Page 27 of A Christmas Miracle for the Frosty Marquess
The reticence in his response threw her. It was as if he was there, yet miles away. The anecdotes she shared in the hope of connection now hung in the air, making her feel even more vulnerable.
“It sure does,” she said softly.
When they fell into silence once again, Clara left it that way. She had hoped that Julian might mention the holiday parties they had attended when they were younger, or at least shared some stories from his own family holiday celebrations. He did neither, however, and Clara was quickly becoming so nervous that all she wanted was to finish their task and return home. It was clear that Julian had no intention of warming up to her easily. And she was only embarrassing herself by trying to get him to do so.
When they finally finished the wreath, Julian lifted it from the table. It was large, but for its size it didn’t seem to be remarkably heavy. She rushed to help him, but he headed for the door to the drawing room before she could put her hands on it.
“I’ll go hang this,” he said, not looking at her.
Clara sighed, mimicking his earlier silence when she had spoken to him. It wasn’t until he left the room that someone else spoke again.
“That is a beautiful wreath, Clara,” Elizabeth said, giving Clara a proud smile. “The two of you work very well together.”
Clara sniffed, shaking her head.
“So long as talking isn’t required, it seems,” she said forlornly.
Elizabeth wiped her hands on a nearby cloth before putting gentle hands-on Clara’s shoulders.
“Give him time,” she said softly. “You can’t know it, but he’s already coming around. Before today, I doubt he would have set foot in here with decorations to prepare. It will take time, but he will come out of his shell. I promise.”
Clara nodded, but she was more certain than ever that it wasn’t true. She helped Elizabeth clean up in silence, all too glad when it was time to bid everyone farewell and leave. As she made her way home, the chilly evening wind echoed her inner turmoil. The emotional whirlwind left her questioning everything. Were the genuine smiles and thawing glances in her direction all in her imagination? Did she stand any chance of truly reaching Julian?
The gentle heat from the candle on Clara’s bedside table warmed her face as she sat deep in thought, dressed in her white lace nightgown. The silky soft covers of her bed invited rest, but her restless mind had other plans. She replayed the events of the day, thinking over Julian’s sudden changes in demeanor during their shared task earlier that day.
But it was the memory of the ball that occupied her thoughts the most. The long, shadowy ballroom filled with the heady scent of perfume and the soft strains of a violin. During that dance, there had been a moment, fleeting though it was, when Julian had held her a bit closer, his gaze intense, causing her heart to skip a beat. It was hard to believe that Julian hadn’t felt anything in that moment. But the way he kept shutting her out left her with little choice but to believe he couldn’t have.
The game of Speculation they’d played afterward had been another moment of unexpected closeness. As the servants dealt the cards and guests made playful bets, Julian had seemed more at ease, sharing small smiles and brief moments of laughter. Their conversation had flowed effortlessly. But then, as the game ended and the hour grew late, that familiar wall of coldness had once again risen around him, separating him from the world.
“Oh, Julian,” she said quietly into the empty, dimly lit room. “How can I get you to stop guarding yourself so fiercely?”
Chapter Twelve
Julian took his dinner, which he left untouched, in his chambers that evening. He pleaded a headache shortly after Clara left, but even by the stroke of midnight, he was still pacing the floor restlessly. He could see the efforts that Clara had put into engaging with him. And she had created some lovely decorations during her time there. And yet, as much as he had tried, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to interact with her in any meaningful way.
He shook his head, running his hands through his hair. His father and sister had been wrong. There was no good to come of his marriage to Clara. Not only would he be miserable, but he would drag Clara down with him. She clearly wanted a connection with him that he could never share. And despite the thrills he felt when their hands touched, he refused to open his heart to the possibility of letting her in.
When, at last, he put his head on his pillow, his sleep was just as restless. His mind darted from the special moment they had shared at the ball to the way her earnestness made him nervous and uncomfortable. He knew there was no way out of the arrangement for their marriage. But he knew that the only way he could get through the betrothal period was to make himself as scarce as possible. He resolved himself to spend every spare moment he had in his chambers. The less he saw Clara, the better.
The following morning, the first streaks of dawn bathed Julian’s chamber in soft yellows. The warmth of the sun contradicted the chill that settled deep within him, an uncomfortable contrast to the heaviness that encased his heart. He blinked groggily, the aftertaste of the previous night’s dreams making every movement feel weighted. The images, though rapidly diminishing in clarity, were all too real. The soft, pallid face of his mother, the look in her eyes as life left them, the hush of the room as her heart ceased to beat always awaited him when he slept. These dreams had been a rare occurrence in recent months, but the previous day’s decoration crafting and his interactions with Clara seemed to have unearthed those painful memories, bringing them back to the surface of his consciousness.
Julian lay still, gazing up at the rich blue canopy above him. The gentle ripples, ones he usually found solace in, now seemed to mock his unrest. Each crease and curve mirrored the tumultuous path of his thoughts, looping back to his mother, and then back to Clara.
Lost in his brooding, he barely noticed the door open. It was Fernsby, his valet, stepping into the room with an air of silent efficiency.
“Good morning, milord,” Fernsby said as he selected an outfit for Julian’s day.
Julian let out a soft sigh, not immediately responding. His relationship with Fernsby had always been more than just employer and servant. The older man had seen him through some of the most tumultuous times of his life, and there was a silent understanding between them.
Seeing Julian’s distress, Fernsby hesitated for a moment.
“I understand that this time of year is difficult for you, milord,” he said.
Julian turned his gaze towards Fernsby, his eyes betraying the depths of his pain.
“Sometimes, the past feels insurmountable,” he said.
Fernsby approached the bed, a tender expression on his usually stoic face.
