Page 25 of Trade of a Lifetime (Trade Wind 1)

She breathed in, feeling as though she was mourning the child.

Clara had experienced loneliness before, dissolved in grief at times—when her parents died, when Violet was suffering. She hadn’t cried when Violet passed; she was freed from pain.

But something new clawed at her, as it had ever since she met Mr. Robertson.

Breathing hard, all Clara could recall of the imaginary child were her eyes, a mosaic of gold and green.

She shook her head, overwhelmed by the implication. If she and that impossible man created a child together…

She shook her head harder. No, they couldn’t. That would mean that they…

And that was impossible.Impossible!

Clara reached back to untie the apron. She’d already spent more time at Violet House than intended, and she needed to rush to the lending library.

By the time she retrieved her cloak downstairs, Clara wasn’t reminding herself to behave properly. She was tired of reminding herself about her comportment and the dangers of Mr. Robertson’s touch.

Before meeting him, frustration had already built over her general lack of freedom, but not to the point where she wanted to pound her fists against something. To kick and scream.

As she wanted to now!

She feltangry.

Angry at the invisible ties that held her in her place, those that bound her to her role. In that role, she was expected to display no outward wants or desires beyond frivolous things, express no opinions about matters of import, engage in no practical activity beyond household management.

The role where she hid her friendship with a prostitute and visited Violet House covertly.

Clara felt muffled, restrained, held back from exploring the instincts compounding in her mind and body.

She was nearly beyond worrying that she wanted that impolite ruffian’s paws on her. She was reaching a place where shame didn’t exist, where she accepted her desires for what they were.

If not reproach, she did feel a measure of terror as the intangible strictures loosened. They weren’t as indelibly anchored as she would have thought.

What had seemed impossible now felt within her reach.

She felt so weak at the moment, scared of what she might do. Against her own judgment, her mind played out scenarios that should be unthinkable.

The problem was that she’d already done the unthinkable before; sheknewit was possible. She had founded the LLS, and furthered her friendship with Stella. Such endeavors had seemed out of the question—until they weren’t.

She watched her brother, a man with no formal training in the practical side of commerce, exercise his natural talent and instincts in commerce—despite the social bar against such activities for a man of their class.

This whispered to Clara that she could slip loose of the knots. Her powerful attraction to Mr. Robertson and their mutual enthusiasm felt like an opportunity she would be foolish to squander.

That afternoon, she arrived late to the meeting point. Her maid appeared worried, but if Molly suspected Clara didn’t spend several hours at the lending library, she never said.

Once home, she realized that she couldn’t tolerate the fuss of sitting down to be dressed and primped like a doll to go out that evening.

She’d accepted an invitation from Beatrice and her husband, the Marquess of Candleton, to attend the theater. As enthusiastic as she’d been, now she failed to muster even tepid thoughts about the plan.

Accepting that she wasn’t fit for company tonight, Clara dashed off a letter with her regrets, canceling her plans.

She retired early; battling her anger and frustration had left her fatigued in both body and spirit. She’d slept poorly and little of late, finding no respite from her own thoughts.

When Molly placed lavender-scented, flannel-covered warming bricks at her feet, her eyelids closed heavily.

After several hours of profound slumber, Clara woke. The fire in the grate dwindled to glowing embers. The house was silent except for occasional creaks.

Chilled, she cocooned herself in the blankets, thinking of Mr. Robertson. She rolled face down into her pillow and raised onto her knees. Riding her hand, she gently plucked her middle finger against her swelling clitoris, all the while reliving the feel of Mr. Robertson’s hands latching onto her hips, his warm breath sliding against her neck.

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