Page 48 of A Lady's Propitious Match
Imogen fell into silence, which Clara understood. She could be supported by her friend, but there was nothing that Imogen could say. There were no easy answers for such a tangled mess. There was no way that Clara could extract herself from this mess. She was stuck.
***
The grandeur of Lady Abigail Ashford’s Spring Soiree unfolded before Clara as she stepped into the opulent ballroom, adorned with cascading blossoms and sparkling chandeliers thatcast a radiant glow. The air buzzed with lively conversation, laughter, and the enchanting melodies of the orchestra.
Clara, accompanied by her parents, wore a gown that mirrored the regality expected of a bride to be. The dress, a sea of cream colored silk, draped elegantly around her figure, adorned with delicate lace and intricate embroidery drawing all eyes her way. Not that Clara wanted to be looked at, especially when all of her desires were being betrayed.
As Lady Ashford greeted the Belmonts, Clara was struggling with a heavy weight pressing down on her chest. She was not going to be able to enjoy anything about this evening. Not when she knew exactly what was coming in the morning.
Clara tried to be polite. She answered questions when she was asked, and she wore a smile that masked the pain within, but she was not sure that she was passing it off well. Her parents were beaming and excited, but her mother kept shooting her pained looks.
Pained looks which only subsided when she caught sight of Lord Caldwell. “Ah look, Clara,” she hissed. “It is time for your first dance. Time for everyone in this room to see that you are linked to a lord, not a gentleman without a title.”
Clara just about resisted the urge to roll her eyes. How transparent her mother was, it was so clear that she was so embarrassed by the fact that Christopher was not born with a title, that she did not wish to even be associated with him at all. She did not care one bit about how Clara felt. She was not interested in her falling in love.
“Lady Belmont, might I say you are looking rather ravishing today,” Simon announced in an over the top voice, trying to get the attention of everyone around them. It was very clear. “I would love the honour of sharing this first dance with you.”
As he extended his hand to Clara, of course she had to take it. She could not disagree without looking rude. Especially as they were now betrothed to be married.
It was utterly infuriating. Clare did not like it one bit.
Once in the middle of the dance floor, under the eyes of many watching members of the ton, their dance began, the rhythmof the music guiding their steps. Simon’s conversation, however, lacked the enchanting cadence that usually accompanied a dance. Instead, it was a monologue, a self centered symphony that echoed in Clara’s ears like a dissonant melody.
“…tonight has been quite the night of networking for me, Lady Belmont. I have made some great bonds with people, which I believe will help me with my business moving forwards…”
Clara nodded politely, her eyes drifting to the swirling patterns on the ballroom floor as she struggled to feign interest in Simon’s words. The shallowness of his discourse grated against her, a stark contrast to the genuine connection she had shared with Christopher.
“And of course,” Simon continued, blissfully unaware of Clara’s inner turmoil, “a marriage such as ours will undoubtedly elevate both our families. The union of the Caldwells and the Belmonts. A match made in heaven.”
Clara managed a tight lipped smile as she glanced over Simon’s shoulder. But it was the sight of him which stripped the air from her lungs completely.
There, across the room, stood Christopher. Devastatingly handsome in the dim glow of the ballroom. The sight of him sent a fresh wave of anguish through Clara. The contrast between Simon’s self centered conversation and Christopher’s silent presence was stark, a visual representation of the choice she felt had been stripped from her.
Christopher’s eyes, pools of longing and understanding, met Clara’s for a fleeting moment. The connection between them, though restrained by the societal constraints that surrounded them, spoke volumes.
For a heartbeat, the world ceased to exist around them. Clara’s breath caught in her throat as she absorbed the unspoken plea in Christopher’s eyes. A plea that mirrored her own internal struggle. All she wanted was to be in his arms, and to stay there forever.
How was she supposed to do this? How was she supposed to survive a marriage with Lord Caldwell when she knew that Christopher was out in the world? It was agony. It was almost arelief as the song came to an end, so Clara could have a moment alone.
At least, that was what she thought was going to happen.
But Christopher had other ideas. He approached her before she even reached the corner of the dance floor with his hand out stretched, aching for a moment of her time.
Much as Clara wanted to refuse because she was drowning in agony, she knew that she could not. Not without causing a scene and without Christopher wanting to know what was happening… would it hurt him to learn that she could not be his? In a façade or otherwise?
The quadrille unfolded before Clara, the choreography of the dance meticulously guiding her steps. The soft strains of the music embraced the ballroom, each note a whisper of the emotion that lay beneath the surface. As the dance progressed, Clara found herself reluctantly placed in Christopher’s proximity, their hands meeting in a proper yet tormented embrace.
This was not like dancing with Simon, not at all. Every nerve in Clara’s body thrummed with conflicting sensations. The touch, though restrained by societal norms, sent a jolt of thrill and torture through her. As they moved through the graceful patterns of the quadrille, the air between them crackled with the unspoken, a language of shared glances and charged proximity.
Silence enveloped them, and Clara fought the urge to break it with words that could never capture the magnitude of what she felt. There was no way to really express how she truly felt inside, and how torturous this all was.
A profound grief settled within Clara as she realized the weight of the impending separation. After tonight, the gentleman whose touch ignited a symphony of emotions within her would become a distant memory. A forbidden connection severed by the expectations of society.
Eventually, before either of them could say a word, the final notes of the quadrille lingered in the air, a poignant melody that marked the conclusion of a dance and the impending conclusion of a clandestine connection. With immense effort, Clara executed a polite curtsey, the weight of powerful emotions threatening torupture her tenuous composure in full view of the observing crowd.
“Thank you very much for the dance, Christopher,” she said in almost a whisper. “But I must excuse myself from the dance floor now. I need… a moment…”
There was a crack in her voice.
