//CLARA//
The second I hit the hallway carpet, I broke into a sprint. I'd just body-slammed my asshole great-grandfather and threatened to commit arson against an educational institution.
Record time, Clara. Job well done.
I'm literally one wrong move away from being shipped to a convent or, worse, the asylum. And let's be real, I do not have the aesthetic for a habit.
My skin still crawled where Bartholomew's presence had invaded my space. Every inch of me screaming for a scalding shower and maybe an exorcism. The man was literally my ancestor, my own flesh and blood, and he was over here simping like I was his Tinder match.
Genetic ick factor? Through the roof!
Someone send me back to my time where at least my relatives limit their creepiness to Facebook comments on holiday photos.
He was a definitely a walking red flag wrapped in tailored wool. And Aunt Cornelia? She was the worst player in the game I didn't know how to play yet.
I scrambled into my room, my blood still pumping adrenaline from whatever the hell went down in the drawing room, when a soft rustle from the bed made me whip my head around so fast I almost threw my neck out.
Lilac silk dress lay there like a shimmering corpse. Gorgeous, sure. Lace masterpiece, whatever. But to me? A straitjacket with a better PR team.
"Miss?" Hattie peeked in, her eyes wide with lingering terror from the drawing room. "Mr. Vanderbilt's footman delivered it. He specifically instructed you to wear it, Miss. For the promenade."
"He can expect a lot of things, Hattie," I muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the dress. "But I don't take creative direction from men who use radiant as a synonym for compliant."
I spent the next few hours in a state of hyper-fixated strategy. I needed a win. I needed to tank my own market value so badly that Vanderbilt would wouldn't want to touch me with a ten-foot cane.
Needing to decompress from the stress, I asked Hattie to draw me a bath. While waiting, I grab an apple and ventured toward the library hoping to find something worth reading.
Eventually, I found it at the end of the hallway. The room smelled of old paper, expensive tobacco, and unfortunately, a lot of Casimir. I circled through the massive desk, browsing piled books while munching the apple.
Then I froze.
My name— I mean Eleanor's name—inked elegantly next to Bartholomew Vanderbilt's. I scanned the lines, blood icing over as I registered the date.
This is gonna be three weeks away.
Casimir hadn't signed his ward's life away yet, but it was already dated and he even attached a price tag to it.
A floorboard creaked behind me. I spun, heart lunging toward my throat.
"Looking for something, Clara?"
Casimir emerged from the shadows. Coat gone. Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Buttons undone, showcasing the hard planes of his chest.
Does he need to be this hot? Yeah, I'm side-eyeing myself for the thought, but unlike with Mr. Big-ass B, at least Casimir and I don't share DNA. Small mercies from the heavens.
"Just looking for light reading," I said, too fast. Caught like a deer. Damn! I forced myself to reset. "Though your taste is incredibly dry. Nothing with a bit of spice?"
He said nothing. Just strode toward me until the library shrank to the space between our bodies.
He stopped inches away, gaze dropping to my apple. Before I could retreat, his hand shot out, fingers locking around my wrist. Firm. Warm. Entirely improper.
My pulse spiked at the sharp heat traveling up my skin.
But I kept calm. Barely, though.
"What are you doing?"
He ignored me. Slowly, he guided my hand upward, pulling the apple, the one I'd just bitten toward his mouth. His eyes never left mine.
He bit into the fruit while I still held it.
The vibration of his teeth thrummed down my arm. But it was the slight brush of his lips against my knuckles that sent lightning through my system.
In twenty-six years of existence—well, eighteen for Eleanor—this was the most intimate, territorial thing I'd ever experienced. My mouth went completely dry.
Honestly? Kind of erotic. What a scandal!
Every piece of 21st-century sass died in my throat.
"I heard you were... expressive in the drawing room," he rumbled on, like he hadn't just committed a federal crime against appropriate guardian behavior.
Sir. You literally just shared fruit with me like we're in a biblical allegory. If he hadn't just bitten into that apple like he was starring in his own forbidden fruit fantasy, I would've had a witty comeback. But my brain was still buffering.
"Vanderbilt is not a man you want as an enemy, Eleanor."
"Good thing I go by Clara now," I finally managed, my voice finding its way back from wherever it went to recover.
I swept my absurdly long hair to one side, letting my bare shoulder do the talking. Then I raised the apple and bit into the exact spot his lips had touched.
You think you're the only one with moves? Please.
His eyes darkened. I hoisted myself up onto the desk, my knees brushing his hips, the silk of my chemise riding up dangerously high. In this century, this was practically nudity.
"He wants to hasten the signing," Casimir whispered, his thumb lingering on a drop of juice at my lip. "Aunt Cornelia thinks you've lost your mind."
"And you?" I challenged, leaning back against the desk. "Are you mad I wasn't as civilized as you expected?"
"You're a chaos I didn't account for." He gripped my arm, with a searing touch. "What did you do to the Eleanor I know?"
I flashed him a lethal, sugary smile. "I told you, I've changed, and you're gonna have to watch and enjoy the show."
"Go take your bath," he sigh as if I'd personally exhausted him. "And pray the lavender does it job to keep you sated."
His eyes flickered to the contract behind me as he continued. "Also, stop digging, Clara. Unless you want me to find a more permanent way to ensure you never leave these walls."
Is that a threat? Oh no, please, I'm shaking. So threatened. Please don't spank me, I would never recover.
I physically fought the urge to roll my eyes. The struggle is real and I nearly lost my retinas.
He reached past me, his chest pressing against mine, to grab a book: Notes on International Trade.
"I hope you find this suitable."
"Boring," I deadpanned.
A smirk twitched on his lips. A real one.
"You know what they say about judging books by covers. This one might fit your... specific needs."
I gave him a suspicious glare but took it. Before I could complain, his hands clamped around my hips, lifting me off the desk like I weighed nothing. He set me gently on the floor, his grip lingering. For a second, I thought he might actually break.
Then he let go.
"Wear the dress he gave you, Clara." His voice turned back to iron. "For your own safety."
"Oh, I'll wear it." A wicked idea was already downloading inside my brain. "But I'm styling it my way."
I didn't wait for him to respond, I turn my heels and fled the room, the burning sensation of his hands still searing through my skin.
In the empty hallway, my legs gave out. I leaned against the wall, my heart doing gymnastics against my ribs.
"Okay, Eleanor." I whispered to my great-grandmother's body. "He's obsessed with you, clearly. He's hot. He's definitely dangerous. And I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing."
I looked down at the book clutched in my arms and flipped past the cover.
The title was a complete faux. Hidden beneath the first blank page read: The Pearl.
My mouth fell open.
That sneaky, magnificent bastard. He knew exactly what spice meant.
A naughty grin spread across my face.
"Oh, not this time, step-uncle. Not this time."