In Favour |Clara Walseworth|

Condemned celebrations ~ Chapter 2

Germany, 1816.

The ballroom was a dazzling display of wealth and power, a shimmering cathedral of high society where chandeliers glowed like constellations and the polished marble floor gleamed as though carved from moonlight. The waltz drifting from the orchestra was deceptively gentle, a delicate backdrop for the underlying tension that crackled in the air. Tonight was no mere gathering; it was a battlefield dressed in silk and gold. Prince William's bride would be chosen from the noblewomen gathered here, and every step, every glance, every word was a move in the game.

Clara Walseworth stood near the edge of the room, her aunt Polly at her side, her presence as sharp and precise as a blade. Polly's hawk-like gaze swept the room, catching every detail—the subtle shifts of court alliances, the calculated glances exchanged between mothers and daughters, the subtle smirks and stiff smiles that betrayed ambition masked as politeness. Polly leaned in close to Clara, her breath warm but her voice cold as steel.

"Straighten your back," she whispered sharply. "You're not a milkmaid fresh from the fields. Tonight, you are Clara Walseworth, and you are here to win. Do not waste this opportunity."

Clara obeyed instinctively, adjusting her posture, though the knot in her stomach tightened. She didn't dare protest, not here. Not now. Her ivory gown, chosen by Polly for its quiet elegance, shimmered under the candlelight, the silver embroidery catching the eye without shouting for attention. Clara had admired the dress at first, but now it felt like armor—a beautiful disguise concealing the vulnerable, uncertain girl beneath.

"You must stand apart," Polly continued, her voice low but insistent. "Look at these girls." She gestured discreetly to a nearby group of noblewomen, their laughter light and practiced as they angled themselves toward the prince's path. "Peacocks, all of them, strutting and preening. They'll be forgotten the moment the next pretty face walks by. But you—" Polly turned to Clara, her eyes narrowing. "You must be different. Quiet. Graceful. A mystery he must unravel. Men like him cannot resist the unattainable."

Clara swallowed hard, nodding even as her heart raced. Polly's words cut through her like a knife—not because they were cruel, but because they carried the weight of truth. Polly had spent weeks drilling Clara, turning her into the perfect image of composure and charm. Every moment had been scrutinized, every imperfection polished away. Tonight, there was no room for error.

The soft hum of the room shifted, a ripple of movement drawing all eyes toward the entrance. Clara turned to see Prince William entering the ballroom, resplendent in his formal royal attire. His presence commanded attention effortlessly, the crimson sash across his chest catching the light as he moved. His dark hair was neatly combed, his features sharp and striking, but it was his eyes—vivid and piercing blue—that seemed to hold the room in thrall.

Polly's hand gripped Clara's arm lightly, a silent warning. "He's here," she murmured, her tone sharp with expectation. "Now, listen to me. When he looks at you—and he will look at you—you must meet his gaze. Do not fidget. Do not blush like some silly girl. Let him see you, Clara. Let him wonder who you are, and why you are not chasing after him like the rest of these fools. If you falter..." She let the threat hang in the air, her meaning clear.

Clara's throat tightened, but she managed a nod. She tried to focus on her breathing, on the steady rhythm of the waltz, but her heart pounded like a drum. She could already feel the weight of the prince's gaze moving across the room, scanning the sea of faces.

When his eyes finally landed on her, He paused for the briefest of seconds, his expression neutral but his focus unmistakable. Clara felt her cheeks grow warm, but she forced herself to meet his gaze, holding it as Polly had instructed. There was something in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest glimmer of interest—but just as quickly as it had come, it was gone.