To Dishonour A Duke

Chapter Fourteen

A bundle of anticipation tangles in Clara's stomach as the driver announces that their destination is in sight. Her finger furiously fiddles with her ring and her foot begins to bounce as the top end of Fairfield Street trundles past them until the carriage draws to a stop. As though sensing her nerves, George sends her a reassuring smile and offers his hand. 

"Are you ready?" 

"As I'll ever be," Clara replies, accepting his hand.  

Together, they step out onto the street and are greeted by numerous candles lining the steps up to the house. They flicker and dance in the darkness, illuminating the ivy that is woven between the railing, bright purple flowers blooming from the vines.  In front of the door stands a man, his pressed uniform crisp and fresh, a gloved hand on the door handle and a serious expression on his face. He scrutinises them for a moment as they approach, arm in arm, but as they reach the top step he steps to the side and opens the door, allowing them to pass with a low bow.  Across the threshold, the tinkling of music reaches their ears, the light melody swelling and abating. Multiple vases of lilies line the way to the ballroom, their delicate scent filling the air, mixed with the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen.  

"I may have purposely arrived a little late." George murmurs as they walk through the quiet hallway. "For the dramatic effect and all." 

"Oh, I know." Clara pats his elbow, walking with slow and deliberate steps. Her heart begins to thud against her ribs as they round the corner, the staircase to the ballroom in sight through an open door. George catches her as she falters, most of the colour draining from her face.  

"Clara?" He peers down at her with concern.  

"It's been a while." She whispers, transfixed by the faces of friends and foes, mixed below on the dancefloor, drinking and laughing, completely oblivious. Glasses of champagne and whiskey are clutched in their hands, jewels gleaming around the necks of the women, beautiful dresses of many colours spread across the room while the men joke and jest, their hungry eyes darting from girl to girl. With London's richest and most powerful jumbled together, every conversation is a test and an opportunity to prove your worth. One mistake could ostracise you from society forever.  

"It has been a while." George agrees, "But you are who you have always been and there is nothing they can say that will ever take that away." 

She turns to regard him with suspicion. "That was awfully nice of you. I was expecting disparagement to motivate me into action." 

He shrugs. "It is not completely selfless, I need you, but doubting oneself can be utterly crippling and I do not wish to see you suffer that for no reason. What use would it be to beat you when you are down?"

"That is..." Clara pauses to find the right word, "...very just of you." 

He beams and extends his arm, the other folded behind his back. "Now, may I have the honour?"

Smiling down at her, she has to appreciate the richness of his looks and the bright twinkle of his eyes, it distracts her from her leading thoughts. "I'd be delighted." She goes to expect his arm but then stops and steps back. "Oh, one moment please." She undoes the bow under her chin and sweeps off her cloak, baring her shoulders to the air. George's eyes grow wide as she balls up the material and drops it into the drawer of the nearest table. 

"What is the matter?" She asks, adjusting the neckline of her dress. "I'll remember it before I leave." 

"I...." He shakes his head, admiration shining in his stare. She flashes him a cheeky smile, resting her arm on top of his and together they walk to the open double doors. Clara schools her expression and holds her head up high, her frame, rigid. Her grip on her partner tightens but he doesn't seem to mind, and she counts her steps, timing them to perfection.