MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 67 - Sixty-Seven: Tansy Tea

//CLARA//

I woke up to a weight on my abdomen that didn’t feel like a warm rug.

A large hand was still pressed over my stomach, and it had kept the cramps at bay all night. He was still here, his head resting against the headboard, sleeping soundly, peacefully.

His fingers twitched, tightening almost imperceptibly, as if even in dreams he sought to hold me in place.

"Casimir," I whispered, reaching out to brush a stray dark lock from his forehead. "Casimir, wake up. Hattie will be here any minute."

His lashes fluttered, and when he opened his eyes, they were fogged with sleep—a hazy, dark storm. He blinked at me, his hand reflexively tightening on my abdomen before he realized where he was.

"Are you feeling better?" he murmured, his voice thick and gravelly.

"Yes," I replied, and I meant it.

The tension in his shoulders melted. He gave me a small, relieved smile, and before I could process it, he leaned down.

His lips brushed mine.

It was not like before. Not the desperate, hungry kisses from shadowed corridors. Not those stolen moments fueled by adrenaline and the constant thrill of getting caught. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

This was different, unhurried, natural, as if kissing me in the morning light were simply what one did. His mouth was warm, and he lingered just long enough for me to feel the shape of him, the particular way his upper lip curved, before pulling away. It felt dangerously like a habit.

"Good morning," he murmured.

Then he was gone, slipping through the door with his coat half-buttoned. I touched my fingers to my lips, staring at the closed door, completely speechless.

I know it shouldn’t have been a surprise. It was just a kiss. A peck. And God knows we’d done way more than kiss. The conservatory alone should’ve rendered me immune to getting flustered over a stray lip-lock. Yet, here I was, sitting in my bed like a lovesick idiot.

Damn it.

The rest of the day was a blur of recovery and unexpected deliveries. By noon, my room looked like a silk factory had exploded. Boxes upon boxes arrived, filled with dresses in every shade of jewel-toned silk imaginable.

I opened each one, revealing emerald and sapphire, cream and burgundy, fabrics that slid through my hands like water. The silhouettes were a quiet rebellion.

They weren’t the rib-crushing, suffocating constructions Aunt Cornelia favored for my social salvation. These were softer—shapes that actually allowed for things like breathing and movement.

It hit me then. He’d been paying attention. Every time I’d cursed a corset or tugged at a high collar, he’d noticed. In his own expensive way, he was giving me the one thing this century tried to deny women.

Freedom.

A few days later, my monthly rebellion was over, and I hit the ground running.

I spent my mornings at the factory. Oliver had already hired three workers. The machinery was being installed. Beatrice came every afternoon, ostensibly to help, but really to be with Oliver, wearing that same soft, wondering look she thought no one noticed.

On my way back to the mansion, I had the carriage stop at the millinery on impulse. I’d seen a display of feathered hats that were far too impractical to ignore.

"I’ll walk from here," I told the coachman. "Wait for me."

I bought the hat. I did not need it. But I bought it anyway.

I was climbing back into the carriage when I saw Mr. Evans on the corner, talking to someone. I recognized the slope of his shoulders, the way he tilted his head.

Bartholomew Vanderbilt.

I froze, one foot on the carriage step, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Mr. Evans was smiling, talking animatedly, looking every bit the kindly businessman. Bartholomew just listened, his expression unreadable, before tipping his hat and shaking Mr. Evans’s hand.

I waited until Bartholomew’s carriage disappeared before I called out. "Mr. Evans!"

"Miss Thorne. What a pleasant surprise." He glanced toward the carriage, then back at me. "I did not expect to see you here."

"I was buying a hat." I gestured vaguely toward the shop. "I saw you with Mr. Vanderbilt."

His expression did not change. He simply nodded. "Yes. We’re discussing some business. He’s expressed an interest in one of the warehouses I’m looking to sell."

"Don’t fully trust him," I said, the warning slipping out before I could check it. "He’s... a knave. Cunning in ways that aren’t always honest."

Mr. Evans laughed, a rich, jolly sound.

"My dear, I have handled a great many cunning men. I am well aware of what kind of man Mr. Vanderbilt is. But I must admit, he is an exemplary businessman—much like your uncle Mr. Guggenheim."

He tipped his hat, thanking me for the heads up, and went on his way. The comparison left me with a sinking feeling in my gut.

Night had fallen by the time I settled in my room, the gas lamps casting their particular amber glow across the desk where I composed my reply to Oliver’s latest letter.

He had questions about the copper suppliers for the Linotype’s casting mechanism, concerns about the marketing we were rolling out to the printing houses, and I was halfway through explaining my strategy for the New York Times when my door opened without the courtesy of a knock.

Just the heavy, unmistakable secondary climate change that happened whenever Casimir Guggenheim decided a room was officially his.

"I have something for you," he said, stepping into the light.

I set down my pen, turning to face him fully. "You really have a thing for the unannounced entry, don’t you? Honestly, Casimir... for a man of high status, you act like you were raised in a barn."

One corner of his mouth lifted, the closest he ever came to acknowledging my teasing. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a rounded tin, plain and unmarked, which he extended toward me.

I took it, turning the small tin over in my hands. The metal was cool and slightly dented, with that worn-out patina that said it had been shoved into a lot of pockets.

"What is it?" I asked, looking from the mysterious canister to the man who currently looked like he was bracing for a collision.

"It is tansy tea." The words came out carefully, as if he had rehearsed them. "You should take it. After we..." He gestured vaguely, his jaw tightening. "After. To prevent accidents."

I stared at the tin, then back at him, feeling a sudden, strange heat rising in my chest.

He found me a solution.

The sheer amount of effort this must have cost him just to get his hands on something like this. In this century, for a man of his standing, there was no such thing as an anonymous purchase or a discreet pharmacy run.

To get this, he’d had to lay out his needs and his private arrangements to someone he trusted enough to ask.

"Where did you get this? And is it actually effective?"

Casimir cleared his throat, his gaze shifting to the bookshelves as if the titles were suddenly fascinating.

"I know a man," he muttered so low I almost missed it. "He said this is what he used to avoid complications with his... mistress."

I bit my cheek, trying to suppress the urge to laugh at his twisting expression.

"Is that what I am to you, Casimir? A mistress?"

He snapped his eyes back to mine, and for a second, he looked almost panicked.

"No, Clara. God, no. You are anything but."

"Then what am I?" The question emerged sharper than I intended. "I’m certainly beyond being your ward now. Beyond niece, if we’re being precise about relations that don’t actually exist."

He was silent for a long beat, looking at me with an intensity that made my lungs forget how to function. His eyes were soft, unblinking, like he was pouring everything he could not say into a single look.

"You..." He paused, the words forming heavily on his tongue. "You are my woman."

"Your woman?" I repeated them back to him, tasting how... inadequate they were. "Your woman, but... not exactly someone you’d ever marry?"

The silence that followed was deafening. My own eyes widened as the words hung in the air like a neon sign I couldn’t switch off. I watched comprehension dawn in his eyes, the color drain from his face and return in a rush.

Did I just say that out loud? Oh, god. Shit.

"No," I started to panic. "No, no, no. That was supposed to stay in my head."

I was moving before I could think, my hands finding his chest, pushing him backward toward the door.

"Forget it. Pretend you didn’t hear it. I’m tired. I’m clearly not thinking straight. I should sleep—good night, Casimir—"

"Clara—"

"Good night!"

I shoved him out into the hall and slammed the door, leaning my back against the wood and sliding down to the floor.

"Kill me," I whispered to the empty room. "Just kill me now."