmured.

They walked in silence for a moment longer. Then, like a viper striking, Lady Honoria turned to face her fully.

You must be aware of what you are risking.

Clara blinked. My lady?”

Do not play coy. You know precisely what I mean.

I assure you, Lady Honoria, I have never presumed upon Lord Grayson’s

Affections? she interrupted, arching a thin brow. Or his attention? My dear, men of rank have been attending to governesses since the title was invented. But they do not marry them. They do not bring them home. They certainly do not disgrace their families for them.”

Clara’s throat went dry.

I have not encouraged anything inappropriate, she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

Lady Honoria gave a mirthless laugh. Of course you have. Simply by existing.

She stepped closer.

You are pretty. Educated. Poised. And worst of all entirely unprotected. That makes you both a temptation and a threat. I do not blame you for catching his eye. But I do hold you responsible if you allow him to ruin his life for a passing infatuation.

Clara looked down at her gloves. They were mended in three places.

I have no ambition to be anyone’s ruin, Lady Grayson.

Good. Then you will find employment elsewhere. Before the engagement is formally announced next month.

Clara’s head snapped up. You would have me dismissed?

You would prefer I allow this… fantasy to continue?

She felt her body stiffen with rage.

This is my livelihood.

And this is my son’s future, Lady Honoria said coldly. You’ve had your moment, Miss Whitmore. Now step aside.

Clara said nothing.

She simply curtsied again lower this time, slower, like a final bow and walked away without looking back.

Alaric returned to Ashworth that evening to find the house oddly silent.

Where’s my mother? he asked the butler, handing off his gloves.

In the conservatory, my lord. With Miss Whitmore earlier. She left in some haste.

Alaric’s brow furrowed. He moved swiftly down the corridor, but the glasshouse was empty now, save for a fallen glove beside the lemon tree.

Clara’s.

The next morning, Alaric rode to Rosemere with a storm beneath his ribs. When Clara answered the door, he saw instantly what had changed. Her eyes were colder, her shoulders stiffer.

Your mother paid me a visit, she said, before he could speak.

I didn’t know.

She’s very eloquent, Clara added. Though her message was rather simple. Leave. Disappear. Be forgotten.

She had no right

She had every right, Clara snapped. You and I live in two different novels, Lord Grayson. And I’m afraid yours ends in a wedding to someone else.

His voice dropped. Do you think I love her?

I think it doesn’t matter. I think the world will make you marry her whether you do or not.

He stepped forward.

I can fight it, Clara. I will.

She shook her head. You don’t understand. I don’t want you to fight. I want you to choose.

Silence fell.

Alaric’s fists clenched. Then I choose you.

Her breath caught. For a moment, just a moment, she let herself believe it.

But then she stepped back and said, No. You choose me only when you’re free. Not before.

That night, Lady Evelyne Harrowgate arrived for a dinner engagement.

She was dressed in emerald silk, her gloves as white as powdered snow. As they dined beneath chandeliers and French oil paintings, she studied Alaric carefully.

You look like a man who’s lost something, she said lightly.

He didn’t answer.

I used to imagine I would marry for love, she went on. Then I turned twenty and realized it was not a requirement.

He gave her a tired smile. Is that supposed to comfort me?

No, she said. It’s supposed to make you grateful. I won’t ask for your heart, Lord Grayson. Only your name.

And if I’ve already given my heart away?

Then do as they always do, she replied, eyes gleaming. Bury it. And smile for the crowd.