Dark Wager

"Come," he said, stopping near the closest door and taking her by the elbow to lead her out onto the terrace. She didn't resist, even as he guided her down the stairs to the garden below. He took her to the darkest part of the walled courtyard, to a bench hidden within an alcove of bushes. Nearby, a splashing fountain mixed with the now dim music of the ballroom. "I don't believe we should continue this pretense," he said, attempting to seat her on the bench. She jerked free of his touch, instead, and gave him her back. "It's utter nonsense." He raked a hand through his hair in exasperation. "I know you don't love me, Clara, and that you don't particularly wish to marry me. There's no need for you to behave as if you care for either my good opinion or my devotion." "I wish to be set free," she said unsteadily, her voice thick with tears. "I thought I could bear it, but I'm beginning to think it's impossible. We're not even wed and you already accuse me of adultery!" She sniffled loudly and lifted a hand to wipe her face. He touched her arm and she moved away, saying, angrily, "You're ill, Lucien. Ill in your mind. How could you think that I would ever--" She broke off, weeping. At the sound of it--the deep pain of it--Lucien felt utterly stricken. Clara was crying. Because of him. Because he had wanted to hurt her, always wanted to hurt her, and tried to do so at every opportunity. The very woman whose love he craved more than life itself--perhaps he was mad. But if he was, then she was the one who made him so. It was impossible to believe in her. She flirted with every man she met, and had done so since he'd known her. Even his own friends found her charming, wonderful, enchanting . . . marvelous. If he trusted her with his heart, she would destroy him. He would be even more of a fool than his father had been to give credence to anything she said. "Clara," he said, moving to stand in front of her. She tried to turn away, but he stopped her, and when she put her hands over her face and wept, he enfolded her in his arms and held her tightly. He understood her upset for what it was, and the deeper tension behind it. These were her last few hours of freedom. After tomorrow, she would be irrevocably beneath his hand. "Don't cry," he murmured. "Please. Clara, don't cry." He kissed the top of her head and gently stroked her hair. "I want to believe you," he said. "But it's hard for me to do. I've never trusted any woman. Perhaps it is a . . . sickness with me. Just as you said." "Wou-would you t-trust me if I vowed"--she sniffled and shuddered--"to be f-faithful?" "My mother vowed to be faithful to my father." He stroked her back now, letting his fingers trail downward from the bare neck he had earlSpencer, Mary is the author of 'Dark Wager' with ISBN 9780440224914 and ISBN 0440224918.