Page 15 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

They crossed the square to the Cloister Gate in companionable silence, where wrought iron met arched stone beneath the pale glow of a lantern.

A verger in a black cassock rose from a wooden stool just inside the gate, a ring of keys glinting at his hip as he stood to greet them. “Good evening. Lord Rutland, I presume?”

Bentley approached. “I believe you received my note.”

The verger gave a respectful nod and turned the key in the lock. “Indeed, my lord. I’ve been expecting you. Canon Bayley asked me to convey his deepest thanks for your generous donation. The tower stairs are yours until midnight. I’ll be in the nave should you require assistance.”

Clara peered into the shadowed passage. “It seems awfully dark. Are we permitted a lantern?”

“Of course, miss.”

He lifted a lamp from the low bench beside him, the flame throwing a flicker across his weathered features, and handed it to Bentley.

“Follow the cloister walk and turn left into the nave,” the verger said, stepping aside to let them pass. “The stairs to the west tower are just beyond the archway.” He glanced at Clara’s eye patch. “Mind your step, miss, and be careful at the top. The wind can whip up a gust without warning.”

They entered, their footsteps echoing along the cloister. Shadows climbed the vaulted ceiling, quivering with each flicker of the lantern’s flame. Soon, they reached the tower staircase and began a breathless ascent.

“How many steps are there?” she asked between gasps.

“At least a hundred.”

Halfway up, Bentley stumbled on a worn step, steadying himself with a muttered curse. He hadn’t been watching the stairs, only the quick flash of Clara’s ankles as she lifted her skirts to climb.

She stopped, glancing back sharply. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Just dizzy from the endless spiral.”

“It can’t be much farther. Shall I take the lantern?”

“No, I can manage.”

As long as he stopped staring at the view.

When they reached the top, Clara braced her hand against the cool stone, pausing to catch her breath. She slid back the bolts on the weathered door and eased it open.

She glanced behind to speak but a sudden gust wrenched the door wide, snuffing out the lantern’s flame.

Bentley caught her around the waist before she stumbled, his grip firm, instinctive. He shoved the useless lantern aside and guided her onto the roof. The wind tore at her cloak and slammed the door shut behind them with a resonant clang.

“I’ve got you,” he said, pulling her close against the gale. “You’re safe, Clara.”

She froze at the words, the wind whipping back her hood and flinging strands of ebony hair across her face. “Daniel said the same words when he carried me upstairs after the accident.”

The moon hung above them, and stars glittered across the night sky like scattered embers. In the open-air chamber, it felt as though they were alone in the world, suspended between heaven and earth, caught between fantasy and reality.

And yet she was comparing him to her brother.

A dull throb settled behind his ribs.

Why did he need her to see him as something more?

“I wish I’d known about the accident,” he said, still trying to fathom why she had hidden herself away for two years, and why Daniel had said nothing, not even to his closest friends.

“I was trying to pretend it never happened.” Her voice faltered, and she looked away sharply. “How foolish of me. As if the truth were not plain for all to see.”

“What truth are you referring to? That you’ve endured pain and still burn with purpose? Is that not something to be praised, not ignored?”

She gave a shaky laugh. “You make me sound heroic when I’m simply trying to survive. Every day feels like an uphill battle.”

“I know what inadequacy feels like, Clara.” He had been born in the shadow of a better man. A perfect son.

She studied his face intently. “What could you possibly know about inadequacy? I could stare at you for hours and fail to find a single flaw.”

“My mother would disagree.”

“Mothers are often critical.”

He hesitated, the truth rising like a tide he’d long kept at bay. How could he expect honesty from her if he wasn’t willing to make concessions himself?

“No one could ever compare to Marcus,” he said at last, the name tasting of guilt and resignation. “Not in her eyes.”

“Marcus? The person Miss Nightshade mentioned?”

“The brother who died years before I was born. The brother who would have made a better viscount because he understood the importance of duty, even at the tender age of three.”

She jerked in surprise. “That cannot be true. No one is more loyal to his title than you. You’re marrying a woman you dislike just to fulfil a family obligation.”

“I’m not marrying Miss Woodall, Clara.” His tone left no room for doubt. “I tried to tell her so this morning before the inspector arrived, and I will make it plain at the first opportunity. I suspect my mother is already suspicious and is laying siege to my study, hoping to force my hand.”

Guilt stirred, but he set it aside. Disappointment did not weigh so heavily when he was with Clara Dalton.

She tilted her head, as if trying to piece together a puzzle. “Is that why you’re lingering in Westminster? To avoid going home?”

He gave a half shrug. “I promised to help you complete the tasks on your list. We’ve climbed the tower, yet you’ve not taken in the view.”

“I’m a little afraid to step near the edge.”

“In case you fall from a height greater than a horse?”

“Something like that.”

They fell silent, their eyes locking, both suddenly aware that his hand still gripped her cloak at her waist.

She gave a faint smile. “As you seem intent on making my dreams possible, I suppose I’d better shuffle closer to the edge.”

His fingers tightened. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She paused for a heartbeat. “You may be shocked to learn I have every faith in your word.”

“That’s twice you’ve flattered me tonight. One more, and I may have to call the asylum and have you committed.”

A laugh burst from her lips. “You’re on form tonight.”

“Don’t forget excitement comes at a price,” he said, referring to the list he’d concocted in his head. “For every adventure you complete, you’ll help me accomplish one of mine.”

“What exactly is on your list? You’ve not told me.”

He glanced towards the edge. “Let’s admire the view first. When you hear what it is, you might be tempted to jump.”

London was a vast patchwork of rooftops and lamplit streets, the flicker of gaslight threading through the darkness like veins of gold.

In the distance, St James’s Park stretched westward, its trees a silent sea against the night sky.

At the park’s edge, Buckingham?Palace stood faintly regal, as if guarding the sleeping city.

“It’s strange,” Clara said, daring to look over the huge stone parapet. “By daylight, the city is so loud. So full of people rushing about, never taking a moment to look up. But like this …”

“It looks peaceful.”

“Like there isn’t a problem in the world.”

Being with her made every problem seem insignificant.

They stood in silence, the world below them hushed and distant, as if they weren’t part of it at all. No expectations. No pressures. Just two souls suspended, untouched by duty and demand.

“Has the view lived up to your expectations?”

She smiled faintly, her gaze drifting over the city. “It has. But it also reminds me that being alone in the countryside is the only way I will ever know peace.”

He felt a pang of despair. “Some say peace is a state of mind.”

Clara let out a quiet breath. “Then mine must be buried somewhere deep. I only seem to find it in fleeting moments like this.”

He wanted to ask questions, to press for more information. But she would retreat behind her composure, say she’d grown cold, and it was time to leave.

So instead, he said the one thing that had lingered in his thoughts since the moment she’d sat opposite him in the Spread Eagle Inn. “You don’t need to wear that eye patch when you’re with me.”

She jolted, almost losing her footing, but he steadied her, firming his grip on her waist.

“I—I don’t wear it for your sake. I’d rather rouse intrigue or fear than pity. Pity reminds me I’m broken. And it’s easier to hold myself together when no one can see the cracks.”

He considered his next comment carefully. “Then you probably won’t like what I’m going to ask, but we had a bargain, Clara. The first task on my list is to stroke your scar.”

Her breath hissed through her teeth. “What? No! No, my lord?—”

“Bentley,” he corrected. “We agreed to use our given names. We’re colleagues, friends, partners when it comes to pursuing our wildest dreams, remember?”

She gulped. “You ask the impossible.”

“It’s not impossible. I’ve seen you without it before.”

She turned her face away, but not before he caught the flicker of panic like a wall beginning to crack, like she was crumbling from the inside out.

“I—I can’t—” Her voice broke. “Not when you’re looking at me.”

“You can. You’re a strong woman, Clara. You’re only showing me what I’ve already seen.”

She didn’t respond at once. He could see the war behind her silence, the shame, the pride, the raw wound she tried so hard to conceal. Then, with a frustrated breath and a stiff lift of her chin, she muttered, “Fine. But only for a moment.”

She hesitated, fingers trembling as they rose to the ribbon securing it in place. Slowly, she untied it and drew the patch away.

Bentley braced himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the ache that struck his chest.

Her left eye, once bright blue like the other, was clouded by a milky veil. A jagged scar cut through her brow, down past the lid, a cruel reminder of all she’d endured.

His heart wept at the sight.

And yet, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. It took every ounce of strength to keep his expression calm, to remain steady when all he wanted was to pull her into his arms and swear she was still beautiful. Still whole.

Instead, he met her gaze with quiet reverence. “Thank you. I’m going to brush the hair from your brow and run my thumb over the scar, just once. You have my word.”

He reached up gently, letting his fingers trail through the strands at her temple. The tension in her shoulders was a silent storm, but she didn’t pull away.

He could feel the energy shift.

The wave of emotion gathering inside her.

The conflict behind every ragged breath.

His thumb skimmed the scar, a strange intimacy flowing between them. Without thinking, he let it drift down the soft curve of her cheek, pausing at the edge of her mouth before daring to trace the fullness of her lips.

The muscles in his abdomen tightened.

She’d always been an irresistible enigma to him.

“You think all I see is a flaw,” he said, the need for more burning in his chest. “I don’t. I see strength. Endurance. I see a woman who refuses to be broken.”

A sudden gust rose up from the city below, catching the edge of her cloak and sending it billowing behind her. With a startled gasp, Clara reached for him, her fingers clutching his coat for balance.

They stood with barely an inch between them, her breath feathering his cheek, her head tilted ever so slightly as if she could sense the shift in the air.

His gaze dropped to her lips as hers lifted to his.

Her fingers gripped his lapels. His hands settled on her back. And in a heartbeat, their mouths collided.

It wasn’t gentle. It was heat and surprise and a hunger they would later deny.

There was no prelude, no finesse, just a rampant mating of mouths and the desperate desire for more.

He tasted her sigh, drank it like a man starved, but it only sharpened the craving.

The kiss deepened until thought dissolved and the world narrowed to the press of lips, the graze of teeth, the tangle of breath.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless and a little dazed, all he managed was a hoarse, “Clara!”

It was a plea.

It was a question.

It was the only word that made sense in the madness.

Clara didn’t answer. She was panting, still clutching his coat. For a moment, he thought she might retreat. But then she dragged him back, her mouth finding his again, fiercer this time, as if she could devour the doubts between them.

Bentley groaned, his hand sweeping over her waist, down the curve of her hip. She arched into him, the chill wind powerless against the fire raging between them.

Her mouth parted, inviting him in. He tasted her, drank her sigh, felt her tremble. His world shrank to the warm sensations, the desperate glide of their mouths, the maddening friction as their bodies found a rhythm born of age-old need.

Her hand slipped beneath the hem of his waistcoat, her fingers skimming his shirt, branding him with every tentative touch. His heart thundered, but he didn’t rush her. He let her lead, let her explore, let her decide how far they’d fall.

Because this wasn’t just desire.

It was trust.

And she was offering it to him in breathless pieces.

“Perhaps we should add rampant kissing to the top of both our lists,” he gasped when she pulled away. “One taste of you isn’t enough, Clara.”

She stared at him, panic flickering behind the soft rise of colour in her cheeks. She moistened her lips but shook her head. “I … I think it’s time we went home. It’s late. I’ve seen enough of the city.”