Page 17 of Goodbye, Earl (Ladies’ Revenge Club #4)

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Though they had offered up Crooked Nook to host the midnight banquet, the town had insisted on playing host.

There was a large pavilion set up on the base of the hill by the parish, close enough to the water to hear its movement in the night air.

It looked as though a thousand candles had been lit by the time the procession arrived, with servants in glowing white standing by the pillars that held up the central tent.

The food sprawled down the table, a melange of cultural favorites and wedding staples, fragrant and appetizing.

The wedding cake in particular was something Claire had never encountered before, even having attended a handful of weddings in her life.

It was springy and soft and moist, with no filling save for a thin layer of sugared frosting on the top.

It was completely divine.

“Is this Portuguese?” she had asked Raul’s aunt, who was seated very close to Claire at dinner.

“Yes, of course,” the aunt had said with a laugh. “ P?o de Ló.”

She made Claire repeat the name back to her four times, until she was satisfied by the pronunciation, and then she personally served Claire a second piece.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Claire had protested, whilst already filling a spoon with more of the confection. She reminded herself to have some saved for Oliver, if possible. A small amount, so as not to send the child into a cyclone of activity.

Perhaps the kitchen at the Nook could learn to make it themselves.

Freddy caught her eye as she bit into her second spoonful, something twinkling in his eyes like approval at her indulgence.

He looked surprised that she did not immediately look away or otherwise interrupt her cake, but not displeased.

The twinkle smoothed; it faded into something warmer, and she made herself hold it, made herself endure the threat of singeing her very soul.

When she took another bite, his gaze dropped to her mouth rather than her eyes, and held there as she closed her lips over the spoon and pulled it away.

He glanced at her eyes once more as she slowly chewed and swallowed her mouthful of sweetness.

This time, his eyes flashed with the light of the candle between them.

This time, she felt the char, even as he took a breath and forced himself to look away.

She wondered, later, if it had lasted as long as it felt. Probably not, she decided, though she looked to her sister next and knew immediately that it had been observed, regardless of the length of the exchange.

Millie was not frowning, however. She looked surprised but thoughtful. She had reached out to touch her husband’s forearm and was running her fingers over his wrist while he was deep in conversation across the table with their parents.

When Claire looked at her mother and father, she laughed softly to herself. They hadn’t noticed a single thing, save perhaps the quality of the roses being used in the centerpieces. Her father’s beard looked like spun silver in the evening light.

When she looked back to Millie, her sister had already moved on from whatever conclusions she’d drawn by her observation, and was toying with her own slice of cake, listening with half a smile to her parents and her husband exchanging wit.

The congregated diners made slow progress from the table to the adjacent tent, where dancing was unfolding.

The breeze was in a high mood tonight, and twirled through the dancers like an interloping suitor, brushing skirts and tousling hair.

Claire herself was drawn to it with a grin, enjoying the strain of laughter that escaped as the floor moved between country reels and stately court dances and back again.

She accepted her father’s hand first and let him lead her through a spirited quadrille. Next, she danced with the vicar, whose careful movements favored his bad knees but did not dampen his spirit.

When she returned to the sidelines for refreshment, she felt almost giddy with the joy of it.

She dabbed her brow and her throat with a lace-lined kerchief as she sipped her punch and watched the fandango play out, a dance that clearly scandalized many of the villagers as much as it fascinated them.

To her surprise, Joe and Ember participated, and in very fine form. She wondered who had taught whom this particular dance. Ember was the one who attended many balls and fetes and parties, but Joe himself had lived in Portugal. Regardless, they made a beautiful pair.

“Don’t fret,” the miller said to his wife. “Next is the waltz.”

“I just don’t think I could do that,” she replied. “Look at their feet!”

“Next is indeed the waltz,” affirmed Freddy’s voice from Claire’s elbow, the presence of his body arriving casting warmth onto the exposed skin between the top of her glove and the bottom of her sleeve.

She turned her head first, stepping slowly around to face him, careful in her movements like a woman who no longer wanted to act purely on instinct.

“And so?” she asked, tilting her head, her glass of sweetened fruit juice suddenly heavy in her hand, tilting to the side in a way that would have spilled red liquid everywhere only a moment ago.

“I’m afraid the people will expect us to dance, Claire,” he said with a little curve of his lips, refusing to take a step back to allow her the proper amount of room.

His voice was low, ostensibly so that they would not be overheard, but the timbre of it made her shiver regardless. It was intimate. Dark.

“Freddy, we have never once adhered to what people expect of us,” Claire replied, oddly steady despite the thrumming of her heart and the skitter of gooseflesh along her spine. She even gave him a little smile. “Not once.”

“Well,” he said, lifting his chin to acknowledge that what she’d said was true, “perhaps we ought to start. It might serve us better than what we tried before.”

She opened her mouth to reply, though she was not quite sure what to say to that, only to close it again as her eyes fell to his outstretched hand.

He was bowing slightly, his other arm tucked behind his back. A single tress of golden hair had escaped his pomade and hung down over his brow. He looked elegant and so completely earnest.

And now, of course, everyone was looking. Now, with that posture, everyone knew what he had proposed to her. And now it was true that they all expected her to accept.

“That was unworthy of you,” she said with a thinning of her lips, placing her hand as lightly as she could manage into his and thunking her empty glass back on the banquet table with slightly more force than was strictly necessary.

“Was it?” he replied, grinning like he absolutely knew it was. Grinning like he enjoyed the fact.

The strings softened, the crowd parted, and the people watched as their earl led his countess to the center of the dance floor.

Claire had never said or thought the word before. She’d have been offended at the suggestion that she even knew it, but it rose in her mind all the same.

Shit.

They were alone. The other dancers had parted, had declared their preference to watch this reunion, this spectacle, rather than to enjoy their own movement and music. Many clasped their hands at their chests as though they were seeing further proof of romance and hope.

Wasn’t that just perfect?

She braced herself and put her hands on him as they turned to face each other. She tried to do it lightly, to avoid feeling the whole truth, the firmness of his flesh under his clothes, the reminder of how very real he was.

He didn’t tolerate it. He touched her waist like it belonged to him. He drew her nearer. He led the first steps in a sweeping, soft demand of their symmetry. He smiled.

She felt her stomach drop at the beauty of him, at that flash of his teeth, at the shine of his eyes, so very blue above that silly Portuguese sash.

She felt the warmth of his touch through her clothes.

She could have submerged herself in it, could have held her breath tumbled fully beyond its surface.

She moved with something beyond memory, beyond rote. She felt the music take her. She felt Freddy take her. She did not feel the ground anymore. She did not see the others. Some things came into sharp, pointed focus while others dissolved into nothing at all.

At some point, his smile faded into something more serious, more focused. His face was still so very beautiful, even as it had slowly begun to fade away the shine and smoothness of youth. If anything, it was more appealing this way, more complete, more complex.

She wanted to kiss him, she realized.

She wanted to kiss him more than she’d ever wanted to do anything in her entire life. She was abuzz with it. It was a craving. A necessity. A madness.

She pressed closer to him, felt her fingers itch for the feel of his hair, for the shape of his jaw. She bit her lip. She saw him watch her face, saw his eyes flick to the motion, saw the way his pupils flared.

And then the music stopped.

It stopped. And they did too.

They simply stopped dancing. They stopped moving. They watched one another in the silence until they had to stop doing that as well.

Claire had felt many strong, foolish things in her life. She had indulged. She had risked. She had fallen.

Dancing with Freddy tonight had been all of it. It had been indulgent and risky and very, very stupid.

But this was the only time in her memory where, after she’d made such a mistake, she was met with a wave of applause.