THE DUKE’S REBELLIOUS LOVE

THE OXFORD SET

BOOK VI

AVA BOND
First edition published 2023.
Copyright © 2023 by Ava Bond
Cover Art by: Forever After Romance Designs.
Edited by: Chris Hall
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher.
It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without
permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction, and all characters and events are fictional. Any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
This novel contains scenes of a sexual nature. Be wary if triggered by such content.
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue

Afterword
About the Author
Also by Ava Bond
 CHAPTER 1

W hite’s Club, London. April 1818.

T ODAY WAS J ASPER M AVOR , THE D UKE OF W OOLWICH ’ S BIRTHDAY . H E SAT

in his gentlemen’s club, pristinely, if demurely, dressed in his favoured dark
clothes, barely listening to the surrounding conversation of two gentlemen
who sat nearby. Their talk weaved together a blend of gossip, innuendos,
and pointless male speculation about the new Season. Woolwich retreated
behind his newspaper.
Noblemen, he concluded, could be as vicious with their pointed talk as
ladies were lauded to be. He reasoned that this was probably true for all
humanity—it was a mess of mirthless people, a relentless pit of cruelty,
with few that emerged with any dignity.
A small caveat, he supposed, would be made for his young son, Beau,
or Earl of Saunders, if Jasper was to use his son’s proper title, but since he
hardly ever saw the boy, he could only base this off the occasional glimpse
of the child’s welcoming smile and happy little giggle. That had been
enough jarring sweetness, and Woolwich had avoided the boy for the last
six months. It hurt him, but he doubted the child would truly desire his
company, certainly not when the boy found out what a monster his father
was.
Woolwich’s time was much better spent managing his estates and
keeping an eye on the finances so that when he died, Beau would inherit a
wealthy and prosperous dukedom—at least he could give his son that.
None of this gloomy perspective could be attributed to the beauty of the
room. No, the club was arranged to the utmost of ton-ish perfection—the
heavy, rich green drapes were artfully hung by the windows, masking the
bright rays of sunlight. The dark upholstery were in keeping with the sofas
and armchairs throughout the room. Added to this was the slight smell of
rich, bitter coffee that Woolwich rather liked.
Woolwich’s cynicism had not always been so pronounced. In the past,
he would have loved it if someone could have wished him a happy birthday.
Now he shuddered to remember such a vulnerability in himself.
To many men, and presumably society at large, Woolwich was seen as a
fortunate individual. He had money, honourably created through vast
boroughs and tracts of land in England. His blond physique was, on
occasion, likened to that of an ancient Viking because he was considerably
taller than the average male. This might make some ladies nervous, but it
helped in terms of intimidation when he was in The House of Lords. He
was a widower, but as luck would have it, his wife had given him an heir
before she died, so the need to marry again was not a burden that sat on
him.
The door of White’s library opened, and in entered Mr. Michael
Trawler, followed in close pursuit by Baron Edward Verne, two members of
the Oxford Set—a group of friends, who had met at Oxford University over
a decade ago, and been given the moniker because of their close friendship.
At one time, Woolwich had considered himself a key part of that Set. No
more. Whether this was down to the affair that had broken Woolwich’s
marriage, or to the death of one of the members, was a topic that Woolwich
had no desire to dwell on, and no one else was too keen to raise it, at least
not in his presence.
It was Trawler who saw Woolwich first. His amber eyes flashed in
recognition. Presumably, based on the smile and his bronzed skin, Trawler
had enjoyed his honeymoon in Greece. There was a bounce to his tawny
auburn hair and to his step. He cheerfully waved in greeting, which almost
had Woolwich wishing to sink farther into the armchair and become
invisible despite his fondness for Michael.
Tugging on Verne’s sleeve, Trawler motioned that they should cross the
room. Verne nodded, more circumspect in his consideration as his
perceptive gaze acknowledged Woolwich’s reluctant welcome. His dark
eyes assessed Woolwich, but he made no overt sign of greeting.
Folding up his paper in preparation for their arrival, Woolwich said to
himself that he had been using it as a shield to hide from any conversation.
On their arrival, Verne sank himself neatly into the opposing armchair,
whereas Trawler made a great fuss, greeting and absconding with a chair
which had made up another’s table as he settled between them.
“It is good to see you in town,” Verne said, his voice lightly accented
with a pleasing French inflection. “I was fortunate to bump into Trawler
outside, having just arrived in the city.”
“Yes, it turns out my newly rented house is just around the corner from
Verne’s townhouse,” Trawler continued. “So, I cannot stay too long. My
wife wished to visit her brother, but we thought we’d settle in together this
evening. Into our new home.” Trawler was bashful as he looked down at his
hands with smug satisfaction at his own good fortune. His infatuation with
the scandalous Lady Viola had been known to Woolwich for years, and
their marriage just two months ago had changed Trawler’s persona. Lifting
a bright, roguish, and successful businessman into someone best described
now as a lovesick swain. He would not be surprised if Trawler started
reciting poetry. It was enough to turn Woolwich’s stomach.
“I would imagine you are pleased to return to Town. Your business must
have missed you,” Woolwich declared, but Trawler just looked perplexed.
In frustration, Woolwich turned to Verne. Was it not enough that he had
subjected himself to Trawler’s wedding on Valentine’s Day, of all the
sentimental romantic drivel, that he must now be dragged back through his
friend’s newfound wedded bliss? It was not to be borne. A change of
subject was necessary.
Verne shrugged. Woolwich liked how quiet this man could be, in sharp
contrast to Trawler’s character. It would not be unheard of for Verne to sit
beside him in White’s, for the two of them to enjoy companionable silence.
“I shall miss the country. Nothing compares to the splendid beauty of
the Cornish coastline as the leaves change colour. We spent much of the last
year with my wife’s family. Olympe has recently finished her second novel,
so we are up to Town to show it to her publisher.” With that, Verne
launched into a description of looking after his ‘beautiful daughter’ whilst
his wife worked away, that Olympe called out for advice when she was
stuck, and how she would emerge with ink-stained fingers for dinner to
reclaim her daughter and husband. Worst of all, it seemed that Verne found
the entire interlude delightful.
Woolwich was certain that the blood was draining from his face as he
listened to these bucolic renderings. Trawler and Verne talked on and on
whilst Woolwich enjoyed digging himself further into his silence, nestling
there as a safe space that was his solace.
“At some point, the Set’s children will have to meet,” Verne said as he
eyed Woolwich, and he realised, much to his disgust, that they were trying
to include him in their conversation.
“I have none to offer,” Trawler laughed. “Although His Grace may be
able to help.”
“You refer to my son?” Woolwich asked, looking between them in
surprise. Just because Verne liked nothing more than parading around with
his fine little daughter did not mean Woolwich should do the same. At this
point, Woolwich would not be surprised if Verne were to bring his infant
Diana into White’s, despite it being a gentlemen’s club, with no thought to
decorum or derision. With a dismissive frown, he said, “My son, his
lordship, is with the dowager in Essex. Unless Lord Saunders is unwell, my
son will have no need to come to Town.”
It did not go unnoticed, the slight tightening of Verne’s lips, as if he was
suppressing a smile, and even more noticeable was the snort of Trawler’s
laughter at how Woolwich was talking of his son.
“Come,” Trawler said cheerfully, “little Beau must be nearing four
now.”
“His birthday falls at the end of April. It is not a celebrated occasion,
given it is also the date of my wife’s death,” Woolwich added. Of course, he
sent the boy presents, but he preferred never to go himself. He had been
careful to choose the most suitable of gifts, and he diligently read through
any of the fairy tales to ensure there was no mention of dead parents. It was
disturbing how few stories could be deemed suitable. Perhaps it was a
sentimental tick of his, but distressing his son was not something he wished
to do. His mother wrote every month of the child’s progress, and Woolwich
was pleased to hear how bright and well-mannered the boy was.
“You were missed at Hurstbourne Manor this Christmas. You weren’t
able to see Trawler acting like a mooncalf around Lady Viola. Although I
suppose you caught the tail end of the affair with their wedding,” Verne
said.
 “Heatherbroke and his wife were in attendance at Christmas.”
Woolwich stared at the two men, the heat of his anger burning brightly
through him. Eight and half years ago, Heatherbroke had slept with his late
wife. She had borne Heatherbroke’s daughter, and here were his friends,
expecting Woolwich to simply shrug and forget this hideous betrayal. He
was lucky that no one in society beyond his immediate Set knew the truth.
“No. No. I will not be subjected to that man’s presence if I can avoid it.”
Unable to sit still any longer, Woolwich got to his feet, his frame rigid with
fury. With brisk steps, he moved across to the window. He looked down
into the handsome St James Street below, viewing without seeing the
passing carriages and busy promenading ladies and gentlemen here to begin
their Season.
A gentle hand came out and touched Woolwich’s shoulder. Looking
back, Woolwich eyed Verne.
“He destroyed my marriage. It took years to mend it, and then she
died,” Woolwich said.
“I do not claim that Heatherbroke acted well. He would not say any
differently. I know he deeply regrets his actions with Annabelle.”
“Do not say her name,” Woolwich said. His command came out as more
of a snarl, and he watched as Verne raised a surprised eyebrow at how
vicious Woolwich sounded. In annoyance, Woolwich shook his shoulder to
dislodge Verne’s grip.
Annabelle had been his glittering bride, a willowy, beautiful blonde who
had captured his heart almost as soon as he saw her. He had been convinced
that her sophistication would be lent to him. He could have her, adore her
enough that any of her scruples would be overcome by his own
overwhelming affection. As fickle a boy as he had been and so eager for a
love match, he had not bothered to see that whilst he might have been
desperately keen for Annabelle, she was less attached to him. It was a bitter
blow to love, and he had found that he was never able to trust again. She
had cuckolded him with Heatherbroke, and the affair led to the birth of the
marquess’s bastard daughter. Jasper had forgiven Annabelle, but he knew he
never could do the same with the marquess.
“Jasper.” Verne’s voice pulled him back to White’s, away from the
memory of Annabelle’s sparkling eyes, her easy smile, and finally, her
stinging betrayal.
 For a moment, Woolwich thought Verne had jogged him for being
embarrassing, but it had more to do with the numerous young gentlemen
who had just bundled themselves into the room. They were busy slapping
each other’s backs, clearly remarkably pleased with themselves. The two
older gentlemen, who Woolwich had been ignoring earlier, departed. In the
new cohort, Woolwich counted four young bucks, although when one of
these companions saw Trawler, Verne, and Woolwich, he slipped away
between the opulent curtains and disappeared.
Before Woolwich could query this strange action too much, one of the
young handsomely dressed men, laughing and guffawing, held up high the
infamous White’s Betting Book, pulling everyone’s focus.
The leatherbound book had been scribbled in and was kept with the sort
of sombre pomp that Woolwich had never understood. The Betting Book,
with the spindly handwriting across its pages, listed things from the absurd
to the funny, and finally the truly terribly cruel—the kind of news that
would break a person amongst good society. To Woolwich’s mind, it was
little better than a nasty, schoolboy game of scribbling away the ton’s
dirtiest thoughts. But it was famous for the scandals it could cause, and a
nervous jolt of anticipation went up his back when he saw how delighted
the young bucks were.
This sentiment was not shared by the gentleman who carried it aloft and
laid it down carefully, as if the book were a religious item, and then with a
flick of his wrist, he opened it.
All of them huddled around. On closer inspection, they looked as if they
might be just out of university. They hooted at the names they saw, their
fingers trailing through the inscriptions. Jockeying each other as they
spotted or worked out the names of people they knew.
“Gor—I never knew that about Lady Norton.”
“Everyone knows about her and—”
“What about Duchess H?”
“Heseltine.” This was said in a whisper as one of the men leant close to
supply the name of a wealthy widow with a poor reputation.
A sneer formed on Woolwich’s face as he considered the dissolute
society. With a decisive move, he strode away from Verne and the window
and across to the Betting Book. Woolwich laid his large hand onto the page,
blocking the gentlemen’s view. “I would suggest, sirs, that this is returned
to its proper location. I am sure your fathers would not approve of you...”
 One of the braver boys edged closer to Woolwich, a challenge flashing
across his round, pale face. “Since we are members of White’s, we can
place a bet. If we choose to.” With a sniff, he gathered strength from the
silence that greeted him. “It’s why we came here today.”
“A bet, you Piggott? Thinking of organising another race with a hog
again?” Trawler had walked across to the table, an amused expression on
his face as he looked at the boys.
“That was my cousin,” the braver boy said, backing off.
Turning the Betting Book to look down at the pages, Woolwich’s eyes
flicked through the listings of people he knew either from sight, reputation,
or from his work in the House of Lords. The foolish, the asinine, and the
mildly amusing littered the pages. When he flicked his eyes back up to view
the younger men before him, he could not imagine what would spur them to
enter their musings down onto the page. Had he ever been so young, so
foolish as to wish to voice his innermost thoughts to the jackals of the ton?
“What were you going to enter?” Woolwich asked more out of
politeness, although the keener observer would notice he did not pass the
book back to the boys.
“Just a rumour,” Piggott said.
“That is all the book is made up of,” Verne said. “Who will marry who,
and little more than that.”
“Oh, it is a great deal more than that,” said one of the snickering boys.
Woolwich knew him the least, the buck’s innuendo blatant and vulgar.
“Hardly an honourable move. Come here to scurry and speculate about
which lady you might bed,” Woolwich said. He might avoid the female sex,
but he saw no reason why they should be gossiped about. His avoidance
was built less on chivalry and more out of annoyance and a lack of trust, but
he still maintained an idea that a woman deserved respect, of which these
three seemed incapable. With a curt move, Woolwich dropped the book
back on the table and gave each boy a cursory dismissive stare as if to say,
do you not wonder what I might tell your fathers about you? “Unless one of
you is eager for the parson’s mousetrap?”
That was enough for them to scurry off, abandoning their prize and
leaving the room. Woolwich’s fingers stilled on the last page because a
name had caught his eye.
“What is the matter?” Trawler asked, drawing closer, trying to read
whatever had distressed his friend.
 “Three hundred pounds to the men who can unearth the truth behind the
split in the Oxford Set. Why do Marquess of H and Duke of W loathe each
other? The betting says there will be another fifty pounds if it has
something to do with a lady.” Unbidden, Woolwich’s tongue darted out to
wet his dry lips, and he forced himself to breathe deeply as a way of
calming down. This was his greatest fear. There was no reason to suppose
the better suspected the late Lady Woolwich. “Do you recognise the man
who placed the bet?” He passed the betting book to Verne, who as a spy
should know every name in society.
“Covington. He is a nobody, probably just voicing some rumours he has
overheard. The more you are seen to care, the more speculation you will
feed.”
“I will not see it directed my way,” Woolwich burst out. The fury
stinging within his chest, he grabbed the nearest wooden chair, flinging it
into the corner of the room. Anger was colouring his vision, but beneath the
red mist was the fear of how this might affect his young son. He had to
protect the boy at any cost.
There was an unmistakable shuffling noise behind the curtain as
Woolwich tried to calculate his next move. Someone was hiding there and
might have overheard everything. It was then he remembered the buck who
had hidden behind, and in haste for fear that someone might piece together
his terrors, Woolwich said with true vehemence, “I suppose I should add a
bet myself. I will be seducing Heatherbroke’s wife this Season. That will
more than answer Covington’s bet.” His eyes flashed around at Verne, who
shook his head in exasperation, and then to Trawler, who snatched up the
betting book.
Marching to the door, Trawler simply swore as he left the library,
refusing to add Woolwich’s new bet to the book.
A good few seconds ticked by before Verne spoke.
“I thought better of you,” Verne said coolly, disappointed at Woolwich’s
declaration. He, too, made his way toward the door, ready to depart. “I will
speak to Covington and have the bet withdrawn.”
“That will hardly squash the rumours,” he said to the departed figure.
Woolwich strode across the now-empty room and yanked back the curtain
to reveal the young man. He had expected to find a quivering lordling, but
instead, he was a short lad, staring up at him with a tremendous frown on
his youthful face.
 “I insist that you take back that bet about the Marchioness,” the boy
yelled, hands on hips in the pose of a fishwife, as he stared at Woolwich
with unmatched anger.
There was something decidedly recognisable about this very small
young man, from the rounded, button nose and fine pale brows, to the well-
lashed eyelashes, and the wide, full lips. A feminine familiarity that tugged
at Woolwich’s consciousness. He was less of a boy and more of a girl. Now
Woolwich noticed the rounded pink cheeks and the flashing aquamarine
eyes that were shooting fury at him. He could hardly grace her with the title
of lady given she was dressed as a man and in White’s, a club which banned
the presence of females.
With a quick, decided gesture, Woolwich yanked the hat off her head.
Down tumbled a thick braid of red hair, which had been curled around her
head.
Miss Clara Blackman. An overly opinionated, novel-quoting female,
who happened to be the sister-in-law of the Earl of Hurstbourne. Nick
would undoubtedly expect Woolwich to escort his sister-in-law out of
White’s when all Woolwich wanted to do was leave the furious virago
where she was.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Woolwich demanded as he gazed
down at the diminutive woman. His threatening drawl was normally enough
to intimidate anyone.
Miss Blackman, without any fear at all, walked straight up to him so
that only a handful of inches separated them. She then poked him with her
left index finger, stabbing him in the middle of his broad chest. Her head
was tilted as she frowned up at Woolwich, “Don’t you dare go near my best
friend, or you’ll have me to deal with.”
 CHAPTER 2

T his was not going to plan, Clara thought as she looked up into the
harsh face of Woolwich. She had come to White’s, dressed in her
brother Tom’s clothes, on a mission. Her purpose had been to get
hold of the famous Betting Book and see which gentlemen were likely,
willing, or able to wed this Season. Clara was determined to marry this
year, and therefore she needed not to waste any more time pining after
unsuitable men. She was done with being a spinster, reading books in
corners, and knowing things, but always being someone of words rather
than action. It did not seem as if gentlemen cared for it.
“Well?” Woolwich demanded. The duke’s piercing eyes almost had
Clara admitting everything right then and there. Just so he would stop
staring at her, as if he could see beneath all the layers of clothes she wore.
His look made her acutely aware of her body, and that, in turn, made her
angry.
“Stop looking at me and answer the damn question. What in God’s
name are you doing here?” He barked at her.
Clara opened her mouth, trying to form an explanation that might
answer.
“Nothing to say? Or do you know all too well there could never be a
reason for you to be present here? A ruse, no doubt, to meet a gentleman. I
thought better of you, Miss Blackman,” Woolwich pressed. Unlike other
gentlemen who Clara knew, Woolwich did not draw back. Instead, he
seemed to crowd her until she had to step back into the shelter of the
window’s alcove. It did offer the advantage of shielding her from view if
someone was to enter, although Clara did not think that likely motivated
Woolwich. His consideration for others died when it might inconvenience
him in the slightest.
His Grace. The severe, scary, stupidly tall duke, who she had loathed
from first sight. It didn’t help that Clara’s best friend, Prudence Cavendish,
Marchioness Heatherbroke had warned Clara all about the inscrutable
Woolwich, his cruel behaviour towards his wife’s bastard daughter, and
indeed that these actions had extended outwards to anyone who crossed
him. Since Clara was a loyal friend, she had, in turn, disliked Woolwich
immensely. Being out in society had not improved her opinion of him
either, given he was cold, haughty, and distant. What was there at all
admirable about the duke?
“Are you going to speak after that embarrassing outburst or merely stare
at me? Perhaps I should be grateful. Silence from you, Miss Blackman, is,
I’ve heard, a rarity.”
“Stop being such a blasted bully. Just because you’re taller than me
doesn’t mean you get to lord it over me. Besides, you are the one who is a
disgrace.” Clara found her voice. This seemed to rock Woolwich, whose
smooth, refined cheeks coloured. “Of course,” Clara continued, “rudeness
and cruelty is the only thing Your Grace would understand as a course of
action. But I am surprised to note the desire for ruination.”
“A subject,” the duke’s lips drew back against his teeth as he spoke, “I
can only assume from your presence here is a topic you are well versed in.”
“I would never seek to bestow it on another, especially an innocent lady
who has done no wrong. Lady Heatherbroke is—”
“No adult in her society is sinless.”
“My friend is. She is not merely the wife of Heatherbroke. She is also a
vicar’s daughter—” Whatever Clara had been about to add was cut off
when the duke lowered his head, so their faces were only inches apart. His
grey eyes were hard, with little variance in shade, so much so it seemed as
if they had been cut from granite.
It was possibly the longest conversation or interaction she had ever had
with the duke. And it was proving to be as unpleasant as she had always
assumed it would be. However, she had never pictured herself in trousers in
any of these instances.
“I doubt such a blameless angel would be so contently wed to a libertine
like Heatherbroke.” The duke continued to criticise dear Prudence.
 “He is a reformed rake,” Clara interjected. “And now, a happily married
family man.”
Woolwich continued with grim determination as if she hadn’t spoken,
“Or countenance someone with such loose morals as yourself, who would
give up her good name to come here, dressed as a man. Pray tell me, Miss
Blackman, are you a fool or just a jade?”
Clara had read a great deal of books in her twenty-five years, and novels
were her particular weakness. So, she had some familiarity with the idea
that the villains in these stories were prone to insult and cast aspersions on
the heroines, but never had she been on the receiving end of such blatant
disrespect. Although, if Clara were honest with herself, she had never been
placed in a scenario where she might be considered the heroine of the tale.
No, she was the best friend. The sister. The aunt. As the baby daughter of a
doting family, she wanted nothing more than to find acceptance and
affection, traits absent, it seemed, from a lot of available gentlemen in
society. Men did not view her as a romantic possibility. All too often, she
was cast as nothing more than the friend. Regardless, she would not tolerate
this duke’s attitude for a moment. No one had the right to speak to her in
such a way.
Without a second’s hesitation, she raised her hand to deliver a slap to
the smug duke’s face. But Woolwich was too quick, and he caught her
wrist. His grip was not hard or malicious but firm, as if holding her so was
nothing more than a lion might catch a bird. So, in annoyance and as an
answer, Clara stamped on the duke’s foot with the heel of her boot.
“Damn it.” All the evident self-satisfaction fled as Woolwich winced,
immediately releasing her hand as his foot smarted from the contact.
“Don’t try battling with me. I have three older siblings. I know every
trick in the book,” Clara said.
“I somehow doubt that Lady Hurstbourne ever encouraged this sort of
behaviour,” Woolwich said. His reference to Clara’s poised, elegant older
sister, Isabel, did cause Clara a moment of annoyance. He was right. Isabel
would never have entered a gentlemen’s club and certainly not on such a
flimsy excuse as securing herself a pleasing match. No, Isabel was far too
well-behaved for something as hair-brained as this. Besides, since she was
already married to the Earl of Hurstbourne and about to give birth to the
second of their children, she was unlikely to find herself in need of such a
dire action.
 Unable to help herself, possibly at the idea of her older sister dressed as
a man whilst also heavily pregnant, Clara giggled at the picture playing out
before her mind’s eye. It was the wrong thing to do because the latent fury
which had briefly vanished from His Grace’s face returned as if the dratted
man thought she was laughing at him.
“I fail to see anything humorous about your presence in this club. If I
reveal to anyone that you were here, you would not even be able to pose as
the ever-persistent bluestocking that you are. You would be ruined.”
“If I reveal to Heatherbroke your bet, he’ll kill you,” Clara said.
“He can try,” Woolwich said. “But I rather fancy my chances with a
blade.”
“Then, if he doesn’t, perhaps I will shoot you myself.”
This seemed to bring a smirk to the duke’s face. “I assume since you are
dressed as a lad, you now seem to think you are at liberty to issue duels.”
“Why not?” Clara asked. “I don’t like you. In fact, I doubt anyone in
society does. You are widely regarded as an unpleasant, disagreeable man. I
would be doing the ton a favour.” For a moment, it was only very briefly,
Clara thought she saw a flash of hurt, or sadness, dim the duke’s aristocratic
face, but when she blinked, it was gone, replaced with Woolwich’s normal
disdain.
“I did not realise the level of hatred I inspired in you. Especially since I
have barely been aware of your presence for the last, what… five Seasons
you have been out?”
It was a barb, a good one, Clara acknowledged as she straightened her
shoulders, ready to continue their argument. She had, in fact, only had her
first London Season three years ago, when her sister had been engaged to
Lord Hurstbourne. But the duke’s pointed remark stung as he placed her
squarely on the shelf. She knew his other comment was a lie, as they had
been introduced and subsequently met a few times at various public and
private events. They had never gone beyond passing acquaintances, as a
man of his standing had no reason to dance or talk to a chatty, short,
bookish redhead. His grey eyes always seemed to drift past her without
pausing to see a thing.
“I am sure that may well be true,” Clara said, her tone overly sweet. “It
does not surprise me that you would not notice someone beneath you. I
rather wonder at you noticing anyone since, to your eyes, we are all beneath
you. It is amazing that you do not frequently crash into your partners.
Perhaps that is why you never dance, for risk of injury.”
Before he could snap back, there was a noise in the hallway.
“It is you, not I, whose reputation will be destroyed were anyone to see
you like this. Why are you not more careful?” Woolwich asked quietly,
stepping forward to shield her from view. He turned his head and looked
towards the doorway, and Clara’s fury dimmed a little. It was horrifying to
realise he might be right.
Her plan had seemed foolproof. She was to sneak into White’s with her
brother and his friends and was so close to seeing some names of men who
actually wished to marry first-hand. None of her plans had involved
confronting or being discovered by Woolwich while dressed as a boy. She
would never admit to the duke who stood before her the embarrassing
reason for her entry to White’s—it would simply reinforce her fears that
Woolwich believed women like her were conniving tricksters desperate for
a spouse. Which might be true in this instance, but she would rather die
than say so. He would be so smug.
“I wished to see the betting book,” Clara said. She realised that if she
backed down, Woolwich might work out why she had sneaked into the club.
He might be an evil blaggard, but he was not a stupid one. She would need
to style it out. “There was a bet that I could.”
Woolwich sniffed, displeased with her answer. “Ladies do not place
bets.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Clara replied. “I have heard Lady Verne and my
sister discuss betting.” This was true. What was a falsehood was the idea
that either of them would be silly enough to bet her going to White’s.
“I would not say a word against either the countess or Lady Verne, but I
do not think either of them would have encouraged this—” Woolwich
waved a dismissive hand at Clara’s garb. “Your actions are foolhardy at
best, and worse—”
“Whereas your choices were hardly honourable.”
“But I am not going to be blamed for being in here, whereas you…”
Without a shred of doubt, Clara knew she would die of shame to voice
the desperation that had driven her here. When Tom had teasingly made the
joke last night about the book, Clara had come to a decision. It was wild
and bold and completely unlike anything she had previously done. Rather
like something one of the heroines from her novels would do, to take charge
of their own lives, and prior to this confrontation in the library, it had been
going well. All her brother’s friends had accepted her as a distant cousin of
Tom’s, and Tom himself seemed to find it funny. Clara was tired of the
same rules and events in society and had thought, if she wanted a different
outcome from the Season, she needed to try a different approach.
A shrewd look passed over Woolwich’s face as he looked at her. “But
you are interested in that book. The question is why.” He moved to one side
and leant against the frame of the window as he considered her. “A certain
amount of eagerness or stupidity must have been your motivator—now, do
we say lust or money that drove you?”
“Society—people are not reduced to such narrow slights. Art, literature,
culture, writing, music, religion, theology, politics…”
“I have my doubts that any of those wonders are contained in that
book.”
“I don’t have to justify my actions to you.”
“I am your senior in years and society. I may have been able to help.
Allow me the faint privilege of claiming to know a little more on the
matter,” Woolwich said, contempt dripping from every word.
“I do not think you require any more privilege,” Clara said. “It is merely
a shame that someone as fortunate as you cannot see the bright beauty that
illuminates the world.”
“Live in this world a little longer, Miss Blackman, and you will see
more of the world’s cruelty. The unpleasantness will eat away at any fresh
hopes you might have, cutting you down until you would be happy to settle
for—”
“I do not have to listen to this bile.” Clara tried to dart away from him.
Her fury from earlier was less dimmed by his words than the growing
reality of the danger she was in. Tom had promised not to leave her side.
Being forced to hear Woolwich dissect her character and beliefs, to hear
him mull over her with deliberate cruelty when she had no proper way of
defending herself, was not practical—she needed to leave. She had thought
him unpleasant from a distance, but now, the full reality of his bitterness
was evident. The duke had no redeeming qualities.
Woolwich was surprisingly fast for a man of his height, and his hand
lashed out and grabbed her, halting her departure from the alcove in which
they stood. “I would not recommend stepping out of this room. Who knows
who you might run into if you were to try to depart White’s the way you
came in?”
“My brother—”
“One of those young fools from earlier, I suppose. He has not returned
as yet to reclaim you.”
“Tom is—”
“Is that your brother?”
Clara nodded. “He will be looking for me.”
“Yes, that seems obvious.” The mocking note to Woolwich’s words did
not help, given it was clear that Tom had either forgotten or been delayed in
returning.
In the group of young men, she had been shielded from closer
inspection, but if she were to venture back to the Hurstbourne townhouse
through the bustling streets of London, the fact she was only five foot and
three inches in men’s clothes might well start to attract undue attention. She
did not look remotely like a young man of the ton. The shirt she wore
hardly did enough to hide her bosom. She had hoped the large jacket would
work to shield her feminine attributes, but given the dubious and assessing
stare of Woolwich, she had her doubts it had worked.
Before her mind had been made up, Woolwich let out a sigh, one of
mingled annoyance and frustration. “I will help you, Miss Blackman.”
 CHAPTER 3

W oolwich could not believe he had made his offer to help the
ungrateful chit, but for all the decentness of his kind words, it did
not seem Miss Blackman was appreciative. She looked at him with
a complete lack of trust. Her quizzical brow was furrowed, her blue-green
eyes narrowed, and Woolwich could not guess her thoughts besides
knowing she hated him.
Miss Blackman folded her arms under her bust, and she straightened her
frame. Which immediately drew his eyes to her breasts. Despite ignoring
Miss Blackman a great deal of the time, Woolwich was not dead to the
appeal of the infuriating woman’s curvaceous figure. At this present
moment in time, her curves were pushing against the masculine clothes, and
it shocked him completely that these items made him wish to strip her out
of the shirt and jacket. Hastily, Woolwich told himself it was just to have
her back in her traditional garb.
“How considerate of you, Your Grace. But I think I will take my
chances out there,” Miss Blackman said, cutting into his wayward thoughts.
He hoped to God that she would never guess what he had been imagining
doing to her.
“Hm,” Woolwich forced himself to say. “I never took you for an out-
and-out fool, Miss Blackman.” With measured calm, he leant closer, his
voice low but penetrating, their faces inches apart. His eyes moved over her
face, not allowing himself to over-dwell on her features. It galled him, on
closer inspection, how pleasant and pleasing her face was. “You are
sublimely lucky that no one has entered here so far to discover you in such
an outfit. Or in such a location.”
 “I can only assume it is your well-known and poor reputation keeping
the gentleman from entering here.”
“Including your brother? I do not see him running back in here to rescue
you,” Woolwich asked. He was deeply unimpressed with her brother’s less-
than-stellar behaviour. Were the man in his family, he would have words
with the young man. What was the daft idiot thinking, bringing his sister
here?
“My brother will have a very good reason for his delay,” Miss
Blackman said. She tilted her chin to gaze up at him. She was ridiculously
short, so much so that many men would feel instantly protective, but
Woolwich would not be tricked into such feelings. Miss Blackman was a
demon, and he would not be distracted.
“Your brother must be the greatest of fools to leave you. Hell—he
brought you here.” With the hardest of looks, Woolwich’s eyes swept over
her clothes and face, not lingering as he considered her fully. “Unless,” he
mused, “it is a trick to trap an unaware bachelor into some compromising
position. Is that your game?”
“By Jove, you think that highly of yourself to ask me that?” Miss
Blackman said, anger colouring her words.
The truth was, though, he was regarded by almost everyone in the ton in
such a light. He was rich. He was told he was passably good-looking. He
had one of the oldest and most respectable dukedoms in the country. It did
not thrill Woolwich but instead made him feel as if he was a prize goose or
similar. Of course, he was hardly about to tell this to Miss Talkative, so
instead, he kept still, his hands resting by his sides—so he would look as
cool and calm in case she guessed the truth. “This little plan of yours might
have worked to your advantage if you had trapped someone else in with
you. Your reputation would be ruined, but that would not matter if a man
were to propose to you. Perhaps I can go downstairs and send a single one
up to trap the pair of you together.”
“As long as no one finds me now, I will be content,” Miss Blackman
said. “You need not be concerned for your precious unmarried state. That
would never be my intention. Least of all with you.”
A smirk quirked his thin lips. “I would not save you, Miss Blackman,
from ruination. So, I am glad we are agreed on that point. Even if
Hurstbourne were to call me out, I would not be forced into matrimony
again.”
 The shock of his icy disregard for her would have caused other females
to look at least surprised, but Miss Blackman did not seem remotely
concerned.
“How original,” Miss Blackman remarked drily. “A man who does not
think marriage would suit him.”
“You are mistaken,” Woolwich said. His remaining sadness and anger
over Annabelle reared their head. She was the reason he could never
consider the state again. “The difference is that I know marriage does not
suit me. From experience, I am well aware of how atrocious the wedded
state is for someone of my disposition.”
“I would never ask you to, even if you were the last man on earth, Your
Grace. I cannot imagine a worse fate than being your bride.”
“Then I suppose I should leave you here, unattended, in the vague hope
your brother will remember you?”
Their eyes locked. Dislike pulsed between them, but finally Miss
Blackman lowered her head, as if she was finally admitting that he was
right.
With a sigh, Woolwich stretched out his hand. His gloved fingers closed
on hers. “Here.” He passed her back the hat, which she had donned to sneak
into White’s. “I do not think you a liar. On this occasion, you appear more
foolhardy than anything else. Put that hat back on, and I will do my best to
help you from the building.”
“My brother—”
“He is not here,” Woolwich said. “You are welcome to remain crouched
behind a curtain with the desire that Mr. Blackman will come and save you.
That faint hope may change when a stranger walks in, one who would take
one look at you in that outfit and know precisely how he could take
advantage of you.”
Miss Blackman raised her head as she donned the hat again, hiding her
bright hair beneath the black rim. It was a faintly absurd costume, and
Woolwich did not understand that no one else had spotted her disguise
beforehand.
“Why, it’s only eleven in the morning. Surely a gentleman would have
better things to occupy his time than being ungentlemanly?” she asked.
Woolwich felt his eyes bulge at her words, at the obvious inexperience
and lack of knowledge of the jaded tastes of men that existed within the ton.
She seemed to harbour the idea that desire could be confined to one point of
the day or night. With a dismissive shake of his head, Woolwich tried his
best to create a world-weary air. The combination of Miss Blackman’s
personality was grating on his patience. How she was both intelligent yet
been prevented from knowing the truth of sexuality. “Lord save me from
naïve virgins,” he finally said.
To his surprise, Miss Blackman snapped back, seeming to precisely
know her own disadvantage. “How exactly am I supposed to not be naïve
but still a virgin? I would be judged as ruined if I lost the latter, and yet you
are judging me for the former. You criticise me for something others
celebrate.”
“I—”
To Woolwich’s stuttering, Miss Blackman added, “If anything, your
statement shows what a hypocrite you are.”
For a long moment, Woolwich wondered if he would simply walk away
from her. Move to the other side of the room, back to his seat and resume
his reading of the paper or simply quit the room entirely. Leaving Miss
Blackman alone to negotiate her next steps by herself. Gritting his teeth, he
bowed his head, acknowledging the truth of her words.
“You are right. That was unfair of me. I apologise. The mores of our
time do place a heavy price on your ignorance, which I would imagine
would be… burdensome.”
Just for a second, Miss Blackman gave him a tiny nod and a small
smile. It was the closest they could come to being friendly.
“Come,” he said, the plan forming in his mind. “We will go through the
club and use the back stairs to get out of here.”
“A duke knows about such things?”
“How else would I avoid the occasional undesirable duty? I always
make a habit of knowing the best escape routes from a building.” He said it
jokingly, but he did realise the truth of the statement—it was a habit of his,
whether it was a ball or just a visit to his club. Now he saw the use of it.
With a deftness that belied his size, Woolwich removed his jacket and
draped it over her shoulders, swamping Miss Blackman in the thick
superfine material. There was a strange scent he suddenly caught that must
be from the soap she used for her hair—lemon and an undercurrent of
honied sweetness.
“There.” He dragged up the collar of his own coat to hide more of her
face and pulled her hat even lower. He bent lower to examine her face.
“You do have a remarkably feminine face.” He resented having to say it. “It
would probably be best if you leant into me and perhaps pretended to be
half-cut. Can you manage that?”
“I’ve seen Tom in his cups,” Miss Blackman said.
He could not entirely believe he was advocating that she wrap her arms
around him. But he told himself that it was also the best way of hiding Miss
Blackman from view.
Woolwich turned, moving towards the door, tugging it open, and
checking out on the landing. “It’s now or never. We’re going to make for
that door over there. But you’ll have to keep the act up until we’re in the
hackney you understand.”
Miss Blackman stiffened and then leaned over to him. Closer until she
was leaning into his frame. He felt the gentle push of her body’s curves
resting near to him, with that delicious lemony scent crawling up his nose
again.
He pushed the door wider, and they edged into the hallway, an uneven
pairing moving slowly.
“What the hell are you doing?” She gasped.
Woolwich had wrapped one of his long arms around Miss Blackman’s
far shorter body, pressing her into the side of him as he pushed them
towards the servants’ door. Inelegantly and ill-matched, they staggered
forward, almost falling over each other. Half of her face was wedged firmly
against his finely stitched gold and navy waistcoat, the heat of her breath
affecting him more than Woolwich could ever have imagined. There was a
growing desire within him to pause and lift her, exposing her neck to trace
his tongue over her peachy skin.
God, where had that idea come from?
“Hush, Tom,” he said loudly. “You’re the worse for wear.” In a quieter
tone, he added, “Come on, play along.”
Embarrassed at being positioned so but having little choice in the
matter, Miss Blackman tried her best to keep her distance. Her fist wedged
between the two of them.
In an undertone, which almost sounded humorous, Woolwich said,
“Surely in all those books you read, the heroine doesn’t stop a rescue
attempt?”
“You know I like books?” There was a muted tone of surprise as she
stared at him, they were only halfway down the stairs, but she paused, not
walking anymore.
Woolwich realised his mistake, showing that he had, in fact, lied earlier
when he’d stated that he did not know a thing about her.
“Come on,” he said briskly, continuing down the stairs, hoping she
would not quiz him anymore. His hurried movements encouraged her to
move at his side at his own pace.
They reached the basement. As pleasant as White’s front-facing was for
the various different nobles, it was considerably less appealing when it was
just for the servants who worked within the building.
Woolwich let go of her, stepping back with much alacrity. “Stay here. I
will flag you a hackney.”
He turned and hurried out the rear of the building. Outside in the
springtime, there was the well-known London hubbub—the shouts of a boy
selling papers, the noise of carriages clip-clopping along the cobbles, and
the low-level chat of the bustling streets. All those sounds closeted away
from the comforts of White’s. Thankfully, there were several idling
vehicles. With a wave of his hand, Woolwich signalled the nearest hackney
over to them. Turning, he beckoned to Miss Blackman with a gesture of
solidarity, a sign that she could leave the shallow doorway and make her
way over.
“Here we go.” He pulled open the hackney’s door and gestured for her
to get inside.
For some reason, Miss Blackman paused on the small steps that led up
to the carriage and forced her hand to reach out for him. With a quick
movement, she grabbed his wrist between her fingers, catching the thinnest
point between the shirt material and the curve of Woolwich’s hand. Her
movements caused him to freeze, her touch oddly intimate.
With his free hand, Woolwich moved to his waistcoat and offered her
enough change to get her across the city and back again.
But Miss Blackman refused the unspoken offer. She leant closer to him,
and for one wild moment, Woolwich thought she might kiss him. Instead,
she paused and smiled now that their eyes were level. Her eyes bored into
his, assessing him for weakness. “I will not forget what you said.”
“Stop this nonsense.” Woolwich was not going to let her dictate this
interaction or paint this situation to her advantage. He stepped closer and
forced Miss Blackman into the carriage. He took a seat, going against his
prior decision, and shouted out to the hackney driver, “Hurstbourne House,
Lyall Street, Belgravia.”
Folding herself into the opposite seat, Miss Blackman looked galled that
he had stopped her from getting away from him. It was satisfying to feel as
if he was winning, Woolwich thought.
The hackney set off. It would not take long to get her to Hurstbourne’s
townhouse and have this matter resolved.
“If your plan is to tell Heatherbroke, so much the better. He will
certainly find out sooner or later. But you may wish to consider what I now
know about you. And how precisely you found out this information. Your
apparent wanton desire to—” he gave a way of a hand to indicate Miss
Blackman’s garb. “It is demonstrative of your lack of decorum that
underpins a desperate need for attention.”
“You can think the worst of me. I don’t care a jot what your feelings are
towards me,” Miss Blackman said. “So long as you stay away from Lady
Heatherbroke, if you dislike the marquess so much, deal with it between the
two of you—don’t drag my friend into your own poisonous affair.”
“She married that man. She knew what she was getting herself into.”
Woolwich’s initial bet had been thrown down without much thought, but
now that he was challenged for his idea, he was warming to it mainly
because it would prevent any talk of his late wife. Less because he wanted
to annoy Heatherbroke, although that would be a good thing, but also
because it would infuriate Miss Blackman. That would be deeply
rewarding.
“None of it is her fault. Or of Lady Heatherbroke’s making,” Miss
Blackman insisted. “Or why you are angry with the marquess.”
Woolwich leant forward, closing the distance between them. He was
tight-lipped, although he feared his anger was peeking through, but when he
spoke, there was a malicious tint to his question, “Do I detect a little too
much interest in your friend? Or is it Heatherbroke himself that calls your
heroic defence?”
With a quick shake of her head at his lewd query, Miss Blackman said,
“Don’t be crude. I can wish that a good marriage might not be hurt—
without desiring either party. Besides,” Miss Blackman cut herself off, “the
two of them are happily married. And… I question your abilities.” Her eyes
flicked over him dismissively. “I entirely doubt your charms to tempt the
marchioness away from her beloved husband.”
 The carriage rumbled away, carrying them through Green Park towards
the Belgravia townhouse. The dappled trees and springtime blooms passed
their windows. Woolwich had leant back at her latest jab, but when the
hackney started to slow, Woolwich found himself smiling in a way that
caused Miss Blackman to frown.
As the hackney came to a stop and she scrambled towards the door,
Woolwich leant forward, his hand blocking her escape completely,
preventing Miss Blackman from leaving. He said, in what he hoped was a
thoroughly warning tone, “That sounds remarkably like a contest, Miss
Blackman. I will simply have to take you up on that challenge if you really
don’t believe me capable of seduction.”
 CHAPTER 4

T he steps between the hackney and the back of the townhouse’s door
had never seemed so far or taken such a long time to run across. She
made for the side of the building, squeezing between the high walls
that encased one of the buildings and the other, where there ran a little
mews street. Thankfully, the trousers she wore made her movements
speedier than if she’d been wearing her gown.
All the way, Clara was conscious of the duke’s eyes on her back. She
had been certain in the carriage when the famously quiet, society-shunning
duke sat before her when she declared that he was lacking in charm and wit
to manage a seduction. She was confident that this statement would finally
silence him. In no way had she expected that Woolwich would grin with
such wicked rakish delight at her words, that it left her stomach churning.
He was not a rake. In the last few years of being ‘out’, Clara had learnt
the rules and mores of the beau monde, and whilst Woolwich was regarded
as an arrogant bastard, he was not one who could muster enough passion to
be a libertine.
If only he was not a foot taller than her. That was not helpful. The very
size of him, made Clara deeply uncomfortable. Another charge to level
against the man as if he had some control over his height. But it threw her
and made her awkward, and for someone like the duke, she needed her wits
about her.
Three years on the marriage mart had demonstrated that, in multiple
ways, Clara did not fit in. From her bright red hair to her plump curves, or
how much she adored gothic romance novels to the extent she ignored other
feminine pursuits. She was not bold or flirtatious like Lady Verne or Mrs.
Trawler, kind and gentle like Lady Silverton, or refined and elegant like
Prudence. No, she was herself. There was no way she was going to change
that, but the trouble remained and kept Clara feeling out of place.
Cursing to herself, Clara looked over her shoulder to see the hackney
was still there and watching her. A mass of contradictions that the duke
was, and now it seemed as if she had inadvertently drawn his attention.
Still, it was better than him going after Lady Heatherbroke… wasn’t it?
Unable to answer that, she hurried inside.
The sheer grandeur of Hurstbourne’s home was an ever-impressive
sight, and as Clara ducked through the rear door of the building, she knew
that both the earl and her older sister would not be pleased to see Clara
dressed in such an outfit. Nicholas Lynde, Earl of Hurstbourne, was a kind
man, a good husband, and a patient member of the family. He did not love
scandal, which was a shame since everyone, especially his female relations,
seemed rather prone to it. She supposed she now fit into that description
too. Breaking into White’s dressed as a man would certainly be classed as
outrageous. It didn’t bode well for her. If only it had been one of the other
members of Hurstbourne’s Oxford Set, they would have treated Clara
dressed in boy’s clothes as a lark.
Clara threw down her hat on the carpeted steps. It was just dumb luck
that she had been found by him. So much for taking the initiative.
With quick steps, she hurried up to her bedroom. When she had first
been given this lovely chamber for her Season in London, she had been
thrilled. It was the height of elegance and refinement. From the large oak
bed to the matching furniture, which conveyed a reassuring blend of
strength and comfort, and the warm, buttery cream wallpaper and curtains.
She even loved the thick, sink-your-bare-feet-in carpet. But the best part
was the fully stuffed bookshelves that Isabel had lovingly picked out for
Clara. It was pleasing to have the option of climbing into one of the window
seats and losing herself in a fictionalised world.
Only halfway through divesting herself of Tom’s clothes, there came a
tentative knock on the bedroom door, and the soft voice of her sister called
out to her. “Clara, are you in there?”
Unable to think of another course of action, and since she was still
wearing Tom’s trousers, Clara dove towards the bed, darting between the
covers as the door handle turned.
 In walked Isabel, her oldest sister, now Lady Hurstbourne. Her normal
feminine, blonde elegance, a dignified poise that Clara had always admired,
had altered since Isabel was nearly nine months pregnant. She was, of
course, still divinely pretty, but she certainly gave the distinct impression
that she would be relieved if the baby she was carrying hurried up and
arrived. Lady Hurstbourne frowned at the scrambling sight of her younger
sister trying her best to adjust the blanket and sheets over her body.
“Are you feeling quite well? Tom came home thirty minutes ago
rambling about you but he made no sense, then said he had to leave Town
with a pressing matter. I wondered if it was a scrap I should know about.”
Now that the bedding hid her body better, Clara sat up and yawned,
pretending to have been asleep. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine. I have no idea
what Tom is talking of.” She made the resolution to write to him and berate
him for his cowardice in abandoning her in the men’s club. Still, that would
have to wait until she had dealt with the outcome of today’s mistake.
“It is a shame you were not able to join us for morning calls.” Isabel
moved forward slowly, one hand on her back. She made her way to the
edge of the bed.
Were she not heavily pregnant, Clara would have felt far more
comfortable asking Isabel to leave, but it was clear that the whole process
of Isabel waddling back to the door would take far too long.
“Hmm?” Clara tried to sound interested, but the fact was morning calls
were very far from fun. It was primarily made up of the Oxford Set’s wives
who would choose a townhouse to visit, cram inside, and spend hours
talking away to each other. Whilst Clara liked each and every one of these
women, after all, one was her beloved older sister, and another was her best
friend, she did often feel as if she were an outsider looking in. It was not
comforting to know none of these women did it deliberately.
“What was the topic of conversation today?” Clara noticed that part of
Tom’s trousers were sticking out of the sheet and surreptitiously attempted
to flick the coverlet over it.
“Hurstbourne had a friend visiting who we were most eager for you to
meet.”
Suppressing a groan, Clara levelled an exasperated look at her sister.
Isabel always meant well, but it was not a compliment to feel as if one was
reliant on her older sister to win suitors. Regardless of how true it might
have been. “I do not need help locating a spouse.” If Woolwich had not
been present, she might have had a good ten minutes alone with the Betting
Book and been able to ascertain who was a serious prospect this Season. It
was galling to realise that whilst her being bolder and more confident would
probably help win a groom, being a rash, heedless wanton would not aid her
at all. So, Woolwich had been right, damn him.
“I do think you would have enjoyed this man’s company,” Isabel said.
“He is a don, teaching in Oxford, with a speciality in history and medieval
literature…” She trailed off as if trying to remember something important,
then shrugged. “It might have been Chaucer or Mallory, but I don’t
remember which. I am sure it was very clever. Mr. Goudge waxed at length
on the matter. He was quite pleasing in his manners, I thought. Hurstbourne
believed you would be well suited. Especially when he started on about
chivalry and how there is a rediscovery of some ancient gothic texts…”
Then, much to Clara’s annoyance, her sister yawned and leant back to rest
her head against the bedpost. Isabel looked enviously at the coverlet, and
Clara could tell Isabel would like nothing more than to climb beneath the
sheets and take a nap, as the two of them had done when they were
children.
Clara coughed and blinked furiously to get Isabel’s attention back on the
topic at hand. “Can you not remember what Mr. Goudge spoke of in more
detail?”
This was the first gentleman within her family’s society who might truly
be suitable. He was an educated man, one with whom literature and history
could be discussed. This held a distinct appeal to Clara. When she had been
considering her own requirements, this trait had topped her list. It was a sad
thing to realise that whilst she might once have hoped for a true love match,
after her three Seasons, she would have to put those wistful romantic ideas
aside in preference for a man who could support her.
Of course, it was typical, Clara realised as she watched her sister
attempt to neaten the folds of her dress, that the one-day Clara went to go
and find herself a match, someone of interest arrived at the townhouse who
sounded as if he might be worth staying in for. The temptation of asking
why neither Isabel nor the earl had told her previously bubbled away inside
her. If they had, she would have entirely avoided Woolwich.
The door of her bedchamber flew open with a squeal and in bustled the
excitable, fast-moving shape of Clara’s nephew, Robert. His round blue
eyes and blond curling wisps of hair tumbled about his head as he dashed
towards his mother with a string of half words that were not understandable
to adults.
Outside the doorway, Clara could make out the shape of her brother-in-
law, whose good manners dictated that he did not enter Clara’s bedchamber.
He waved. “Good morning. Apologies for disturbing you, ladies. Robert
wanted to give his mother his most recent work of art.”
“You are spoiling him,” Isabel laughed as she stretched down and
extracted the offered-up piece of paper. She turned it sideways and then
again before she smiled down at her son. She alone seemed to understand
every word he said, or she had the patience of a saint. “You are right,
Robbie, a most delightful horse.” Then she looked back at Clara. “If you are
feeling in good health, I desire a walk. The doctor recommends it. We three
could go out together. Enjoy the spring’s pleasing weather while I can.”
“Yes,” Clara managed. She fidgeted beneath the coverlets. Having
already sneaked out of the house, she could eagerly agree that the April
weather was lovely, and she felt a stirring of guilt at not being a better sister
to Isabel.
Reaching out her hand, Isabel made to touch Clara’s cheek, who
immediately flinched. Scared her garb would be discovered. An image of
Woolwich’s grin as he looked at her turned her stomach. Would he be so
cruel as to inform the beau monde of her behaviour today?
Isabel returned to examining her son, who seemed to have a somewhat
paint-stained face. With practised ease, she produced a handkerchief and
wiped at the young boy’s cheeks before getting to her feet. “If you would
like to come with us on that walk, you would be most welcome. Provided
you feel well enough. I think I will depart in the next twenty.” With that, her
sister and Robert went to the door and greeted the waiting earl. Edging
forward in the bed, Clara made sure her trousers were not visible from view
as all three departed.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Clara flopped back amongst
the pillows. In all her twenty-five years, she could not remember being
more conflicted, pulled between her friendship with Lady Heatherbroke, the
threat of Woolwich, and the promise of Mr. Goudge. It seemed her own
adventure had finally begun, but why it had to be so dashed uncomfortable,
she could not reason.
A soft knock sounded, and Clara sat back up pulling the cover around
her shoulders. She should stop lolling the day away but hurry up and dress
in case she was discovered.
From the other side of the door, she heard the earl call out, “I am under
strict instructions to inform you that Mr. Goudge has been invited to a card
party this evening at the Verne’s. He was keen to accept.”
Draping the coverlet around her, Clara proceeded to walk through her
bedroom, heading towards the wardrobe. “Lovely,” Clara replied. This
would be a more traditional way of considering Mr. Goudge, and she hoped
that the initial reports of him were as favourable as Isabel had made him
sound. She replied unthinkingly, “Provided it will only be Lord and Lady
Verne there and no one else amongst the Set, I will be most happy to
attend.”
There was a stillness from behind the doorway, and it was not the sort
that indicated that the earl had left. Clara realised she would need to explain
herself immediately in case her brother-in-law got the wrong idea. Rushing
to the doorway, she opened the door a fraction and looked at the frowning
Hurstbourne. “I merely meant the presence of Woolwich would certainly
darken any evening. He made the Trawlers’ wedding as difficult as he
could.”
This answer seemed, in part, to satisfy Hurstbourne, although there was
a touch of sadness about his face. He was a natural peacemaker, eager to
heal the wounds that were dug deep between the one-time friends. “You are
probably correct. It was just as well the duke left Sussex so promptly after
the ceremony. But for this evening, I would not worry about that score. I
doubt Woolwich would attend such an event.”
With that, he turned and left Clara to hurriedly dress into her walking
gown, trying her best to think of the appealing Mr. Goudge and not of
Woolwich in the slightest.
 CHAPTER 5

T he hackney pulled away from Hurstbourne townhouse, Woolwich

having watched Miss Blackman scramble away. She hadn’t found a
reply or perhaps had thought better of her challenge. Which was
odd, given he had felt a flutter at the jointure of her wrist, a telltale indicator
of inflamed feeling—it was obvious she wished to say more to him, but
perhaps she feared what Woolwich might say or do next.
What was blatant to both of them was that Miss Blackman found him
exceedingly infuriating, and for some reason, there was a remarkable
satisfaction in him for winding her up. It didn’t say much for his own
maturity, but it certainly was a novel experience for him. Most of the time,
young misses of the ton liked to coo and fuss over him—Miss Blackman
was more likely to stamp on his foot than she was to flirt with him. Which
she had, in fact, done. Although admittedly, it was a bit bizarre, a whole
new world of experience—but, he reminded himself strictly, he could not
allow her to distract him from his purpose, ensuring that if any gossip
around the Oxford Set were to occur, it would not involve his dead wife or
his vulnerable son.
Woolwich allowed himself to be carried away from the townhouse and
through the busy London streets toward his own home. After several
minutes, he tapped at the roof and climbed out, paid the driver handsomely,
and started to walk, needing the fresh air.
Fashionable London was out in force, enjoying the clear, fine April day,
and soon he was surrounded by the beau monde’s most renowned gossips,
fops, and society mammas—if he was caught staring over his shoulder at
the Hurstbourne townhouse, it might give the false impression he was after
a different member of the Oxford Set’s wives. Given Lady Hurstbourne was
in an advanced stage of her pregnancy, that was not something Woolwich
would wish to tax on her. Her sister, however, deserved no such
consideration.
Turning down a fresh street, the noise of the passing carriages forced
Woolwich to stop on the pavement, glancing to his right and then left. The
whirl of sweating horses and the brightly festooned bonnets that the women
wore reminded Woolwich why he would have preferred to be far from the
crowded city. The street was too busy for him to cross, so he continued
along South Audley street in the vain hope of seeing a break in the traffic.
To his own surprise, his mind conjured up once more the image of Miss
Clara Blackman. In his mind’s eye, her wide mouth seductively smiled up
at him in a way she never had in life. It was deeply unnerving that such a
thing should occur to him, especially in the middle of Town. Miss
Blackman was not fashionable. She was not rich. She was a bluestocking
with bookish tendencies and a defiant temperament. Despite attempting to
clear his mind, the image that kept reoccurring in his head was the sight of
Miss Blackman’s breasts beneath that masculine shirt. The flush in her
cheeks as she challenged him. An angry twitch in her cheek as she’d thrown
herself into the defence of her friend. Why were her physical attributes
occurring to him? An uncomfortable awareness swept through his body at
how much he’d enjoyed having her pressed against him when they’d snuck
out of White’s.
What was strange, he realised as he strode along the street, occasionally
nodding at a passing gentleman or lady he knew, was how society would
not expect him to regard Miss Blackman in such a manner. He was used to
following society’s rules. She might be the sister-in-law of an earl, but Miss
Blackman was a tradesman’s daughter. Then there were her spinsterish
tendencies, not to mention all that red hair and curves. None of it was
deemed fashionable. It struck him suddenly quite how stupid fashion could
be.
“Woolwich.” There was a sharp cry, and Woolwich realised he had been
practically daydreaming about the dratted Miss Blackman. Forcing a polite
look onto his face, he made a neat bow to the couple before him. Lord and
Lady Verne. Visible on Verne’s normally calm face was the annoyance and
disappointment from their earlier conversation, but none of it appeared on
Lady Verne. She was smiling at him warmly.
 “Did we not say we were one short for the party tonight?” Lady Verne
was nothing if not direct. She stretched out her hands in greeting to
Woolwich, and he kissed her knuckles.
Verne did not look happy. “I am quite sure His Grace has other plans.”
“Surely not? Well, if you do, it is no trouble, but I’ve asked him, and
what is the harm in that?” Lady Verne said, her dark eyes sweeping over
Woolwich questioningly. She was astute and immediately saw the tension
that lay between the two of them. “You need not fear since most of the
younger people in the family are still in Cornwall. It will be a simple, quiet
affair of perhaps around a dozen people or so. A little wine, cards, and
perhaps some music. Only a few newly arrived friends will be attending.”
For some reason, an instinctive knowledge swept through Woolwich
that the Hurstbournes, and therefore Miss Blackman, would be in
attendance. It would be the sort of event he normally avoided like the
plague, but in this instance, it would be a surprising way of teasing Miss
Blackman. And if Lady Heatherbroke was there, it would be the best time
to begin his pursuit of her. He supposed the task of flirting with the young
married beauty would not be considered an unpleasant task to most single
men’s eyes. Although it had a rather unsavoury element to it that rankled
within him, he would have to ignore it. No, he needed to be cool and
calculating and rise above any such considerations, with the single goal of
ensuring his son’s name was safe. He would not necessarily actually have to
tup Lady Heatherbroke, provided everyone believed that he had. The
attempt was the important thing as it was the thing that would cause the
outcry.
“I would be delighted to attend,” Woolwich said in response to Lady
Verne.
For a brief second, a look of surprise danced over Verne’s normally
serene face, but it was his wife who responded with a happy chuckle.
“Excellent. We will begin at seven. We look forward to seeing you there.”
“Then I will see you presently,” Woolwich bowed once more to Lady
Verne and. seeing a brief gap between the carriages and horses, strode away
before Verne could say a thing. He was certain that all too soon, his plan
would be discussed amongst the Set, but what mattered was that the rumour
itself would spread, and his child would be safe. If his plan involved a few
handfuls of spirited arguments with Miss Blackman, so much the better.
O N ENTERING THE V ERNE ’ S TOWNHOUSE THAT EVENING , W OOLWICH WAS
pleased to see he was one of the last guests to arrive. Coming late to a party
was much the best method, he reasoned, and gave everyone the singular
anticipatory sensation of waiting for him, as well as reducing the actual
social interactions he had to endure. Years ago, Woolwich liked the
occasional party, but the key to his enjoyment was having a person—his
person—to rely on. That reliance had withered and died with Annabelle,
like so many other things he had clung to.
The scene, a small evening party, was laid out before him in the
handsome, south-facing drawing room. The parlour was decorated in the
latest fashion, of royal blue and cream, long curtained windows allowed in
the dusk light, and as Lady Verne had promised him, there were around ten
people of his acquaintance dotted throughout the room, and possibly a few
others who he did not know at all. Neither of the Heatherbrokes were in
attendance, however.
Stepping forward, Woolwich greeted Lady Verne and noticed a slight
change in her demeanour from earlier. There was some stiffness around
Lady Verne’s mouth as she ushered him into the room. Presumably, Verne
had told her of Woolwich’s bet, and she did not approve.
In the corner of the room, huddled over sheet music, were Mr. and Mrs.
Trawler. Sitting on the plush sofa were Lady Hurstbourne and her husband.
They were talking with interest to Lady Verne’s publishing friends. Lady
Verne was obviously keen to rejoin them and their lively debate.
Woolwich was about to cross the room to the last remaining couple in
the parlour, Lord and Lady Silverton, but that was when his eyes were
drawn to the other corner of the room.
Unbidden, his gaze was pulled to the secluded little pairing, two people
pouring over a book. He had no control but to narrow his eyes on Miss
Blackman and her male companion. She was dressed in a girlish, pansy-
blue gown that hugged her generous figure. The colour made her fiery hair
appear even brighter. Out of her brother’s clothes, she was reborn. Strange,
of course, he had seen Miss Blackman previously at various events over the
years, but he had never appreciated her before, probably because he had
never allowed himself to notice any woman. Physically. But now he did,
and it rushed in on him, uncomfortable and overwhelming. He could see her
in sheer, incredible detail—the brightness to her round, blue eyes, the
softness to her face, the roundness of her chin. She could have sat for a
Ruben’s painting and been a sublime muse. The ribbon wound through her
burnished red hair that perfectly matched her eyes. She looked lovely.
Where had that idea come from? How come he was staring at her
décolletage? Perhaps, he thought spitefully, it was the stark contrast at
seeing Miss Blackman in a dress.
On closer inspection, he could see that Miss Blackman was talking
happily to a dark-haired, slight man with a neat moustache. Their heads
were bent far too close together. Surely, that was not considered good
manners for a debutante. Where was her concern for her reputation? Then
again, if the Hurstbournes were not perturbed, Woolwich could hardly
proceed to lecture her.
It was a disappointing truth that he would probably be perceived as a
stuffy puritan by most of the ton.
Despite himself, Woolwich found that he was moving forward to
interrupt Miss Blackman and this unknown man’s interlude. It was
awkward as the two of them slowly lifted their eyes from their book to look
up at him.
“Miss Blackman.” Woolwich dipped his head in greeting. He had never
sought her out before, and it struck him now he was closer to her, how
expressive her features were.
Her nose was a delicate button that wriggled when he arrived, and
beneath that, her lips drew tight as she looked him up and down. She did
not care for him, Woolwich reminded himself. The fact she was attractive
did not matter a jot. He would not let it be important to him. There was a
rose blush to her rounded cheeks as if a burning life was bounding through
her, animating her features and causing Woolwich to be aware of himself in
a way he was not entirely comfortable with.
An uncomfortable tightness gripped the air between them. Awkward
and unwelcome, but if he was going to pursue his aims, if he was going to
protect his dead wife’s reputation and defend his son, he would need to
dispose of the woman before him and make sure she did not get underfoot.
“Your Grace,” she said, pushing her chair back as she stood. Her
greeting was brief. The words uttered were quick and hard. It was obvious
that she wished to dismiss him.
 Pivoting, Woolwich glanced over to the man beside her. “Introduce me
to your friend.” It was less of a request and more of a demand on his part.
He was on edge, forcing down his annoyance. She brought this out in him.
What was the solution? Exile her forever? Humiliate her in front of her
sister and the earl, as well as the rest of the ton? It was rather galling to
realise he desired neither of these. If he were to beat Miss Blackman, a
better answer had to be found.
Hastily she muttered, “This is Mister Tarquin Goudge, and this is His
Grace, the Duke of Woolwich. Mr. Goudge is a don at Oxford.”
The younger man, who had a slighter frame than Woolwich and the sort
of floppy brown hair that needed to be looped behind his ears, glanced
between them curiously. Woolwich supposed the younger man was around
Miss Blackman’s age and had a pleasant enough face. Mr. Goudge nodded
with an excitable little start as he bowed his greeting. The movements
reminded Woolwich of a puppy. Perhaps this unlucky swain was the one
Miss Blackman had decided to pursue, in which case it should have been
Woolwich’s sincere delight to end this unfortunate courtship because no
man deserved to be shackled to such a virago. Let that be a lesson to her for
crossing him.
Miss Blackman sighed, shooting a dirty look at Woolwich and then
lifting the book she held in her gloved hands with all the artfulness of a fine
lady. That grated Woolwich too since he knew what she had been up to this
very morning, and it felt like she was lying. “Mr. Goudge and I were
discussing Le Morte d’Arthur and whether students should be made to study
it in the original language or if the translation loses anything.”
Woolwich looked at Mr. Goudge, who was nodding sagely as he
weighed the issue. The tilt of his head gave him a ponderous air. “It is a
difficult point indeed, and one where I find myself torn. With my students
—does one settle for ease of understanding or true knowledge of what the
author meant.”
“I believe that the author’s truth must be the aim,” Miss Blackman said.
“Indeed, most passionately did you argue your point, that I find myself
most likely to agree with you, Miss. So, few young ladies know the sincere
value of Mallory’s work,” Mr. Goudge enthused. Despite his scholarly
appearance, as suited his career, Mr. Goudge looked most keen to snatch up
Miss Blackman’s hand as he made his point.
 With a sniff and a muttered, “Excuse me,” Woolwich cut into their talk.
Resentfully Miss Blackman turned her head and stared at him.
“I do not believe His Grace to be fond of literature,” Miss Blackman
said, her tone patronising and dismissive, so it was with great satisfaction
that Woolwich straightened his spine, his height significantly taller than her
companion and a foot more than her tiny stature.
His eyes swept her face hoping to see Miss Blackman rendered
uncomfortable, “I have read several translations of the story, and I, for one,
am surprised by your eagerness to promote such texts. I thought you a great
romantic, Miss Blackman. Surely the affair between Guinevere and
Lancelot is tragic and ruins everything?” He looked between the two of
them, but when neither spoke up, he continued with grim alacrity, “The
elevation of such material which glamorises an extramarital affair as
something worthy of celebration is surely questionable.”
Blinking several times, Mr. Goudge seemed unable or, probably as was
more likely the case, unwilling to launch into a public spat with a duke.
When Woolwich turned back to Miss Blackman, a rosier flush donned her
cheeks, and he noticed the ladylike gloves were balled into fists by her side.
The obstinate aspect of her personality he’d been aware of previously and
had, since this morning’s interlude, decided that he found it amusing to
engage it. But truthfully, there was something else at play, another
sensation… was it enthralling? Tempting? Yes, it was something closer to
that. Annoyance shimmered through him. If anything, the realisation of how
he was feeling in her presence added to his confused irritation.
Before either of them could muster a suitable reply to Woolwich’s
dismissal, there came a distinctive noise from behind them, the soft notes of
a piano playing the cotillion. When Woolwich looked back across the room,
he could see that Lady Verne had taken a seat at the pianoforte, and several
of her guests were forming into their sets for the dance.
They were laughing as they joined hands, one couple after another, as
they prepared to begin the dance. He disliked the informality of it, and yet
the casual pressure of the situation was persuasive, as if the notes of the
piano were telling Woolwich to act in a certain way, demanding he perform
his role.
Without really thinking it through, Woolwich shot out his hand towards
Miss Blackman. She stared down at his proffered palm, her eyes lifting in
confusion, and a blank, rather pained expression darted over her face before
Miss Blackman lifted her fingers and took his hand. It prompted Woolwich
into movement, and he walked them across the room towards the rest of the
coupled-up guests.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting you away from the scholar.”
“I liked his company,” she replied. Her sideways glance tore into him,
and Woolwich was sure if she had access to a weapon, he’d be on the
ground, bloodied at her feet.
The dance began, and they bowed briefly to each other.
The movement of the dance carried them away from each other,
swaying in and out of the raised arms and shifting bodies as the music
picked up the pace. The cotillion was one of the more enthusiastic of the
courtly dances.
“You cannot be enjoying this,” Miss Blackman said as they came
together again.
She was wrong, he realised. Woolwich would normally have disliked
this dance, but, in truth, he had not loathed the dance. He had liked the
music the way it hung around the room, filling up the space with a
reassuring sound. He also liked seeing Miss Blackman’s smile as she
grinned at the other dancers, her charm abundant as she stepped away from
him. In truth, he had liked all of the dance. He had liked dancing, especially
with Miss Blackman, despite his fears of how it might be perceived by
others.
They parted again before he could reply to her, moving once more
amongst the other partners, lifting their arms, palms touching, and their
bodies shifting as they went through their paces.
This time though, it was Woolwich who spoke first. Keeping his tone
icy, hard, and ensuring his voice was sharp as he looked sideways at Miss
Blackman. Around them, the music ended. “I came here tonight for one
simple reason,” he said as he bent his head nearer to her ear, closing the
distance between them so that no one else would overhear their
conversation. Not close enough for anyone to notice it or for it to break the
bounds of propriety, but enough for only Miss Blackman to hear his words.
“It took me far too long to work out how I will gain the repayment of
rescuing you from White’s. But now I see it all clearly. You are going to
help me ruin your friend, or I will ruin you. Clever solution, is it not?”
 CHAPTER 6

T he party was of the sort that Clara preferred to the grander society
events. Smaller gatherings gave the invited a chance to mingle, talk,
and discuss ideas. Verne’s home was precisely balanced between
being large enough to host a nice amount of people but intimate enough to
make it feel special. The rear-facing glass doors had been thrown open,
allowing a soft, night-time breeze to drift in, filling the parlour with the
scent of apple blossom and even the sugary smell of baked bread drifting up
from the kitchen below. The rest of the parlour was lit by a dazzling array of
candles that hit off the eyes of the guests and their glasses as their talk filled
the room.
All of Lady Verne’s guests who were not members of the Set were
fascinating, radical, and excellent at raising topical conversations, which
Clara knew would be illuminating. These were the sort of people she
wanted to be associated with. Added to this was the presence of Mr.
Goudge. He was a charming young man, one who was smart, had a well-
proportioned face, and sported a little moustache, which she knew, given
the right inducement, she would come to like. On top of this, he seemed to
appreciate her suggestions and her few comments on medieval manuscripts.
None of these things mattered because as soon as Woolwich danced
with her, all her enjoyment fled. His grip was brief but impactful. His large
hands held her with precision and firmness that Clara could still sense in her
body. When he was near her, it felt as if her heart was beating nineteen to
the dozen. A wave of scent, a masculine woodsy smell of bergamot, teased
Clara’s nostrils as she resisted the temptation of leaning closer to him.
 “You would not dare,” Clara said. Even to her own ears, it sounded
weak.
Woolwich’s words, “I will ruin you.” His voice drawled over that one
sentence, and for the first time, Clara was aware of how the duke spoke
with slow, careful consideration that added emphasis to his vowels and an
almost sensualness to his dictation. Rather like silk between his lips. They
throbbed through her in a way that did not make sense so that her limbs, her
core, her chest, hell, even her throat—every part of her body responded to
his whispered threat. It would have had less of an impact if he had claimed
her lips under his own. That idea repelled her. What a disgusting concept.
She had to restrain her face from showing her distaste. Imagining that
callous, unpleasant duke doing anything as human as kissing…
“I suppose it explains a great deal,” Woolwich said, cutting into her
thoughts, “If you are forever making those sorts of faces, no wonder you
need to chase after some stuffy don.”
She was unable to immediately come up with a proper reply as she was
still caught on the image of Woolwich kissing her. No, her kissing him. No.
Bother. She wanted none of it. Why did the question over how his
disdainful and prim lips would taste continue to bother her that she failed
utterly to think of a response?
“I am not chasing anyone,” Clara snapped. Her whole body was aflame.
She felt she wanted to scream, punch, hit—anything to release this
overriding tension that was engulfing her mind. Her body was heated by the
idea of how Woolwich would taste, and she could not stop her devious
thoughts from wandering down that alleyway.
“Of course you are. All young, unmarried women in society are. It is
your only aim. Not a particularly notable one, but it is your only choice.”
“Your disdain for women speaks of a mind that regards others as
beneath him.” Clara found her voice as Woolwich made to turn away from
her. “What it demonstrates, though, is your inability to understand or
appreciate those who are not as fortunate as you. We return once more to
your overabundance of privilege. That might not matter were it not for your
lack of kindness, which shows that you do not deserve any respect, no
matter what your title may imply.”
The rest of the couples around them were chatting away most amicably
with the intention of reforming for the next dance. Neither Clara nor
Woolwich, however, had acknowledged their surroundings. In fact, they had
been drawn together, their mutual dislike as they stared up and down at
each other emanating off them.
“No one in their right mind would ever believe you capable of seducing
Lady Heatherbroke. You have no charm. Why would she look at you when
she has such a dear husband, such darling children, and you are so utterly
lacking in… in…” She wanted to say “appeal,” but despite her steely
resolution to completely crush Woolwich, Clara was beginning to realise
that the pair of them were drawing a few sceptical looks from the gathered
guests. It would be preferable if he could release her hand, which was still
held tightly in his large grip, but the bastard was holding on to her most
firmly.
Leaning closer, so that only she could hear him, Woolwich said, “You
speak as if you harbour a rather unfortunate infatuation with Heatherbroke.
Do you think your friend would wish to know of that? I have my doubts,
nor do I think you want the rest of this party to know what you were up to
this morning. Now smile as if you find me very amusing, and I will escort
you away.”
Reluctantly, Clara did as he said. It was galling to know he had the right
of it, and if she were to cause a scene, it would be her, and only her, who
would suffer the consequences of it. Woolwich was an untouchable amongst
the ton, the shining beacon who everyone regarded as unassailable because
of his birth, his wealth, his presence. Yes, they might say he was severe and
distant, but didn’t that just add to his hauteur? Clara had to be practical,
especially after her attempt of being underhanded and trying to control the
marriage mart to her satisfaction had rebounded on her so badly.
As they moved away, a new melody started. The remaining couples
began the dance, a happy laugh escaping from Lady Silverton as she
swayed to and fro with her husband. It made for a merry scene, in heavy
contrast to the mood Clara was in.
“Just so that you know, I neither think of Heatherbroke in such a
manner, nor any other married man.”
“Why else would you go to a gentlemen’s club? Perhaps you are
conducting an affair, or you wish to? Has the confines of being a debutante
started to itch?” There was a heat to his words and an odd gleam to his
normally staid face, but he continued with vehemence. “Should I warn poor
Mr. Goudge of what is in store for him if he were to continue with this
pursuit? Is he merely a cover for something more sordid?” Woolwich swept
a lazy gaze over Clara’s frame, and she became hugely aware of how
different their bodies were. The impact of his words rang in her ears. With
his tall and dominant body, unfairly made with the physique that followed
classical Greek or Nordic models, he would have been better suited as an
artist’s muse posing as a plundering Viking God than standing in a modern
reception room. Next to her smaller stature and curves, they looked vastly
different. She was not one of those women who ever berated herself for not
following the fashions of being as slim as her friends or her sister. No, in
fact, Clara rather liked her more generous bosom and how her negligee sat
on her rounded hips. Her figure made her feel empowered more often than
not, despite the fact it was not always appreciated. Woolwich’s hard grey
eyes bored into her, his foreboding masculinity against her soft, swaying
femininity. Perhaps this made Woolwich think she would budge, but it did
not mean for a second that she would give an inch to this bully. It just meant
she had to be cleverer than him. Just like so many other of her fictional
heroines before her, when called upon, Clara decided she would have to
outwit him.
Forcing a pleasant smile onto her face, Clara said, “At least my
presence at these events is appreciated. I may have none of your social
advantages, but at least my company is not dreaded amongst the Set. It may
not be true amongst wider society, but here amongst friends, it is.” She
cocked her eyebrow in a knowingly annoying manner, the way her siblings
would find extremely irritating. “You may have every visible advantage, but
look around this room. Your defects are seen. They are known. How do you
think my brother-in-law would act if he knew what your treatment was of
me? Do you want to go and tell Hurstbourne now? Of course, as soon as
you do, you will have to admit that you have threatened me—a poor
innocent lady with ruination. I may be banished back to the country, but
what do you think Hurstbourne would do to you?”
She had called his bluff. There it was, and she saw that it stumped
Woolwich. Before she could depart and return to the encouraging smiles of
Mr. Goudge, she heard Woolwich sigh. It did not sound as defeated as she
hoped it would, though. “Bold words.” Unbidden, he took hold of her
unresisting arm and led her towards the drinks table to the side of the
parlour. The noise of the pianoforte to the left of them muffled whatever
they may say. He released her and passed her a glass of ratafia whilst taking
some champagne for himself.
 There was a temptation, Clara thought as she held the cut glass, filled to
the brim with the swirling red drink, to toss it into the duke’s face. It would
be wild; it would be dramatic—worthy as an action of one of her beloved
gothic heroines. It would, of course, see her banished back to her family
seat in Sussex with little hope of seeing anything beyond her mother’s
sitting room for a good number of years. Would it be worth it? Perhaps for
that look of shock on His Grace’s smug face. She could envision her future
in years hence, seeing Isabel’s children, hearing them ask Clara why she
was banished from all good society, and her answer being that she had
thrown a glass of alcohol into a duke’s face. Undoubtedly those children
would be scandalised, but in that future, Clara’s own did not look too
promising.
“Are you listening to a word I am saying?” Woolwich had clearly been
talking, and now he was staring at Clara as if she were extremely silly.
“No, I was busy wondering what it would be like to throw this drink in
your face.”
For a second, she thought he would yell at her, perhaps even stomp off
or simply go and find Hurstbourne and explain it all, but much to her
surprise, Woolwich laughed. It was a bitter noise, a strange one as if he did
not frequently allow himself the pleasure of humour. “I suppose I should
respect you for your honesty.”
“And for not actually tossing it into your face. Despite ample
provocation.”
“Do you always respond with so little thought to your actions?”
Woolwich’s question took Clara by surprise, and she dwelt on it for a
moment, giving it more thought than if it had been directed to her by Lady
Heatherbroke or her sister.
“I have taken a fresh start this Season,” Clara said. “It is my third
Season. Trying to be more traditional has not worked well for me.”
“I know.”
“There is no need for that tone.”
“What tone?”
“The one that says it is no wonder. A plump, red-haired chit like me—”
“That is not remotely what I was thinking. I have no doubt your lack of
success in the marriage mart is entirely down to your abrasive personality
and nothing to do with your appearance.”
 “How unpleasant of you. As a gentleman, you should be ashamed of
yourself.” Why, though her words were true, was she rather enjoying their
back and forth, despite how rude he was?
“At least, that was my intention. I meant it as an insult. Besides, your
love of books would put off many men who would prefer not to be
outwitted by their wives,” Woolwich said. “If I was ever in an unfortunate
enough position as to be forced to compliment you—”
“I would consider it highly unlikely for someone like you to offer
compliments. It would mean you were capable of liking another person.
Such actions are impossible for someone like you,” Clara snapped, shocked
at how quickly her replies rushed to the fore. What was surprising to her
was that he knew she loved novels. It should not have been touching to
have this thrown back at her like it was an insult, but she was rather pleased
about it. Never before had she experienced such a heady rush. It was similar
to the time she had drunk too much champagne and felt the liquid courage
seep through her. Likewise surprising was how ferociously verbose the
duke was being, for someone famed for his grim-faced silence.
“Someone like me?”
“A disagreeable clout, one who could not buy dignity, in the same way
as he could not buy kindness.” The words were out before she had really
considered them. In a desperate way of filling up the chilly reception, she
continued, “You would never be able to seduce my friend, for that would
require a heart.”
The air between them changed, colour pulsed beneath Woolwich’s
cheeks, and briefly, Clara wondered if he was capable of murdering her
where she stood. Would her body be mangled in the middle of Verne’s
drawing room and then used as a warning to other debutantes about the
danger of standing up to the lofty duke? Woolwich opened his mouth, about
to deliver some hideous rebuttal, but it was then that Hurstbourne
meandered over to them. “You two seem very enraptured.” Hurstbourne
was all ease. His blond, good looks seemed to have been mellowed by a
pleasant evening, in sharp contrast to both Clara and the duke. “It is a
shame that Mr. Goudge did not stay…” Hurstbourne trailed off.
“He has already gone?” Clara asked, having, in truth, forgotten all about
the don. Which was a great disappointment because, as a potential spouse,
she had deemed him suitable. The problem was that for all the sweetness
evident within Mr. Goudge’s behaviour, it was dinted by the overwhelming
hatred that Woolwich inspired in her.
“I think he was called away,” Hurstbourne waved towards the door,
before looking back at Woolwich. “Are you going to Newbury this
weekend?”
Bobbing a curtsy and muttering something about fetching some water,
Clara darted away, fully intending to see if Mr. Goudge was still in the
hallway. If he was, she was determined to invite him to one of the lectures
she often went to. There was one scheduled on Euripides that she felt sure
would be equally as interesting to her as it would be to him. On reaching
the hallway, though, Clara found it deserted.
“Damn,” she muttered. Her distraction over Woolwich had cost her once
again.
An abrupt movement behind her made Clara realise that she was not
going to be alone for long, and with a sinking heart, she heard Woolwich’s
footsteps closing in on her. Clearly, the blasted man wanted to finish
whatever stinging retort he might have for her. Another blisteringly
unpleasant observation that Clara thought she could do without. Looking
around her, she spied the open doors that led outside. The shadowy,
enclosed garden that was to the rear of the Vernes’ property. Visible through
the half-open doorway Clara could see some tall blossom-heavy trees, a
smallish bench, and beyond that the realms of the dark garden which she
could hide in. Without another thought, she rushed outside, darting down
the steps until she found herself with only the light from the townhouse to
guide her way, and the faint burn of the stars far above her.
On any other evening, the romance of the springtime night might have
struck her, but at that moment, Clara just wanted to avoid Woolwich. Her
head swung around this way and that, and for one wild second. she
contemplated climbing up into the tree and hiding there. Perhaps she could
make friends with the birds and—
Her hand was already on one of the branches when a sharp cough called
her back to herself.
“What in God’s name are you doing now?” Woolwich asked.
Turning, Clara dropped her skirts, hiding her ankles hastily from view.
She resumed her place on the path as if she had been doing nothing out of
the ordinary. “Why did you follow me out here?”
 “How do you know I did not simply seek some peace and quiet away
from the hustle and bustle of the party?”
“Then why wouldn’t you just leave?” Clara asked rudely. She realised,
as she squared up to him, that he was absolutely right—she was being
abrasive. Her mother and sister would be shocked and appalled by her
attitude. Hastily, she reminded herself of the duke’s plans—Prudence was
the dearest, sweetest lady who did not deserve any of the duke’s wrath.
Righteous indignation flared back into Clara, and she strode nearer to the
dratted man. He might be a great deal taller, older, richer, better connected
—good-looking too, she had heard those girls over the years swoon over his
stern, austere blondness, but it didn’t matter. A bully was a bully. Clara
would not let herself be intimidated.
“What you fail to understand, Miss Blackman,” Woolwich sighed. He
had regained his earlier hauteur as he looked down at her with the
dismissive disregard of a man used to squashing someone like her beneath
his well-made Hessian boots. “If you dream of getting in my way—”
“Of course I will. I will always try to stop such callous actions against
someone who does not deserve such treatment,” Clara said. She was
standing close to Woolwich now. Her hand slapped against his chest as she
saw he did not intend to move out of her way. Distantly a strange thought
whispered to her that if she were caught outside like this, alone with a man,
her name and her chances of marriage would be dashed forever. Of course,
no one would ever dream of pairing the two of them. A more ill-suited
match could not be created in all of England.
“You would infuriate a saint,” Woolwich said. He caught her hand, or
rather imprisoned it in a vice-like grip. Rooting her to him until Clara
thought that nothing man-made would be able to shift her away. Despite the
half light of the evening, the sheer intensity of Woolwich’s gaze bore into
her. The glare of his features was all too clear for her to see.
“Well, we know you’re not that,” she snapped back.
What shocked her beyond anything, and what she would never have
expected, was when the duke sighed, bent his head, seemingly beyond
words or reason, and pulled her even closer so that she was right up against
his body, his lips lowering and sealing them over her mouth, kissing her.
 CHAPTER 7

G od, what was he doing? It was the first coherent thought that
occurred to Woolwich after he pressed his mouth against Miss
Blackman’s. It had started as an attempt, a desperate one, to silence
her. Anything that would quiet the tormenting siren from continuing to rip
pieces off him. But despite his expectation, everything changed as soon as
their lips met. Their kiss was changing him. And worse, he was enjoying
the transformation.
Clara Blackman was warm, a bubbling, tormenting hellcat, but one
whose keenness was demonstrative from the way she clung to him.
The hard pressing demand of his lips against her mouth had softened,
and they were kissing now with a curiosity rather than a punishment as she
responded to his insistent plunder. Her hands, which had been latched to his
shirtfront, had moved to encircle him and then lift up to his hair, digging
into his scalp as she kept him close. Those soft, small hands of hers were
surprisingly strong, but next to the ardour of her mouth, they faded in
comparison. She was standing on her tiptoes in order to reach him, to
continue the kiss with more enthusiasm than he had ever thought a lecturing
bluestocking might possess.
The tragic thing was Woolwich realised he could not remember the last
time a woman had kissed him. He’d tried to have a mistress after
Annabelle’s death, but the act had left him shaking with distaste, so he had
paid the lady off and confined himself to a single state.
But he didn’t want to dwell on that, not when there was such a feast
before him.
 He angled his tongue to nudge against the seam of Clara Blackman’s
lips. To his delighted surprise, she parted her mouth, and with an eagerness,
he delved in farther. His tongue stroked against hers. She tasted like
forbidden fruits. Her own flavour and taste, ratafia, mingled with another
scent, strawberries he fancied, filled his senses, and consumed him. A wild
idea occurred to him of dipping or trailing cream over her and licking it off
her quivering body.
He had moved, too, releasing her fingers to better mould her body to
his. To lift his straining, shaking muscles into the comforting touch that was
Clara Blackman. Those wide, delicious lips of hers were likewise shaking,
but he sensed no reluctance. That wobble, he realised as she clung to him,
was drawn from a similarly craving part of her—she wanted him too.
With her hands rooted in his hair, Woolwich had free rein to explore the
tender swell of her bottom, the line of her clothed back, up to the exposed
nape of her neck. In a luxuriant movement, he swept the dainty curve of her
spine, enjoying how she responded to his touch.
The tempting shape of her frame, which he had noticed before, was
even more luscious when cradled against his increasingly desirous body.
She had an utterly feminine form—from her smaller stature to her bountiful
breasts, it was not a combination that had tempted Woolwich previously,
but now he could only marvel at his former ignorance at what he had been
missing out on. Blood, lust, and power surged through him, a novel
experience for him, almost like a candle being lit in a darkened room.
Suddenly, he could see, and he was reminded of his former lustful feelings
and wants.
Clara Blackman’s grip on his back, her hold which was keeping her
tight against him, lessened as she adjusted herself, and with great
reluctance, Woolwich knew that this experience, this kiss, would need to
stop.
With a deft, quick movement, he pried Clara Blackman from him and
set her down on the small, shallow bench just a few feet from them. Both of
their breaths were laboured, and he turned away from her as a way of
ensuring he did not pounce on her again.
He glared out across Verne’s garden, surveying the dark spread to make
sure no one might have seen them in such a passionate embrace. The last
thing either of them wanted was to find themselves trapped in a loveless
marriage. Although, he thought wryly, based on that kiss, it would at least
not be a passionless union.
Finally, he turned back to the bench, having judged that he had given
her enough time to recover her composure. Clara Blackman had sunk onto
the seat, her magnificent chest rising and falling rapidly. Her gown had
been straightened from where his greedy hands had rumpled, stroked, and
stolen in increasing curiosity. As he turned, he spotted Miss Blackman
hastily lowering her fingers from where they had been touching her mouth.
It was an oddly vulnerable and sweet movement, which faded as she lifted
her eyes to his and glared back at him.
“How dare you?” Her voice throbbed with righteous anger and
something else emotional hidden beneath the surface.
“Madam.” He found his harshest tone, of the kind that echoed
unpleasantly of his tutors. And as he spoke, he knew he was going to sound
remarkably like a prude. But he embraced puritanism as a protective shield
from any emotional outburst which might tempt him. “If you insist on
ruminating in this garden on your own, as you were, then your behaviour is
hardly worthy of respect.”
Her lip curled at his blatant hypocrisy, and despite the darkness,
Woolwich thought he saw a flash of vulnerability as Miss Blackman
jumped to her feet.
“There is nothing in your behaviour, character, or bearing worthy of
anything. If I ever have the misfortune of encountering you again, I hope it
will be at your funeral.”
“Your immaturity is evident.”
“I’m twenty-six in August,” she said, a flush brightening her cheeks, but
she took no step closer to him. The two of them trapped and compelled
within the narrow enclosure of the pathway, unable or unwilling to move
away. “You should not have kissed me. You had no right.”
All of that was perfectly true, and were she any other lady of the ton,
Woolwich would have been apologising and trying his best to make
amends. Were she any other lady of the ton, Woolwich would not have
dreamt of behaving so, despite his avowal to seduce Lady Heatherbroke…
but since he had kissed Miss Blackman, he would have to face the
consequences of his ill-thought-through actions. This resolved, he wetted
his lips in preparation to make his apologies, but instead, out came the
words, “You shouldn’t have kissed me back.” There was something about
Miss Blackman that rendered him ill-tempered and as immature as he had
just accused her of being.
“As the older, more experienced individual—” she said.
“Are you attempting to say I am wiser?” He needled her.
Quick as a whippet, she bit back, “You should be. Wiser than you are. I
see no evidence of this.”
“We should ensure that no one ever hears of this—this—occurrence.”
“What are you accusing me of? Attempting to trap you? Into marriage?
Is that your implication?” The disgust that coloured her voice was so
pointed and overwhelming that Woolwich could not help feeling a touch
offended. He was a catch. Everyone said so. He was often seen as one of the
most eligible and sought-after gentlemen of the beau monde. For this
diminutive, red-haired chit to dismiss him out of hand ruffled him in a way
Woolwich did not want to explore too greatly. “There is no offer you could
ever make me, Your Grace, to tempt me to wed you. I would sooner die an
old maid than ever consent to be your bride.”
“A fate that is already abundantly laid before you.”
She made a scoffing noise and then raised her hand and gestured for
him to leave. “You should go. Now. Get away from me.”
But his feet would not carry him from her. No matter how infuriated or
distressed she might look. The two of them were fighting, a bitter and
seemingly bloody exchange, but she had made this start to the Season far
more memorable than any he could recall in years. His previous interactions
with Miss Blackman had been brief, and like many, or rather all other,
women in society, dull and as lifeless as mud. But now, he certainly could
not lay that charge against Miss Blackman, not anymore. None of those
things could be voiced to her, of course. He would not be so vulnerable. No,
he would never allow another person to see the small, fragile parts of
himself that were so unlovable.
Forcing himself to say something to justify why he wasn’t retreating
away, Woolwich said, “You barely warrant the title or address of a lady. But
I would not leave a woman unattended outdoors. I will escort you back
inside to your host.”
“This is not Vauxhall. I think I can survive being in a friend’s garden for
a few minutes of quiet reflection. I hardly require a guardian anymore.”
“If you were desiring to locate that insipid don, Goudge, he’s long
gone.” There was satisfaction in saying that particular statement.
 “Your unpleasantness is not necessary—”
“That’s not fair.” Woolwich did not know why he interrupted her,
perhaps because listening to Miss Blackman disparage him was simply
repetitive, or because he feared it might hurt. Either way, he did not wish to
hear himself named a cur repeatedly. “I felt sympathy for the man, being so
chased out by you.”
With a noise of disbelief, Miss Blackman drew her arms around herself
protectively. He found himself judging with an admiring eye the way the
inhale and straightening of her spine highlighted her magnificent breasts in
her evening gown. The swell of straining silk lifted, and Woolwich
wondered how she would respond if he ran his finger along the band that
held in her bosom—what would her reaction be? Before he could continue,
she finally broke. Miss Blackman followed his gaze, reddened, and before
he could speak, marched forward, pushing past him, and stormed away to
the house.
Behind him, Woolwich heard the door slam, leaving him alone outside.
It was a familiar sensation—loneliness and solitude—but that did not mean
it was not a comfort. He was forced into the decision, but the alternative
was far too painful, more agonising than being forced to continue as normal
with the dratted woman.
Slowly he acknowledged the truth. He could hardly blame the girl; he
had been an absolute cad to Miss Blackman. Most women would have
fainted, screamed the surrounding location down, or insisted he behaved
like more of a gentleman. Despite his annoyance towards her, he knew she
deserved an apology, at least for the kiss.
Turning, he made his way toward the rear of the house. His fulsome
response, he reasoned, could wait for when both of them were in a better
mood. Give him time to compose a sufficient grovelling amends, whilst not
admitting any flaws in his plan towards Miss Blackman’s dear friend. That
was the balance he would need to achieve.
He reached the gate at the back of the garden and left.
Yes, it was the best plan—resolve matters over that kiss and assure her
it would never occur again.
B USINESS WITH ONE OF HIS ESTATE MANAGERS , AND AN ARDENT DESIRE HE
did not want to admit to, kept Woolwich away from the social scene and the
more affluent elements of the ton-ish Season for a good week. He was also
highly aware that the longer he kept his distance, the more justified he felt
in his revenge plot, his fury for Heatherbroke, disdain for the marquess’s
wife, worry over the Betting Book, and annoyance with Miss Blackman for
sticking her button nose in where it did not belong. But he was giving her
plenty of time to forget that night and the stolen kiss. At least that was what
he was hoping.
It had not worked out that well—only last night he’d woken in the
middle of the night, sweating with the memories of kissing Miss Blackman,
the surprise in her wide eyes, and the feel of her hands gripping his hair in
desperate responses. He tried repeatedly turning his thoughts and dreams
towards the purpose that should have preoccupied him—getting revenge on
Heatherbroke and ensuring his son’s legacy was safe. But despite knowing
this, no matter what he did, the memory of her blush and Miss Blackman’s
eager fingers did not leave him. In fact, the blasted chit was pulling all his
focus from his stated task.
There was a large selection of papers spread out before him on the desk,
their lettering dancing in a blur of white and black. It was a grim reality that
these papers were what he had to hold on to, telling his story as a man cut
off and alone in a vast London mansion, save for his servants who were
well used to avoiding him. The solitude had never previously bothered him.
No, Woolwich had revelled in it. Now his conscience was nagging him,
with the drumbeat of emotions he had no desire to explore.
In frustration, he called out to his secretary and asked the man what
event was supposed to be all the rage this afternoon. His plan was to locate
Lady Heatherbroke, although if Miss Blackman happened to be there, he
supposed he could give her a fleeting apology that she was owed.
On learning that this afternoon a grand rural picnic had been planned, or
the sort that most of the beau monde would be thrilled to attend, Woolwich
sighed and resolved to go. So, within twenty minutes, he was ready and
made his way towards the selected pleasure garden in his handsome
barouche, enjoying the feel of the ribbons in his hands and the slightest of
breezes which was stirring his hair, as the carriage picked up pace.
London was in fine form in the midst of April. Heavenly apple
blossoms scented the air as Woolwich’s barouche drew him through the
streets. The arrival of the Season had encouraged in Mayfair a cleanness
that could not be attained in the rest of the city, and the grand terraces and
homes gleamed, vanilla and cream with black railings in warm dappled
sunlight. Were Woolwich a more romantic man or a poetic sort, it might
move him to write a sonnet or compose a song. Such feelings, though, made
Woolwich mightily uncomfortable.
On arriving at the pleasure garden, Woolwich secured his barouche
alongside the other carriages. His gaze swept the scene before him, taking
in the small maze, the far more imposing and central lake, which was
sprinkled over with boating couples, and intermingled throughout the
spreading green lawn were dozens of belvederes filled with tables of food,
ices, cakes, and wines arrayed on top. Hundreds of people mingled through
the gardens gossiping as Woolwich cut through the crowds.
He spotted his quarry. Lady Heatherbroke was close to the water, with
her dark-haired husband lingering nearby. The marquess and marchioness
made a handsome couple with fine features and a charismatic air, the two of
them wrapped up in their own little world. Beyond a few nods and tilts of
his hat, Woolwich strode towards the water, not allowing himself to be
distracted. If he was going to make a scene, then interrupting them publicly
would be a start.
Halfway there, a flash of red hair caught his attention, and unable to
look away, he turned to see Miss Blackman waving excitedly. She was
attracting the marquess and marchioness over to her side and away from the
water. Away from the approaching Woolwich. Her giddy voice carried as
she beckoned them towards her, “Come, come, we’re for the maze.”
It was then that Woolwich spotted the man next to Miss Blackman, none
other than the don Mr. Goudge. Why the bloody man had not left for his
university yet, Woolwich did not know.
If he was to intercept the married couple, it would be now or never.
Before Woolwich could take another step, there was a rush of children.
They came hurtling past him followed by an exhausted looking governess.
She briefly shot Woolwich an apologetic look before her dozen or so brats
reached the water, their noisy excitement added to the general merriment
that engulfed the gardens.
So, Woolwich turned back towards his quarry. They were close to the
maze, which meant he made his way forward in the wake of Heatherbroke.
The marquess was talking to Mr. Goudge as they wove their way between
the raised green hedges. The two men entered the maze. Leaving the
marchioness alone. Save for Miss Blackman, who was talking animatedly
in her ear.
As he drew nearer, he saw that Miss Blackman had spotted him, her
mouth tightened, and she grabbed Lady Heatherbroke’s arm, pulling her
into the maze.
Eyes rooted on the disappearing Lady Heatherbroke, Woolwich barely
gave her companion a moment’s notice. At least that was his plan. It was all
going well until he entered the maze, turned the corner, and that was when
he felt a thud right into the middle of his ribs and stomach. Only then did he
realise what the damned chit had done. He rocked backwards, immediately
losing his balance, tilting towards the ground. She’d run at him and thrown
herself full tilt at him, sending the pair of them crashing to the side, directly
through the hedge wall.
Miss Blackman must have abandoned Lady Heatherbroke with the order
of seeking out her husband and Mr. Goudge, whilst she set about tackling
him. Twisting and turning as they fell, he managed to take a majority of the
pain of hitting the ground on his back. The twist and scratch of the branches
would also have a slight effect, but he had at least shielded her from that.
When they landed down through the hedge and onto the ground, he found
Miss Blackman sprawled on top of him, his hands keeping her body
securely rooted to his, the plush figure now a reality rather than just a
dream. Or a nightmare, he thought wryly.
 CHAPTER 8

T he day had been going so well, Clara thought morosely. She had
been invited by Mr. Goudge to attend the large society picnic, and
she’d been delighted to accept his invitation. Dressed in her
favourite sprig muslin walking dress, Clara had her maid curl her tresses
into a fetching style and added a straw bonnet with long navy ribbons to
complete the look. All of that was, of course, for nothing now as she was
lying sprawled over.
Mr. Goudge and she had attended several of the same events together—
a recital, and then a small, private ball—and once more when she had been
out walking with Mrs. Trawler on Rotten Row. Clara would only admit now
that the entire time she had been waiting with bated breath for Woolwich to
arrive. Frequently, Clara had been forced to refocus her attention on Mr.
Goudge. She had grown accustomed to the don’s manner, his tone of
lecturing her as he spoke. It certainly felt like she was a student of his rather
than an active participant in the conversation. But at least, Clara told
herself, she liked the topics he brought up. She was aware that whilst he
could be patronising on many matters, he was never boring. It was enough,
alongside his pleasing looks, for Clara to feel vaguely hopeful. It was a
boon that Mr. Goudge clearly liked her. After all, he had invited her here
today and was proudly escorting her through the gardens. Next week, she
hoped or believed she would receive a posy of flowers from him—an
unmistakable sign of courtship, which Clara longed for.
All that was at an end. Given how she was currently positioned.
Clara could almost imagine that the last five minutes were simply an
error, and if she blinked hard enough, she would somehow make the choice
of charging at Woolwich disappear. Make him vanish as if it were magic.
As a child, she’d loved that game.
As an adult, blinking down at the groaning duke, her thighs straddling
his, her fingers on his broad, warm chest, all the while unable to move
because the brute had one hand on her rump and his other tight on her upper
back. She could barely wriggle.
Distantly she heard a feminine voice, that of Lady Heatherbroke, calling
out to her, “Clara, where did you go?” There was a shifting noise of leaves
being moved as Lady Heatherbroke looked for her. Then a startled gasp, but
lingering within it was a slight laugh to it, as her friend viewed the pair of
them. “Are either of you hurt?”
By turning her face a tiny fraction, or as much as the brute would allow,
Clara could see the gap behind her in the hedge. Precisely where she and
the duke had fallen through. Snaggled branches and broken leaves left a
hole wide enough for them to have ended up on the ground. Were Lady
Heatherbroke so inclined, she could probably squeeze through after them.
But looking back over her shoulder, Clara could tell that her friend had no
desire to do so and spoil her handsome apricot ensemble.
“Shall I climb through and assist you?” Lady Heatherbroke asked
reluctantly.
“That won’t be necessary, my lady,” the duke said, and because of
where Clara’s head was located, she could feel the rumble of his words
throbbing through his chest against her cheek.
There was a pause in which the duke tried to sit up, and Clara tried to
scramble off him, and all the while, Lady Heatherbroke seemed to be
considering her next move.
“I will run ahead and ask the others to hurry towards you,” Lady
Heatherbroke said, darting away and leaving Clara still helpless with the
furious Woolwich to deal with. Abandoning them there, despite how much
Clara wished to call her friend back.
Clara listened to the sounds of her friend’s footfalls and the noise of
Lady Heatherbroke calling out to her husband until that sound vanished as
well. There were the occasional outcries or chatter of nearby people, but no
one seemed to notice them. All Clara’s senses were preoccupied by the
heat, the rhythm of Woolwich’s heartbeat, and she felt close enough to hear
his muscles moving and the wheels in his head turning.
“We cannot be seen like this,” she muttered.
 His grip loosened, and she pressed her hands off his chest to lever
herself up—to lift her body higher and away from him. But the broken
branches stuck into her legs, and she had to shift her chest farther up,
almost as if she were crawling over him. Clara’s hips knocked with his, and
she muttered a half apology and glanced up at him.
He seemed to be in pain. His thin lips were pressed together furiously,
and his eyes were closed. All the while, the muscle in his stern jaw
twitched.
“Have you landed on a branch?”
In response to her worry, Woolwich groaned.
The noise he made was hardly a pleasant one, yet at the same time, the
sound ran through Clara’s body, making her acutely aware of how her
muslin clung to her frame, the tactile awareness of the flush material against
her flesh. She had a sudden urge to rub her lower body against Woolwich,
to press herself wantonly there and luxuriate in the feeling of his larger
frame. Where had that lustful thought come from? It was so illogical.
Watching him, she wondered whether he could sense those desires that
fluttered through her or whether a similar madness might ever run through
him too.
When he met her inquiring look, she saw he was furious. His gaze was
flinty, almost enough to hit sparks off it. He looked angry enough to
implode. There was even sweat beading on his brow. With an abruptness
that surprised her, he reached forward, encircled her waist, and lifted her
completely off him whilst muttering, “You, madam, are a menace. How you
managed two Seasons baffles belief, although now your lack of success
speaks volumes.”
Rather than muffle the desirous bubbling sensation at his harsh words, it
was as if his insults enflamed her higher—the provocative feeding her want
for him. He was touching her, and it was thrilling. Large, powerful hands
that held her until she was off him. Briefly, as she had shifted her knee over
him, she felt what she was certain was his engorged manhood. She had an
idea of what might do that from a few stolen novels. Which meant, she
thought smugly, he could not entirely loathe her.
Woolwich rolled to the other side and got to his feet whilst Clara righted
her dress. She let courage infuse her. She could never let Woolwich know
how he affected her. The man would be so arrogant. Or even more arrogant
than he normally was. She would rather die than let him know that he was
her first kiss. Or that she had enjoyed it far more than she would have ever
imagined… and how much she’d pictured what else he might be able to do
with his tongue.
“What are you doing?” Woolwich’s question cut into her thoughts. It
seemed as if she was going to be on the receiving end of another tongue-
lashing. And not the good kind. One of his hands shot out and pulled
several leaves from her pelisse’s shoulder. It was clinging ivy. He dropped
the greenery onto the ground. “Can you ever behave like a lady, or is it an
utterly alien concept to you?”
“You were approaching my friend. I know what your intentions are
towards her.”
With an angry movement, Woolwich snatched up Clara’s dropped
bonnet and offered it to her with very little grace. Clara arched away from
him, flinching, backing off, and promptly landing against the hedge behind
her. The maze’s passage where they stood was narrow and did not give
them much room to move around.
“Do you think that I would force a woman? That I would hurt you?” His
question forced Clara to look up at him and see a flash of guilt mark his
face. Before she could answer him, Woolwich bent his head down. “I owe
you an apology for my actions last week. I should never have been so…
that is… I apologise for kissing you. I contemplated writing a letter to you,
but I realised that would…” he broke off, then abruptly shook his head.
“But that would be inappropriate.”
With as much skill as she could manage, given there was no mirror to
help her, Clara placed her bonnet back atop her head and tied the bows
under her chin. She could feel her elegantly arranged curls, that her maid
had helped her with this morning, unravelling, and one was even loose and
hanging down over her shoulder. She wished she could grab it and stuff it
back into her coiffure.
It was awkward to have the duke before her, seemingly dwelling on and
considering his choice of words, almost creating the impression of regret.
The trouble was he seemed sincerely apologetic, and that, in turn, made
Clara acutely on edge. If anything, Clara rather missed the sharp back and
forth of just a few minutes ago. At least with that exchange, she knew
where they stood. With this reflectiveness on his part, the earnest
consideration that creased his forehead, and the shadow that lingered in his
eyes, she realised it was tempting to believe his apology, but the frowning,
urbane duke was never going to be a good man. Nothing would ever be
transformative enough to make Woolwich honourable. “The only thing
inappropriate is your declaration towards Lady Heatherbroke’s ruin. I am
simply stopping you. That, Your Grace, is why this all occurred.”
With defiant steps she set off away from the gap in the hedge, squeezing
through the hole would simply spoil her already grubby gown. Far better to
get some space and locate Heatherbroke, his wife, and Mr. Goudge as soon
as possible. Once she had an escort, she would leave this blasted maze. “As
soon as you withdraw that bet, the two of us need never interact again.” As
she made this suggestion, a small flare of disappointment burnt within her.
She would miss arguing with him.
Her interactions with Mr. Goudge, which she had always assumed she
wanted, were actually rather dry and had none of the sparks that she
enjoyed so much with Woolwich. But realities were very different from
fiction. Her beloved novels had not prepared her at all for what she was
experiencing with His Grace. So far, there had been no haunted manors, no
locked-up wives, and no evil monks or nuns. For a moment, Clara’s
mother’s advice about reading less sprang to her mind, but she dismissed it
as nonsense—just because Woolwich was not a traditional villain did not
mean he was redeemable. In fact, the very appeal of him made him even
more dangerous.
“What you fail to understand,” Woolwich said, charging after her,
closing the distance between them as they walked through the maze. There
was such an edge to his voice that hinted at a deep-seated emotional heft
that it caused her to stop in her tracks and look back at him. His hand came
out, and he pulled his cravat away from his neck. “I will not allow anyone
to harm my son.”
“I cannot see why your son would benefit from my friend being ruined.”
In exasperation, Woolwich swept his hat from his head and dragged his
hand through his blond hair. The gesture should have made Clara nervous
as his fury had earlier, but she realised in that moment she believed him.
She had trusted Woolwich when he said he would never hurt her.
“Covington has a bet, which seeks to know what occurred years ago
between my wife and Heatherbroke. Verne swears the man is nothing, but I
cannot allow the speculation to ruin my son’s chances in society. I know all
too well the damage one bad rumour can do.”
 “You refer to Trawler and his bride?” Clara asked as that was the latest
on-dit through the ton.
“It is hardly restricted to them. You know how the beau monde treats
whoever is unfortunate enough to attract their attention,” Woolwich said.
“But bastardy is not a risk I will have dangled over my son’s head.”
That was interesting, Clara realised as she studied his grimacing, tense
face. He was uncomfortable, all of his body on edge because of fear. Did
part of him think that his late wife had strayed again and that the boy was
not his? Did he fear if that rumour came out, his son would be considered a
bastard regardless of the truth?
“Your solution is that Lady Heatherbroke should suffer for the mistake
of others?” Clara lowered her voice, a sympathetic note entering her
question. She might not be a mother herself, but she was an Aunt several
times over, and that deep-rooted protectiveness could flare within her very
quickly, so she could understand the desire to protect an innocent child.
Her soft query seemed to surprise Woolwich, and he sighed. “It is not
ideal. I will agree to that. But she is a woman grown. My son is only four.
He does not deserve any punishment.”
It surprised Clara that despite the idiocy of the duke and his
conclusions, how much empathy for his desire to defend his child moved
her. She would never have imagined a father talking about his son would
touch her so—she was used to being around family men, nearly all the
Oxford Set were now parents, and Clara spent time with them all. Perhaps it
was because it was so out of character. Woolwich was an aloof, hard, and
unmoving brute. Seeing him advocate for a tiny child was such a
juxtaposition to her expectations of the man. Or rather, she was seeing the
man rather than the brittle title he had always used as a shield.
Clara had told herself that she would be calmer, more sensible and that
she would not let the man know about the utter turmoil he put her in.
Especially now he had chosen to show her his sweeter side. “Surely,” she
said, trying to sound rational, “a better plan could have been built and
plotted out? Perhaps you could have simply spoken to Covington—”
“No.”
“Then Heatherbroke?”
“God, no. Never.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
“That man seduced my wife.”
 “It is unfortunate, cruelly so—”
“Do not justify it,” he cut her off.
She forced herself to continue, “It was over eight years ago.”
“And therefore, it does not matter?”
“No, the betrayal of love is a tragedy. I, for one, would struggle to ever
forgive it, and I am sorry you endured it,” Clara said and was surprised to
feel real tears at the back of her eyes. She resisted the temptation to reach
for his hand and offer a touch of consolation.
With a sobering nod, Woolwich acknowledged her words.
“When it threatens your child, surely it is worth thinking of another
approach, one which might be better long-term—” Whatever Clara had
been about to say was cut off by a nearby fast-approaching noise. It was the
shrill, giggling sound of girls, the light laughter of several young ladies
rapidly approaching both Woolwich and her. Whoever they were, would be
on the duke and her within a minute.
Glancing around with real perception for the first time, Clara saw that in
their argument, neither Woolwich nor she had taken in their settings
properly. There was no exit to the sides of them. If they turned and went
back, they would be eventually found by these approaching guests. The
hedge that surrounded them boxed them in rather effectively.
“What should we do? We cannot be found together, not like this,” Clara
said, a desperate plea to the man opposite her. There were bits of greenery
on both of them, and her hair was loose. If Woolwich hated scandal, the two
of them being seen like this would be sure to generate one. She feared he
would do something cruel or dismissive. After all, he had promised to ruin
her, but instead, Woolwich sighed again as he glanced around them, trying
to come up with a solution.
“Pretend to have twisted your ankle. I will help you—” Woolwich
moved forward, bending at his knees, suddenly putting one arm on her
lower back and the other close to her legs, scooping her up in his arms.
Being held by him so, his hands on her body made Clara’s traitor’s heart
sing. She ignored the sensation of his hands supporting her legs and how
her breasts were wedged against his jacket, or at least she tried to. “If you
are a good actress and can cry, that would add to the overall look.” There
was even a note of humour to him, which caused Clara to look at him
afresh. Was there a tiny flash of a dimple in his cheek? Woolwich being
amusing, surely that was not possible. Such a miracle seemed so unlikely. If
he was not careful, she might truly faint.
But his request for a performance did not need to be asked twice, Clara
leant her head back over his arm and emitted a false moan of pain.
As they staggered forward, Clara could have sworn she heard a faint
laugh from the duke. He seemed to be finding her act amusing. They
rounded the corner and immediately ran into a gathered group of young
debutantes, who all started fluttering when they saw the duke, but who were
immediately less pleased when they spotted Clara in his arms.
Most of the questions did not seem to be directed towards Clara but to
Woolwich, as if it was he who was in pain, and not her acting as if she
belonged on Drury Lane.
“Oh no.”
“The poor thing.”
“What happened to her, Your Grace? Are you well, yourself?” The
nearest debutante reached out and plucked a piece of ivy off Woolwich’s
broad shoulder.
“Damn small maze, with some rather uneven ground,” Woolwich
snapped. “Excuse me ladies, I must get the injured Miss Blackman back to
her group.”
“She’s ever so flighty, always going off on her own,” remarked a girl
Clara knew to be one of the diamonds of the Season. “She must have
wandered off again with her nose in a book. It is the sort of thing my
mother always warns me against.”
Clara heard one of the other girls whisper loudly, “It is so romantic.
Isn’t she lucky?”
Not gracing this with a reply, Woolwich strode off carrying Clara as if
she were weightless. His grip on her body tightened and despite the narrow
hedge, he lifted her to move her out of the way in case one of the sides
might brush her. Neither of them spoke, and Clara noticed he did not lower
her back to the ground despite being out of the eyeline of the girls.
As they neared the end of the maze, Clara had almost grown used to
being held in such a manner, which was when Woolwich spoke. “That was
quite a convincing little show you put on. But they don’t seem very fond of
you.” With care, he slowly lowered her back to the ground, but offered her
his arm to escort her out of the maze. “You spoke of an alternative?”
 “To what?” Clara blushed as she felt a strange sense of loss from
departing from his arms.
Woolwich said, “An alternative to me pursuing Lady Heatherbroke. You
said you had a better idea of how to protect my son?”
The intensity of his stare made Clara feel uncomfortable, and her mind
drew a blank on precisely what would answer. She wished she could solve
everything for him with a wave of her hand. “By working with, by seeing
Heatherbroke again, by becoming his friend, it would dispel any rumour.
Surely it is worth trying for the sake of your son?” Woolwich looked utterly
unconvinced, so Clara added, “He does owe you. He did feel guilty, but all
the Set would help you and your son in this endeavour, I am sure.”
 CHAPTER 9

N o immediate reply was forming in Woolwich’s mind. He was

struggling to find and formulate a response to Miss Blackman that
would fit with her optimistic way of seeing the world. The last
twenty minutes of being in an enclosed space with her alluring presence, all
those tempting curves, fiery loose curls, and bright eyes, was a physical
challenge for his unwelcomed lust for her. When she’d been on top of him,
his reaction had been immediate, entirely eager to bed the girl then and
there. He wanted nothing more than to roll her beneath him and plunder
every little morsel of her. Much to his own annoyance Miss Blackman’s
body was made to be worshipped. She made him feel like a man possessed.
Not even with Annabelle could he remember feeling quite so
uncontrollable. When she had wriggled against him, he had prayed for
something to strike him dead.
Worse than that, all his opinions and arguments fell on deaf ears in her
case. She was immune to him.
Where had his passion for a bluestocking, curvaceous redhead come
from?
It was not something he had ever considered a month ago. Racking his
mind, he supposed he was considered handsome enough, but Woolwich had
avoided any young females who might get anything approaching
matrimonial hopes of him. Was that why he liked her so? She clearly would
never consent to wed him. It was perverse, but he supposed it made a kind
of sense—he was at no risk from her.
All the replies he wished to say to Miss Blackman when something else
caught his eye.
 Miss Blackman and he stood on the edge of the maze, looking a little
dishevelled, but none of this mattered much to Woolwich. No, the thing that
was pulling in all his focus were the three people positioned by the lake,
happily eating in a belvedere. His mother, the dowager, her goddaughter
Lady Lamont and finally, Woolwich’s young son, Lord Saunders. The little
boy had grown. His blond hair, light and curling, was held back under a
small blue hat, and in his hand, he held what appeared to be a boat.
Dowager Katherine Mavor, the former duchess of Woolwich, lifted a
regal hand and waved in a friendly manner towards her only son.
“Come.” Woolwich’s hand shot out, and he grabbed Miss Blackman’s
arm. For some reason, he knew he wanted her on his arm to approach his
family. The rationale for this decision he would attempt to fathom.
“Where are we going?” Miss Blackman asked, sticking her feet into the
ground, clearly tired of being pulled here and there.
“To meet my family,” Woolwich said. “You can explain to my son why
his name will be ruined if your plan fails.” In an undertone, he added, “Stop
dragging your feet unless you want me to carry you again.”
It was not overly complimentary how quickly Miss Blackman picked up
her pace.
On reaching the belvedere, Woolwich made the necessary introductions,
and recognition danced over Miss Blackman when she was introduced to
Lady Lamont. His mother’s goddaughter was the heiress who Trawler had
almost married before wedding Lady Viola instead. Lady Lamont was a
slight little thing, very solemn and with large, dark eyes who could not be
much more than eighteen. Miss Blackman gave Lady Lamont a warm smile
when their names were exchanged.
His mother was looking well. The dowager was a tall, able-looking
woman whose stern looks had been handed down to him. From her,
Woolwich had inherited that high forehead, aristocratic nose, and cut-glass
cheekbones. She was all elegance, and her clothes looked freshly bought.
She must have been in Town for several days, and yet he had not heard
from her, not one word.
“What are you doing in Town, mother? I did not know you had ventured
up. I would have made you welcome at my townhouse.”
“I’m escorting Lady Lamont here, enjoying her first proper Season,” the
dowager said. “I thought it best to go to my dowager residence and not
disturb your bachelor abode.”
 She had not bothered to inform him that his son was in Town. His
mother was going against their agreement. Beau would not be forced to
endure the ton before he was ready. And that point would only be when
Woolwich deemed the child so—until the boy was at least eighteen. Despite
the desire, the overwhelming hunger to look at his son, Woolwich stared at
the bridge of his mother’s nose instead. He was angry at the disregard of the
arrangement they had come to.
The group was an awkward one. He had not seen poor Lady Lamont
since her almost wedding to his friend Trawler, and the thin girl did not
seem overly comfortable in high society. Next to her, close to bouncing on
her feet, was Miss Blackman, who had been introduced to everyone, smiled
at all, and then promptly started talking to his son.
Much to his surprise, Beau was sheepishly smiling back at her and
lifting to show Miss Blackman the handsome blue boat that Woolwich had
brought him for Christmas. In the brief moments when his son was
distracted, Woolwich swept worried eyes over the boy, noting whether he
had eaten enough, whether he was well or sick, down to how clean he
appeared and the length of his hair. Concern, worry, love, as well as a desire
to wrap his jacket around the child, washed over him, but when Beau
glanced over towards him, Woolwich hastily looked away. Hiding such
unruly emotions beneath an urbane nod in his general direction.
Flouting convention entirely, Miss Blackman bent down and examined
the boat in great detail and then declared to Beau, “Shall we see if the boat
floats? Perhaps we could even race them against the others in the water? I
do believe it to be seaworthy.” She looked expectantly up, clearly seeking
out volunteers at her suggestion.
“There is no sea here,” Beau said.
“No, true, but there is a lake,” Miss Blackman said. She pointed down
towards the large stretch of water.
Close by, there was a cluster of other children playing on a jetty that
stretched out into the waves. From the belvedere in which they stood,
Woolwich could make out the Earl of Langley playing with his sons. He
was laughing at the children’s high jinks, and nestled in the waves was a
similar little boat to the one in Beau’s arms. It would be an ideal situation
for Beau to join in with children roughly the same age as him. But that
would defy all the rules protecting Beau that Woolwich had put in place
after Annabelle’s death. He might desire to play as Langley was with his
offspring, to ruffle the children’s hair and laugh at their wild suggestions,
but he was too bitter, too consumed with resentment to allow such
negativity near his innocent child. Likewise, he was too scared to let Beau
go on his own. The irony was that as a reformed rake, Langley would
hardly have been cast as a doting parent a decade ago. A bitterness kindled
in Woolwich’s chest for how society was, to his mind it was a cancer he
would not allow to consume his only child.
Woolwich looked at Miss Blackman. There was a similarly hopeful
expression on her face as Beau wore. She, too, was awaiting a reply from
him. With a purity which his cynicism might burn away all too quickly.
How had he not seen that before? How had he not seen that she deserved
someone as pious and dull as that don, who would keep her isolated from
the dangers of the world. Shame for his actions bubbled up in him, yet
another person who he might pollute merely by being close to them.
Turning from the expectant face of his son, and the bright look of Miss
Blackman, Woolwich turned back to his mother. “Is the dowager residence
suitable for the three of you? If there are changes or alterations required, I
must be informed, and the bill sent to me. I seem to remember you telling
me it needed remodelling.”
There was a movement behind him, and he could hear Lady Lamont
start to engage Miss Blackman in conversation. The former’s voice wavered
as she spoke, her light tone drowned out by the dowager’s comments on her
London home. There were several improvements she deemed necessary.
Unable to properly listen to his mother’s requirements, Woolwich started to
eavesdrop on the conversation between Lady Lamont and Miss Blackman.
“I am supposed to watch the boy,” Lady Lamont said.
“He seems a dear child. I have a great many nephews, and I do not
believe one of them is as well-behaved as him.” To this comment, Miss
Blackman did not add in, ‘so unlike his father in temperament’, although
Woolwich had no doubt she was tempted to. He was being the most ill-
mannered brute, and if Miss Blackman chose to tell his mother on his
behaviour, he would hardly have been able to blame her.
“My father says the more time I spend with children, the more maternal
I shall become,” Lady Lamont said. “And thus, I will then be happier to
wed. When he arranges a suitable match for me.”
“The notions of parents are often inexplicable to their children,” Miss
Blackman said.
 This statement had been made at the same volume as the others, but
sadly, it was during a pause of the dowager’s who turned surprised eyes on
Miss Blackman. For a moment, silence reigned, and the dowager laughed
and smiled in good humour at Miss Blackman.
“I believe you are related to Lady Hurstbourne.” It was less of a
question and more of a statement as the dowager raked her eyes back over
Miss Blackman. Woolwich saw his mother’s eyes flick from Miss
Blackman’s one loose curl to the small stain on his jacket’s cloth, but she
made no comment. To those unfamiliar with his mother, they often found
her as severe as Woolwich tried to be. It would take someone who knew the
dowager better than Miss Blackman could to see the genuine interest in his
mother’s shrewd eyes.
“I am, madam. She is my older sister,” Miss Blackman said.
“Do you say such things to her young son?” Woolwich asked.
“Constantly,” Miss Blackman replied. “Robbie—that is, Lord Lynde is
far younger than Lord Woolwich here, but he already has a great many
opinions.”
“All inherited from his Aunt,” Woolwich said without thinking.
His mother turned her wide eyes on him for such rudeness, but Miss
Blackman did not seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, she laughed. “I am
sure I ferment far too many rebellions in the child. Between myself, and his
other Aunt, Mrs. Trawler, the boy will never have a dull moment.”
Immediately, all present looked towards Lady Lamont, who blushed
scarlet at being viewed so. When Lady Lamont raised her head, she looked
directly at Miss Blackman. “Please do tell your Mrs. Trawler that there is
no ill will on my part towards her or her husband. I wish them both very
happy.”
Before either he or his mother could interject, Miss Blackman reached
out and clasped Lady Lamont’s hand in hers. “You are a good deal better
than I. And probably Mrs. Trawler as well. For I would roundly curse the
pair of them, were I you.”
Much to Woolwich’s surprise, he saw Lady Lamont actually smile, a
true one that reached her eyes. There she was again, bloody Miss Blackman
having such kindness in her that she could be generous to a woman who she
had no loyalty to or reason to be sweet. Woolwich had known Lady Lamont
since she was no older than Beau, and she had been bullied and bossed
about by her father. She needed someone kind like Clara—
 “My God, the child!” His mother’s shriek cut into Woolwich’s
wandering thoughts.
The dowager was pointing towards the jetty, and as quickly as he could,
Woolwich turned and looked towards the lake. To his utter horror, time
slowed as he watched Beau wobble on the decking as he placed his blue
boat onto the water. Beau had the ribbon in one hand and was tugging it
backwards and forwards in the shallows as the present settled in amongst
the waves. The problem was Beau had approached with such gentle caution
and without an adult that neither of Langley’s sons had seen him. The two
boisterous twins were chasing each other back and forth on the jetty, one of
them having abandoned the boat and decided to make for land where the
child’s mother was waiting.
With a shout dying in his throat, Woolwich watched as one of Langley’s
sons crashed into his boy, sending Beau headfirst into the water. It wasn’t
deep for a grown man. It wasn’t cold nor was it a rough or windy day, but
despite that, any child could drown in such an expanse. Anyone
inexperienced or unlucky could drown so easily.
Woolwich set off at a run towards his struggling son. From behind him,
he heard his mother’s cries, and he could see Miss Blackman trying to keep
pace with his stride, but he left her in his wake. He needed to get to the
water.
He could see others gathering on the bank, the ton shocked and appalled
at what was happening. Everyone rushing towards the water’s edge, but no
one doing a thing. Langley realised what was happening and abandoned his
own children’s boat to hurry towards the spot where Beau had fallen in, but
the earl was at the other end of the jetty. Closer than Woolwich but still too
far away.
Bobbing miserably on the waves was the small blue boat that he had
bought his son.
He wasn’t going to reach Beau in time. He was still fifty feet away, and
Beau had not sunk beneath the water.
Someone dived into the water. Cutting and pushing through the jumble
of people watching from the bank, Woolwich strode directly into the waves
as he watched the swimming figure reach the point where his son had
disappeared from view, then dive deeper in.
Woolwich had not made out who the man was. At first, he assumed it
was Langley, but when he glanced at the jetty, he saw that the earl was
holding on to his own sons tightly, clearly frightened one of his children
might end up in the water. Whoever the man might be, Woolwich would
give him his entire fortune if he could save Beau.
Terrified desperation beat through Woolwich, with the thought that
Beau might emerge cold and blue, unresponsive to anything, and then slip
away from him as easily as Annabelle had done.
Looking back to the rippling waves, the man emerged, his dark hair
stuck to his face and obscuring his visage from view. In his arms, aloft, he
held up Beau, ensuring the boy was out of the water.
Woolwich was now up to his chest in the lake, treading the waves to
stay afloat as he drew closer to the man. “Let me,” Woolwich said as he
reached out and grabbed his child. Snatching up his son and holding the boy
to him desperately.
Beau spluttered, spat out some of the water, and started shaking.
Vaguely, Woolwich could hear the boy mutter again and again, muted little
apologies as he nestled into Woolwich’s chest.
“He’s all right. Just get him to land.” Woolwich turned and watched as
Richard Cavendish, Marquess of Heatherbroke, pushed his dark hair from
his face. A delighted chatter of happy shouts and cheers broke out along the
bank to see all three of them emerging from the water unhurt.
With numb steps, Woolwich carried Beau out of the lake, the thought
burning through him: the man he hated, the one he’d sworn revenge against,
was the one who had just saved his son’s life.
 CHAPTER 10

W atching in horrified shock, Clara could see the young boy placed
gently down on the bank. The fluttering ton with their ornate
bonnets and parasols backed off, giving Woolwich, Heatherbroke,
and the little boy some space, perhaps fearing they would get some dirty
water on their finery. With care, Woolwich rolled his son onto his front and
slapped the boy’s back. Coughing and sputtering, Beau threw up his
accounts.
Lady Heatherbroke, who had managed to find two thick blankets, which
must have been pulled from the nearest belvedere or carriage, draped one of
these over her husband and handed another to Woolwich. “You don’t want
him getting cold.”
Clara, who had drawn close, looked between the three of them,
desperate to know what she should do next.
Meeting Woolwich’s family had been a surprise. His haughty mother
had been far friendlier than she expected, but it was the gentle, quiet, and
intense little boy who had immediately grabbed her attention. From her two
older sisters and from Lady Heatherbroke as well, Clara was used to
looking after children, especially little boys. She’d helped build pirate hats,
read stories until all involved had fallen asleep, swam in lakes during the
summer, wiped noses, and held them when they’d cried over broken toys,
mean rules, or nasty siblings.
The sheer beauty of the little boy before her melted her heart. Tiny
Master Beau had watched his father, clearly yearning to greet and embrace
the duke, but Woolwich had kept such a distance it was heartbreaking.
 Guilt throbbed through her painfully every time she looked from the
small boy recovering on the bank, to the drenched marquess, and then
finally up to the dripping Woolwich. ‘Shall we see if the boat floats?’ She
had suggested it to Beau, and with the childish enthusiasm of youth, he had
rushed off to test his present out.
Woolwich did not seem to have so many reservations. He fixed Clara
with a hard stare and then pulled off his soaking jacket, wrapping the
blanket Lady Heatherbroke had fetched him around his shoulders.
“Go fetch my coach,” he said to Clara, his voice low and direct. “I want
to take him to the doctors.”
Grateful for the task before her, Clara set off across the lawn. Behind
her, Woolwich scooped the boy up and followed in her wake. All around
her, there was a fuss, with people talking about the dreadful event.
Distantly, she could see the dowager being fanned by Lady Lamont. She
thought she saw the Vernes pausing, having been picnicking. Perhaps even
Lady Verne called out, but she strode on. Find Woolwich’s carriage, then
order it up. Her feet carried her towards where the horses and the barouches
were situated, waving down a groom and asking for the duke’s carriage to
be brought closer.
Woolwich handed her Beau to hold as he climbed into the vehicle,
accepting the quiet child back into his arms when he was ready. “Will you
inform my mother where I am going?”
Clara nodded. “Of course, I am—”
He cut her off. “Tell her to go to my residence when she can. Thank
you.” His face was set, impassive and controlled, but for the briefest of
moments, Clara saw an aching, scared man as desperate as she was to be
reassured.
He had acted out of instinct, one which drove him to save his son. Most
of the time, he tried his best to ignore Beau, perhaps because the child
stirred in him feelings of guilt. How could someone be so frustratingly cruel
and contradictorily kind? It beggared belief.
Despite it all, Clara nodded up at him, but he hardly noticed and was
gone with the flick of his wrist.
The dampness of the boy, which had been briefly pressed against her
body, had left a mark. Wetness was now moulding and shaping her gown to
her front, so with far slower steps, Clara made her way back towards the
dowager with the message. Hoping her meandering pace would dry her out.
 As she walked back through the gardens, she considered her bizarre
reaction to Woolwich. Once the danger was done, and Beau was safely on
the bank, Clara’s eyes noticed the way his wet shirt revealed Woolwich’s
magnificent body. She had read that scandalous women liked to dampen
their shifts to get the material to cling to their frames. If men had any idea
how good they looked in a soaking wet shirt, perhaps the fashion would
catch on amongst the gentlemen.
“Ah, my dear Miss Blackman.” It was Mr. Goudge. How had she
forgotten him again? Here was the man she had purposely set her cap at,
forgotten because of one stern, infuriating duke? “It’s all quite shocking. I
do hope you are feeling well.”
“The main thing is that his lordship was saved,” Clara said. She scolded
herself roundly for all the lurid things she had pictured around Woolwich’s
muscular torso and how much she wanted to run her fingers and even her
tongue over the shape of him.
“Fancy running off like that. I hope he has learnt his lesson,” Mr.
Goudge said primly.
“It would have been one of the more brutal ways for someone to learn
such a thing. There certainly would be no repeating the error if he drowned.
Children are sometimes naughty,” Clara replied. Surely everyone knew that,
on occasion, children misbehaved. Besides it was not as if Beau had jumped
in the water, he had been pushed in.
“Yes, well—” Mr. Goudge seemed taken aback that she would reply in
such a manner, and he shuffled awkwardly to and fro. His face was
contracting as if he were chewing an unpleasant sweetmeat.
“The duke asked me to speak to his mother. Please excuse me.” Clara
made to walk away from him, but Mr. Goudge was too quick.
“Allow me to escort you there. Your gown…” His hands made an odd
fluttering motion, and Clara remembered that her body was as much on
display as Woolwich’s front had been.
“Here.” With what Clara assumed Mr. Goudge meant as a gallant
gesture, he bowed as if they were on a dance floor and offered her his arm.
She took it. There was a contrast, she realised, to how, with brutal
efficiency, Woolwich had directed her, compared to the courtliness of Mr.
Goudge. It struck her as strange, given her romantic sensibilities, which
attention she infinitely preferred. “This way.”
 Mr. Goudge walked her back towards the belvedere, leaving her there
once she was on the edge of the huddled and excited group. The dowager
and Lady Lamont had gathered a concerned crowd of onlookers, and it took
several minutes for Clara to draw the dowager’s attention.
“There you are, Miss Blackman. I am assured that dear little Beau is
unhurt. Please, you were seen with my son. Can you let me know where he
has gone?” The dowager moved forward and snatched up Clara’s hands.
“His Grace is taking the boy to the doctor, but Lord Saunders seemed
well when I left them,” Clara said.
All around her, there was a collected outpouring of relief, including
from Lady Lamont, and in reply, the dowager squeezed Clara’s hands most
keenly. She even removed her own shawl and wrapped it around Clara in
both a kindly and protective gesture. “We are relieved indeed. I have heard
that Lord Heatherbroke jumped into the water. As soon as I can, I’ll be
paying my visit to thank him most heartily.”
The gleam in the dowager’s eye told Clara that the older woman knew
all too well of the shocking story of her former daughter-in-law’s betrayal
with the marquess. It seemed the dowager also had a plan to remedy any
scandal that might come out.
Dropping only one of Clara’s hands, the dowager pulled her back
amongst the huddled onlookers, so she could more clearly see the grand
faces they had attracted over. In turn, and in rather a hurried rush, Clara
made the much more informal acquaintances of Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper,
and then Lady Sefton, some of the most elegant patronesses of Almack’s,
that the dowager seemed to be on close terms with them. These women
fussed and fretted with the dowager Woolwich and even spared an
encouraging smile or two for Clara. Who felt increasingly embarrassed by
her wet gown, but it was her bravery they focused on.
“I think you should come with me,” the dowager suddenly said. “On my
return to Almack’s, Miss Blackman will be my special guest.”
Clara attempted to make an excuse, but one look from Lady Jersey cut
off her protestations. Despite her awkwardness, she reminded herself that
this was an honour.
“Indeed, I think that an excellent idea. Perhaps I will even invite the
marquess and his dear wife. I believe that they are special friends of yours
too,” the dowager added before Clara could say very much more.
 “You are very good, my lady.” Clara bobbed a curtsy as she backed
away.
On her way out, Lady Lamont joined her side. “I would be grateful for
the company. I find myself ill-suited to parties and balls. So having you
present would be wonderful.”
“Hush,” Clara replied, and the two of them stepped back a little. “It
would not do for them to overhear us.”
“The dowager already knows my feelings all too well,” Lady Lamont
said. She walked to one of the side tables, and Clara followed after her.
With careful consideration, once they were out of earshot, Lady Lamont
poured out two glasses of lemonade. “Your dress is terribly soggy.”
“I should go home,” Clara said.
“It makes you seem very dashing, almost as if you, too, went into the
water.”
“I did not.” She sucked in some steadying breaths and sipped the drink.
It was weak, and suddenly Clara wished it could be whisky.
“My father hopes I will wed the duke,” Lady Lamont said. There was a
coldness and sadness to her voice which struck Clara as odd. A great many
girls would be thrilled to marry Woolwich.
“He is a fine catch.” Clara took a larger sip of her drink. If a great
matrimonial union was to take place between this young heiress and
Woolwich, it could only be a good thing in terms of the duke’s plans of
pursuing Prudence. Clinging to this idea, Clara forced a smile onto her face.
It hurt her to do so.
“I do not care for him,” Lady Lamont added. “And I do not think he
thinks of me in such a manner. He never follows my movements as I saw
him do with you. Before Beau went to the lake, he kept looking at you
when you weren’t watching.”
A great warm blush swept over Clara’s face and chest. Hastily, she put
her glass down. “Is there someone else who has caught your eye?” she
asked in the hope that a change of subject would distract Lady Lamont.
“Oh yes, but it would never be possible,” the girl said with a finality
that made Clara wonder if the suitor was a tinker, a servant, or a criminal. A
well of sympathy swept through her. It was easy to imagine that as an
heiress, Lady Lamont had all the options, but it seemed one domineering
father could alter everything.
 “I would like it if you could visit us. My dear friend Miss Walsh writes
to me of your friends, the Oxford Set and their wives. Her older sister is
married to one of them, so Maeve Walsh is now called Lady Silverton.
From Miss Walsh, I feel as if I have a better understanding of you all.”
“Of course, I would be happy to visit and perhaps see you during the
Season,” Clara agreed. Going to see the dowager and Lady Lamont would
suddenly mean she encountered Woolwich a great deal more. Why did this
not feel as if it were a burden but a treat?
“It would help me feel like less of a wallflower if you would. I would
finally have someone to speak to,” Lady Lamont said, a shy smile touching
her face.
Clara nodded whilst knowing herself to be a fraud. She was widely
perceived as a wallflower—far too often, she’d even brought a book with
her to a ball, knowing it would provide better company than half the men of
the ton. She hated the idea she would be falsely giving this impressionable
young girl the illusion she could not live up to. What she needed was a
friend who would encourage Lady Lamont out of her shell, perhaps
someone a touch nearer the younger girl’s age. “Why don’t you invite Miss
Walsh up—or better yet, I could ask Lady Silverton to bring her sister to
Town? I had a chance to meet her ladyship over Christmas, and if her sister
is anything like her, I am sure her presence would be a boon.”
To this, Lady Lamont went scarlet. Fear and anxiety battled across her
face, and she dropped her glass on the lawn. “Please,” she whispered as she
hurriedly snatched it up. “Don’t mention it.”
Before Clara could think of another thing to say or a word of comfort,
the dowager marched down the steps and headed towards her. “The weather
is turning, my dear, and I wish to follow in my son’s wake.” She looked
towards Clara. “The shawl, you must keep it. It rather suits your colouring.
I will call on you tomorrow with news of my grandson and arrange our trip
to Almack’s.”
With that, the dowager took her leave with the still visibly pink-cheeked
Lady Lamont. What precisely bothered the girl was beyond Clara, but as
she saw them depart, she realised a problem. She had no way of getting
home. Lady Heatherbroke and her husband, her companions on today’s
excursion, must have hurried home a good thirty minutes ago when
Heatherbroke had taken his unplanned dip—after all, he could hardly risk
catching a chill.
 All around her, the dowager’s words were proving correct. The
handsome spring day was worsening, the fluffy clouds which had been so
pretty in the mid-afternoon had darkened and were beginning to swell with
rain. In the next few minutes, the gardens would be caught in an April
downpour.
Clara looked around herself with increasing desperation. For all her
abiding love of literature and the numerous heroines who were swept away
with the romance of nature, she did not wish to develop a hideous cold.
Busy, gossiping members of the ton hurried towards their carriages as
Clara tried to catch the eye of someone she knew. For all her friendship
with the Oxford Set, she could not see a single member of it.
A large splatter of a raindrop hit Clara’s nose, and she sniffed. It did
very little good to sulk. She would simply have to walk back. Perhaps she
could even use the dowager’s shawl to shield some of the worst of the
weather. Surely it would not take too long to get back to her brother-in-
law’s mansion house. She started to follow the rest of the ton towards the
gates when she saw the approaching Mr. Goudge. He was waving to her.
If anything could have told her how it was a pointless courtship, it was
her reaction to him in that moment. It was not precisely a rescue, but she
could see he carried an umbrella. With someone of her sensibilities, this
could be seen as a very gallant gesture. He had returned for her. Sought her
out purposely. In truth, she would rather roll around on the maze’s floor in
the rain with the wet-shirted Woolwich a hundred times than journey back
with him.
That image played havoc through her mind’s eye as she greeted Mr.
Goudge.
“The dear Lady Heatherbroke said you would understand she could not
escort you home, but I begged for the privilege. I have no phaeton, but
thankfully this sturdy umbrella will see us back.”
The pack of people busy rushing to their carriages forced Clara closer to
Mr. Goudge. She stared into his face. It was kind of him to return for her.
He looked a little embarrassed to be pressed so near to each other.
“I do not know if I will be fortunate or able to attend Almack’s, but at
the next public ball, Miss Blackman, I hope you will allow me… that is… I
hope you will stand up with me for two dances.”
The crowd moved back, and Mr. Goudge offered her his arm, as with
the other one, he lifted the umbrella over his head. Carried along with the
momentum of the crowd, Clara found herself being led from the now-damp
pleasure garden. One glance sideways at Mr. Goudge told her what she’d
been hoping for. Here, finally, was a suitor. Of the sort she’d envisioned
when she was being practical—she would not win herself an earl as her
sister had done, nor a dashing spy as Lady Silverton had. No, for someone
like Clara, a studious don, who would not mind her bookish ways and did
not seek out ton-ish entertainment, would be much the better bet. Then why,
as she agreed to dance with Mr. Goudge at whatever ball they would both
be in attendance, did she feel like she had betrayed herself and all her
romantic intentions?
 CHAPTER 11

T he doctors were suitably reassuring, and it was a relief to see a

normal colour return to his young son’s face. Woolwich had ordered
two of the doctors to check his son over, and much to his surprise,
Beau, who was normally solemn and quiet in his presence, appeared to
enjoy having all of Woolwich’s attention. He told himself that this was an
exception. He was only indulging the boy because of what had occurred,
but the truth was Woolwich himself was touched and pleased to be able to
spend so much time with Beau. At some point, he would need to have a
harsh word and remind himself why he avoided the boy—he would bring
the child nothing but misery, and it was selfish to inflict his presence on
Beau. That it would hurt more when Beau discovered his father’s
nefariousness, Woolwich would never be forgiven. Best, normally, to avoid
Beau. But today, he would make an exception.
The doctors had warmed the boy up, even dosing the child with a heated
cup of brandy, so much so that Beau hiccupped when he took a sip. Their
instructions were that some bed rest and food were all the child required.
All in all, Woolwich resolved that the best option was simply to restrict
Beau to the house going forward. As he lifted the child out of the carriage
and carried him towards his townhouse, much to his surprise, his son said,
“This is good.”
Despite the large blanket the boy was wrapped in, his words were
audible.
“What is good?” Woolwich asked, suddenly desperate to know, as he
held the little boy tight to him, what the child liked. He would rip the sky in
half to discover what would keep Beau contented and safe, and he would
work out a way to do so.
But Beau did not say any more. Instead, he just snuggled farther into the
blanket, so Woolwich continued up the steps of the mansion building. His
residence was not equipped for children. The nursery had been long ago
abandoned. Still, all his son needed was a bed, somewhere warm to recover,
and rest was what the doctors had agreed upon. They had warned him to
watch the boy for a good twenty-four hours and, if any symptoms occurred,
to send for them immediately.
“Set up a fire in my chamber, Whitaker,” he instructed his butler as
Woolwich proceeded towards his bedroom. The April day was not cold
enough to warrant one, but on the off chance his son might develop a chill,
Woolwich knew he would keep the fire blazing all night. “Also, my mother
and Lady Lamont will be moving in shortly, so if you could arrange their
chambers, please do so. Do inform Mrs. Manet.” Woolwich mentioned his
housekeeper, who would wish to have everything in order for these new
guests.
“Very good, Your Grace.” If Whitaker was surprised by this
announcement, nothing showed on his studiously blank face. He gave Beau
a soft, sympathetic smile. With that, the butler bowed and marched off to
find the nearest maids and footmen.
That done, Woolwich finished his journey by placing Beau down
amongst the pristine sheets of his bed. The little boy watched him as
Woolwich drew off his son’s shoes and pulled the blanket up until it reached
his chin.
“Are you cross?”
Woolwich shook his head, climbing in next to his son. Carefully he
smoothed his son’s hair off the boy’s head. “Only with myself.”
Reaching out a hand, Woolwich extracted from the pile of books beside
his bed one of the storybooks he’d been considering before he sent it on to
his son. Slowly he started to read to Beau from the collection of folk stories.
After a few minutes of a whirlwind tale, he could see that Beau was
settling. The child’s small hand was resting against Woolwich’s chest as if
to keep his father close.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Woolwich said. “I will stay whilst you
sleep.”
 Beau sighed. “I want to stay here. Grandmama is boring, and so is
Gertrude,” he referred to Lady Lamont.
He recalled the way Clara had bent close to his son, her smile wide and
welcoming as she’d talked to Beau. There was a purity to how Miss
Blackman viewed the world as if she could not see the imperfections—she
sought and treasured the wonders it presented instead. Unable to resist the
temptation, Woolwich voiced his internal thoughts, “What did you think of
the red-haired girl you met today?”
Yawning, Beau curled up closer and muttered, “Nice. She was nice.”
“You’re right,” Woolwich said, lifting the book up again, preparing to
continue the story. “She’s very nice.”
She was yet another fine thing, he figured, that would be far too pure for
the likes of him.

T HE DOWAGER ARRIVED WITH A GREAT RETINUE OF STAFF , BOXES , AND

valises, and following after her, at a distance, was Lady Lamont. Her wan
face glanced up at Woolwich, and she gave him a weak smile before she
was ushered off to see her room by the housekeeper Mrs. Manet.
“Beau is well?” The dowager swept forward into the largest sitting
room. She was very familiar with the house, having lived there for decades
when she had been the duchess.
“Indeed.”
She poured herself a large drink. “I suppose you’d have been informed
if he was not.”
“I would never keep anything from you about my son.”
There was a briefly sympathetic look which passed across her face, and
then his mother sighed. “He misses you dreadfully. It would mean so much
to him if you could stay with him for longer. I know that our arrangement
is…”
“I was about to offer to move to Albany. So, you and Lady Lamont
would feel more comfortable. Without me being underfoot.”
“I believe my reputation would suffice, and given your son’s well-being
is in doubt, the possibility of you seducing my goddaughter seems unlikely.
Seduction would be beyond anyone’s thoughts, I would hope.”
 “Nevertheless—”
“You cannot run from your responsibility.” Before Woolwich could
speak, his mother raised her hand, and he fell silent. “The mourning you
embarked on for Annabelle was understandable despite her flaws. But I am
not discussing her. It is your son I wish to talk about. His well-being, my
grandson, he deserves more.”
“What is this in aid of?” He had a sneaking suspicion she might raise
the suggestion of his re-marrying, an idea he had squashed years ago.
“Beau misses you. I see it more and more as he gets older.” There was a
touching note of sadness to his mother’s voice as she walked closer and
looked up into Woolwich’s face. “Rather than keeping him forever away
from you, there should be some unity between the two of you. I will not be
here forever. He is unfortunate not to have a mother. Do not deprive him of
a father too.”
Woolwich did not reply. A broiling sensation was swirling in his chest.
Emotions he had thought suppressed with Annabelle’s death were here
again, all of them telling him how he had failed in a new, fresh way. Let
down the people, he thought, that he was supposed to protect. Even his
mother deemed him a failure.
With a dignified sigh, the dowager moved away, crossing to the sofa
and sinking into the plush seat. “In the meantime, you will need to mend the
rift between Heatherbroke and yourself. After today’s events, there is no
other option.”
“At least on that score, mother,” Woolwich bowed slightly, “we can
agree. But I beg, please let me deal with Heatherbroke.”

A LMACK ’ S WAS ONE OF THE PLACES THAT W OOLWICH LOATHED MOST IN

London. It was inevitably crowded, despite how every guest had to be
approved by the patronesses. Added to that was the noise these people
brought, the pushing and the shoving. He supposed with reluctance he could
admit once you were through the press, the interiors were handsome, and
the guests dressed in their finest—the men in their sombre black evening
wear and every debutante in her dazzling white dress, layer upon layer of
the simpering colour. Candles glowed from on high, and their light flashed
off the ladies’ jewels, so everything seemed ablaze. Once on or close to the
dance floor, the elegance such a scene presented was second to none. For a
second, he thought he saw a flash of rich, coppery-red hair, and hastily
forced himself to look away.
The dowager squeezed his arm and then let go, giving a wave to Lady
Cowper and setting off to impart a few much-needed remarks to the
patroness.
In his youth, Woolwich could remember feeling rather impressed by the
beauty of such a setting. Fashionable cynicism was what men like him were
supposed to express, so any wonder he had felt had to be hidden away.
Next to him, little Lady Lamont let out a small gasp of surprise. Perhaps
the sight could at least please her.
“Handsome, is it not?” Woolwich tilted his head to one side to better
hear and witness Lady Lamont’s reply, but instead all he could see was that
his companion had gone beetroot red. His eyes swept the room, trying to
ascertain which young man could have drawn her gaze, but she was paying
none of them any attention.
“What is wrong?”
“There is someone here I did not expect to see.” Tears were welling in
her eyes, and Woolwich took her arm and led her through the crush of
people towards the refreshments. All the while, he forced himself not to
notice the movement of the red-haired woman—there were plenty of ladies,
he was certain, who had similar hair colour to his Miss Blackman. Wait, she
was not his. And never would be. It was vital he remember that, if only for
his own sanity.
Lady Lamont lifted wet eyes up to his face, her youthful countenance
making Woolwich wish to pat her on the back. But if he touched anything
other than her arm in such a place, they might as well announce their
engagement. “Is it a young man who has behaved in a manner—”
“No,” she said, taking the glass of lemonade he passed to her, “It is
Lady Silverton’s sister. She and I were dear, dear friends at school. She is
the only person—that is… I have missed her. I—I did not expect to see her
in Town.”
Young women confused Woolwich no end. Why would one cry over a
friend? Especially since the girl had returned to her circle. “Did the two of
you fall out?”
 “I do not think anyone could disagree with her.” Lady Lamont looked
pained. “Miss Walsh is one of the sweetest people—” she turned on her heel
and made another strange noise, her gloved hand shooting out as if she were
reaching towards the approaching figure. A be-spectacled, strawberry
blonde girl who looked around Lady Lamont’s age was indeed marching
towards them, Lord and Lady Silverton in her wake. There was an awkward
pause, then what Woolwich assumed was Miss Walsh gave Lady Lamont a
broad smile, and the two girls launched themselves into a hug, their talk at a
rapid pace, whilst Woolwich bowed to the Viscount and his wife. Without a
backwards glance, the two girls rushed off, leaving Woolwich with the
married couple.
Lady Silverton was watching the pair of them leave, and when she
turned back to Woolwich, she moved forward and said with a slight lilt to
her musical voice, “I hope you do not take this in the wrong way, Your
Grace, but do any of your friends, or indeed yourself, have any romantic
intentions towards Lady Lamont?”
“No.” Woolwich looked appalled, and even Lord Silverton looked
rather shocked by his wife’s directness.
“That is a relief. I do think it would quite break my sister’s heart.” It
was uttered in an undertone, but Woolwich caught it and suddenly
understood what was happening right beneath his nose. Lady Lamont’s
sudden smile and affection when previously she had been so removed and
shy. Miss Walsh and she loved each other, that was clear, and judging by the
immediate response from Lady Silverton’s sister, the love was reciprocated.
It brought a smile to his face. There was just a touch of jealousy stirring in
Woolwich since he knew he would not allow himself to feel that emotion
again. He wished both girls well, and he hoped their love would find a way
in such a difficult world.
“I wish all concerned nothing but happiness,” he bowed to the couple
and then made his way back towards the ballroom. Everyone else was
falling in love… finding solace in it. His eyes swept the grand imposing
chamber and unwillingly, like a moth to a flame, found the object he both
sought and rejected: Miss Blackman.
She was dancing. Her generous figure was beautifully clothed in
shimmering, buttery silk. Her red hair was captured and held by a string of
pearls woven in amongst her curls. Her skin shone with the faintest of
summery warmth, and her wide smile was a gift to the man in uniform with
whom she was partnered. Curse whoever that soldier was.
Woolwich stalked around the dance floor, trying not to follow her and
yet constantly feeling that he was. She was impossible to miss. How had
she resisted, or rather, how had so many men failed to court her? Were they
all blind and stupid? He supposed that might well be a fair summary of the
ton.
When she returned to the waiting arms of Mr. Goudge, that insufferable
don, Woolwich almost charged on to the dance floor to pull Clara away.
What was she thinking? How could she entertain such a popinjay?
It was only thanks to a pained cry and the sudden awareness that he had
been paying so little attention to anything else that he had stood on the end
of one of the gowns of another deb. The girl turned around furiously, saw it
was him, and stammered a handful of bashful remarks before disappearing
to fix her dress. The other woman she’d been with turned bright green eyes
on Woolwich and gave him a warm smile. This lady was not a debutante, of
that he was certain. There was too much alertness in her emerald-coloured
eyes and too much mirth to her smile. Could she be a widow, eager to form
a less than honourable liaison, he wondered. The thought was pushed from
his mind abruptly, not because the woman before him was not charming,
but because he realised with a rather low admittance that unless the lady
was a very particular, petite, sharp-tongued redhead, he would not be able to
muster enough interest to kiss another woman, let alone do anything else.
“We met last year, Your Grace. My brother-in-law speaks of you often.”
“Indeed.” Woolwich racked his mind attempting to place the tall, good-
looking brunette before him. It would hardly do to admit that a majority of
the time, most people he assigned to a bluff of nameless, faceless others, his
gruff exterior scaring off most, and his shyness in social settings leading
him to wish that anyone else who remained left him well enough alone.
With charm aplenty, the woman offered him her hand. “Lady Langley,
Your Grace.”
“My lady.” He bowed.
“I believe my son was foolish enough to crash into yours at the park. I
was relieved to hear that your boy was making a speedy recovery,” Lady
Langley continued, as Woolwich realised that the woman was not just the
sister-in-law of whatever colleague in the House Of Lords, but she was also
the Countess of Langley. She would hardly be interested in an affair with
him, given who her husband was. “Perhaps if you were agreeable, we could
re-introduce the three of our children. I know my son dearly wishes to
express his own apologies. And where one of my sons goes, the other
always follows.”
“My son would benefit from some friends his own age.”
“We visit Hyde Park at ten every Tuesday and Thursday, close to the
walled garden, if you would care to join us.”
Woolwich nodded in agreement. It was time he ventured out of the
house with Beau, and having him play with his peers would be an excellent
rationale. “I suppose I should offer apologies for your friend’s spoiled
dress.”
“I think Miss Stockton will survive. She cuts through enough other
debutantes to be aware of the ruinous effect herself.” This rather sharp
remark made Woolwich laugh. The lull in the music drew some attention
towards them.
It was then that he saw Mr. Goudge and Miss Blackman making their
way from the dance floor as the set was finishing. With a keenness that
surprised even himself, Woolwich made his goodbyes and cut directly
towards the couple as pair after pair slipped from the floor.
Miss Blackman was not paying attention, and when he stepped in front
of her, it was to hear a slight noise of surprise. It pleased Woolwich to hear
her intake of breath. Both Mr. Goudge and Clara bowed, murmuring, “Your
Grace.”
“You promised me a dance,” Woolwich said. He had not planned to
open with such a falsehood, as Clara had done no such thing, but the idea
popped into his head, and he could not resist the temptation. He watched
Clara’s eyes widen, and she chewed her lip.
“Mr. Goudge was just escorting me to the refreshment table,” she settled
on.
“I would be happy to take you there before our dance.”
“I—that is—”
“I am happy to make my excuses.” Mr. Goudge released Miss
Blackman’s arm. “I wish to seek out your brother-in-law before the night
quite escapes me. Your Grace, my dear.” He bowed and slipped away.
Woolwich watched his departing form with firm dislike.
“I meant it when I told Mr. Goudge I wished for a drink,” Miss
Blackman said. She looked up at him suspiciously. “I do not recall you
asking for a dance.”
“Your lack of memory of the incident does not mean it did not occur,”
Woolwich lied, knowing all the while he was being an arse. Unsure of how
or what precisely to say now, he wished to be charming towards her. “I will
escort you.” He snatched up her arm and placed it in the crook of his elbow.
“Besides, I owe you my thanks.”
Miss Blackman looked surprised enough to pass out. She eyed him as
they walked, and he sensed that she was pleased by his offering of thanks.
Whether she still would be when he insisted that they waltz together would
be entirely another question.
 CHAPTER 12

T his evening’s ball was different from the others. From Clara’s prior
visits to Almack’s—admittedly the first time she had gone she had
hidden in an alcove with a novel. It was the same crush of people,
the debutantes in their white gowns, the gentlemen in their immaculate
crisp suits. Elegance from the arches of the building down to the stretch of
the floor, everyone danced on.
She had taken more care and thought over her appearance, allowing her
sister’s lady’s maid to dress her hair, to weave pearls in amongst her red
curls, the sheen of both which reflected in the candlelight. Isabel had even
given Clara a delicious bottle of jasmine scent, which Clara had dabbed
behind her ears, the smell feeling grown-up, as if she finally belonged in
such a milieu. In order to firmly change her ways, she had left the book she
was reading behind, despite it being only fifty pages from the end. To match
the pearls, she had worn a white dress but had added a thick band of velvet
to her waist, the colour a greyish blue that she realised matched Woolwich’s
intense gaze. She hoped he would not read anything into that choice.
Something was altered in the very air of Almack’s. People reacted
differently to her, smiling, bowing, and asking her to dance.
Beneath her tight silk gloves, Clara gripped her fan and dance card
closer to her side. She was nervous and had a strong desire to run from the
room, back to the carriage, and home to the heavily pregnant Isabel, who
had stayed curled up in bed.
The difference, she realised, was the duke. Woolwich. The dominating
presence of Jasper, the sheer size of him, caught her attention all the way
across the room. His magnetism held her focus even when she desperately
wanted to look away. He was the one who had rendered these changes in
her, and what shocked her was how much Clara was willing to embrace
these alterations. So, the difference was within her—she was empowered
and aware in a way that had never occurred before. Her awkwardness as a
debutante and her role as a wallflower was receding or perhaps changing
altogether—she was feeling more confident in herself. When Woolwich
caught her eye, when he seemingly took hold of the situation, leading her
away from Mr. Goudge, she had the self-assurance to smile graciously back
at him.
Clara’s gaze met those slate-coloured eyes, and she realised that
Woolwich had spoken and was awaiting her reply.
Drat. She had been too busy congratulating herself on being grown up
that she had not been paying attention to whatever he was actually saying.
Previously, Woolwich would have waited with impatience, a curl to his
thin lips, but now she saw there was a faint smile instead. He was watching
her with a touching sweetness, which was shocking in itself. For a tiny
fraction of a moment, Clara could play that he was courting her. That
someone with such a grand position, such a name, might consider her. It
was a mad, dangerous idea that a book-loving, red-haired romantic might
capture Woolwich’s attention.
“Yes?” Clara forced herself to say. There was an uncomfortable twist of
her stomach, similar to the tossing sensation of being at sea, churning away
beneath the silk of her. Didn’t she hate him? She had certainly told Lady
Heatherbroke that. He was cruel. His treatment of his wife’s bastard child
told her this. His sworn revenge on Heatherbroke, the nastiness towards
Prudence—he was a bad man. Yet looking at him, she only saw and felt a
curious burning excitement.
“I asked you to dance, Miss Blackman. Would you do me the honour?”
“You don’t dance. Here, I mean,” Clara said. She hoped this reminder of
his colder, harsher presence would recall Woolwich to himself. To his true
self. He shouldn’t be seen with her. It wasn’t fair. After all, she should be
settling for Mr. Goudge—the problem was where that blasted don had gone.
Glancing around, she could not see Mr. Goudge. Instead, she was just
consumed with awareness of Woolwich’s presence. From the scent of him
to the desire of what his shoulders would feel like beneath her fingers. The
desire or even the thought of leaving him to search out Mr. Goudge was
absurd.
 “I will make an exception on this occasion. Do you have permission
to?”
“Permission?” She repeated. There was a strange persistence in his gaze
as he watched her closely.
Woolwich took hold of her hand, the heat of his fingers scorching
through the material of her gloves. “Yes, I know it is rarely played here, but
one does need permission for the waltz.”
She had gained permission from the patronesses. In her first Season. But
it had not been relevant before. She hadn’t been asked to dance the most
romantic of dances—the waltz, a heavenly seduction of embraces that most
considered scandalous. Only those with serious courting ambitions would
wish to dance the waltz with their beloved. It was an intimate dance she had
watched her sister and her friends take to the floor with their suitors or
husbands. Such a privilege of opportunity had never been hers before.
With her hand on his forearm, Woolwich strode on, unaware of all those
emotions that swirled through her. Oblivious to the effect he was rendering
on her mind, body, and soul.
Were Clara more naïve and wishful, she might have been foolish
enough to let such an action give her false hope. She could not allow such
silliness to affect her. Woolwich must have sought her out for something.
Perhaps because there was a degree of friendliness existing now between
them, she could not allow herself any false delusion of anything more.
The duke drew them to a halt when they reached the middle of the
dance floor. He was confident in his right to be the centre of attention.
Woolwich stepped closer to her, as near as they’d been since they had rolled
together through that hedge maze. Immediately, Clara recalled when they
had kissed—how intense and all-consuming it had been. Those lips. The
feel of his tongue in her mouth. The scratch of his whiskers. Woolwich had
been her first kiss—and it was galling to know she would not forget it,
almost as upsetting to know that it would never happen again.
Briefly, he locked eyes with her and gave Clara a smile that sent shivers
down her spine. One of his strong arms came around her, capturing her with
a light touch that was sweetly kind, as if this was romantic. Surely that
could not be the case. Clara reminded herself that it might be a ruse or yet
another bet and forced herself to ask, “Are you not going to tell me why
you’re doing this?”
 The deliciously intoxicating music started, and despite the differences in
their heights, they fitted together neatly, him all masculine strength and her
all feminine smallness. It made her tiny, delicate as if she barely weighed a
thing when she was in his arms. Woolwich swept her away amongst the
other dancers. With Woolwich, she was able to drift away from her worries,
despite all the nagging anxieties that nibbled their way through her.
“Why am I doing what?” Woolwich sounded at ease.
“Dancing with me?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“I am hardly a catch, as you enjoyed reminding me.”
“That was ungenerous of me.”
“You called me unladylike.”
As the music swelled, Woolwich swept her into a romantic loop. She
looked up into his face, the emotion flushing her cheeks—all of which
Woolwich saw as he grinned down at her. Seemingly to find all her queries
and questions amusing.
“I can only apologise for that.” The grip on her waist tightened, and
briefly, Clara swore she could feel his forefinger stroking against her back.
It sent a wave of awareness over her skin, and heat infused her lower limbs.
Unquestioningly, she leant closer to him, the rise of her cleavage brushing
against his chest.
It was galling, Clara realised, to hear the duke be so sincerely apologetic
to her.
“Have you resolved to speak to Heatherbroke?”
“I have no wish to discuss the marquess tonight. But rest assured, I will
speak to him.”
“And abandon your plans for Lady Heatherbroke?”
“Yes. You will be pleased to hear I no longer have any inclination
towards the young marchioness.”
“Well—that is good,” Clara said. She made herself smile, although there
was the slow dawning realisation that this decision meant they had no
reason to talk to each other again. That was why he was dancing with her—
he was saying goodbye. Should she recognise it for what it was? A
generous gesture by a man she normally considered a devil. They may have
kissed. She may have liked it, dreamt of it, dwelt upon it with the sort of
focus normally reserved for an especially enthralling mystery or a puzzle of
a character but never a real man. She should remember her place. Drawing
herself up with a sigh, Clara straightened herself within his arms. They
certainly would not be dancing like this again. “I suppose I can take my
share of credit for this decision.”
“I thought you might think that.”
“Indeed?”
“But a majority can be attributed to my own mother, as well as a
realisation that it would not be wise to debase myself as badly as
Heatherbroke in an effort to right a wrong.”
“And the bet?”
“I will speak to Covington or cause a bigger scandal that will attract far
more gossip.”
“What do you envision would work?”
“Perhaps I might be forced to follow your initial advice and mend
bridges,” Woolwich asked smoothly. He leant down and whispered near to
her ear, “You, my lady, are clearly excellent at skirting close to disaster but
managing to avoid it.”
“I am far better at avoiding attention,” Clara said, her fingers nervous
and warm within his grip. How and why did he render such nerves within
her? It wasn’t fair. She was on edge around him, and Woolwich appeared
unflustered and calm. All brooding, tall, and swoon-inducing—there was
even a scent to his clothes or perhaps just to him: sandalwood, rich and
tangy, that made Clara wish to lean her head back, exposing her décolletage
to his gaze. She wished to see the heat enter his eyes, hunger enflaming
Woolwich’s poised elegance. “Normally I find myself left alone, even at
Almack’s. There is a delightful corner, third on the right of the large shrub,
where one can hide with a book.”
It was the perfect opening for a cutting and dismissive comment from
Woolwich, as he had done previously when they had interacted. Instead, he
frowned as if he disapproved of her revelation. “I suspect you do not
recognise your own advantages. Besides, you were dancing with that officer
and afterwards with Mr. Goudge.”
For a moment, Clara was grateful for his praise, but then the
acknowledgement of Mr. Goudge’s presence made her uncomfortable. After
deciding she wished for marriage with the don, she saw after a few weeks
of courtship how ill-suited they were. She forced herself to look up into the
duke’s face. “Mr. Goudge is a fine man.” Even if that was something he
himself had told her. Emphasising his own good fortune and his promise for
the future, from his proud birthright with an older brother who was a
magistrate in Kent, to an elderly aunt who seemed likely to give Mr.
Goudge her estate on her death. All of it hinted rather heavily that Mr.
Goudge was preparing Clara for his offer.
“You would expect a proposal,” Woolwich said. It was not a question.
“That is not for me to say,” Clara said.
“You are too modest.”
Their turns during the dance had brought them closer to the musicians,
the waltz was heady and intense, and suddenly tears tugged at the back of
Clara’s eyes. Emotion rushed through her unbidden. She had her doubts she
would ever dance with Woolwich again. Bickering their way through it—
discussing another man and her potential marriage—surely it would be
better to simply let the music wash over her? Enjoy this brief experience.
Instead, their conversation had dwelt on Mr. Goudge.
“I cannot imagine there was a case where you did not have an opinion
to share,” Woolwich said. With a deep, weighty resonance, he added, “It
will always be of value to me to hear your thoughts.”
“Now, I do not believe this in the slightest,” Clara laughed, certain that
Woolwich was teasing her.
“I would hope you do not believe me insincere.”
“No, indeed, Your Grace, but when would the marriage of two such
unimportant peoples matter to someone of your high status.”
“So, your intention is to accept him?”
“I am nearly twenty-six,” Clara sniffed. The duke’s probing questions
were forcing her to form thoughts and realisations that she had long denied
even to herself, “I cannot have a fourth season.” If the duke continued to
pester her, she might start crying as she assigned herself to some quiet, out-
of-the-way cottage with the pretentious don. “Come, Your Grace, let us
focus on the only thing which has brought us together—the bet, and now
that is resolved, or more precisely put aside, we have very little reason to
associate with one another again.”
Woolwich frowned and looked like he meant to argue, so Clara added
brightly, “I was pleased to hear your son is much approved.”
“He is dear to me.” There was a weighted zeal behind those words, and
Clara could recall all too well the sheer desperation that had beat through
him when Lord Saunders was in danger. The stupidity of his wager against
Lady Heatherbroke, foolish and cruel, was motivated by a keenness to
defend his child.
“He is a lovely boy.”
“Lovely?” There was a quirk to his lips at the choice of her words. “I do
not believe I have heard him described so previously.”
“It is the best choice for such a child as you have. He resembles a
cherub, and his manners were very polite.”
“Even when he strode off without permission.”
“Even then,” Clara grinned. “I have several nephews, and let me assure
you that the Earl of Saunders is the most well-mannered boy I have met.”
“I only wish for the best for him. Anything that comes his way—”
“As any parent would.”
Woolwich’s grip tightened on her hand. “I must protect him from
anything malicious. His mother’s reputation must not be allowed a blemish.
But it is also myself who might cause him harm. When I have reacted out of
irrational anger in the past…” he trailed off, suddenly recalling where they
were, surrounded by dancing partners able to overhear his words. He
grimaced and swirled her away.
“I assure you no one would ever dream of questioning his parentage.”
Her voice was barely a whisper.
Woolwich grimaced but nodded.
“You can tell merely by looking at him. He is the spitting image of
you,” Clara said in a lighter tone. “No one would ever see his lordship and
doubt he was anyone’s but yours.”
“I did not realise you dwelt that long on either Master Beau’s
appearance or my own.”
Thankfully, at these words, the music drew to a close, so she did not
have to formulate a response. Woolwich bowed to her, giving Clara a
precious moment to hide the colour which had flamed beneath her freckles.
He was right, blast him to hell. Clara resisted the temptation to dash away
and hide in her secret corner, but instead, she bobbed a curtsy.
“Thank you for the honour,” Clara said. “I will reassure the other
debutantes it was done merely as a courtesy to my brother-in-law and
nothing more.”
Again, Woolwich looked perplexed. The tightening of his jaw flexed,
and he shook his head at her. He offered her his arm and escorted her off the
dance floor. Perhaps he had other obligations to friends and family, and he
would need to leave her. Instead, he started to walk her through the
ballroom, briefly exchanging nods with people he knew but not pausing
long enough to introduce her to any of them. All the while, he did not
release her hand. “Every time I attempt to be mildly pleasant to you, it has
been taken the wrong way.”
“Your Grace,” Clara said. She was determined to force both of them
back to the manners that ruled their society. If she clung to the formality, all
those curious and eager thoughts that he was inspiring in her would die. At
least, she hoped so. “I suspect any pleasantness that might be exchanged
between the two of us would always be misinterpreted.”
She drew them to a halt, there were dozens of curious eyes watching the
pair of them. Fluttering fans and the low-level buzz of talk, bright,
feminine, and alive with curiosity. Presumably, they were speculating on
what someone as illustrious as Woolwich was doing with someone as
unimportant as Clara Blackman.
“Nothing will ever break that pattern?” Woolwich asked.
Clara released his arm. She was being a fool. It was too dangerous.
Tears filled her eyes as she thought, for all her newfound confidence, she
had been happier in her hideaway spot with her book—where there was no
risk of such pain. Determined, she grinned brightly at him. Woolwich would
never know what effect he had on her. “I do not think so, Your Grace. There
is no hope here for either of us.” With that, she turned and left him.
 CHAPTER 13

F or the next ten days, Woolwich made the most of his time with his
son. It was far easier and more enjoyable than he expected. Whilst he
did think of Annabelle in Beau’s presence, and he did wish for her to
be present, it was not with the gut-wrenching guilt that had previously
haunted him. His memories of Annabelle were so marred in regret and
disappointment, but he was resolved that he should not allow this to affect
Beau. Something had shifted within him. Having always been concerned
and scared of what these changes might bring, now, Woolwich could only
see the positives. All that fear had mottled through him for years, so he
could barely function as a father, or as a son, or perhaps even as a man. He
had accepted this as his due. But he was able to see now that his choices
had also closed him down entirely to every difficult feeling. Now he could
no longer see the logic of holding on to such emotions—it did not, nor
would it, bring Annabelle back.
The sadness would not cease at her loss, but nonetheless, dragging the
pain of it with him did no one any good. With that in mind, he sent his card
to Heatherbroke with the intention of calling on the marquess at the man’s
convenience. He doubted he would be able to forget the affair, but he did
not wish to hold on to it any longer.
Bright sunshine burnt through his window, and Woolwich roused
himself and dressed with care before heading towards the nursery and
suggesting a walk to Beau. His ultimate aim was to pass by the Hurstbourne
House and speak to Clara. Miss Blackman, he corrected himself. It was not
wise to think of her so informally—what good would that do? He could
never kiss her again, never be anything else to her but an acquaintance.
 A dawning realisation was happening within him, that he wanted to tell
Miss Blackman about these changes—for what purpose and the rationale of
the action was beyond him. This comprehension of his felt almost like a
springtime within him—bright, glorious flowers and leaves, all of it
bubbling up to the surface, breaking through the hard shell within his body.
He even felt warmer and more inclined to smile than he had previously. It
defied logic and common sense entirely, but he wanted to share this change
with someone. No, not someone, only her. There was nothing else for it, he
would have to see Miss Blackman.
At night, thoughts of going further than a mere kiss festered inside him
—waking him in the early hours of the morning, his body uncomfortable
with images of what Clara might look like naked, how sweet she would
taste, and picturing the blush that might creep lower across her form were
she to ever know what he was envisioning.
“Good morning,” Woolwich said as he looked into his son’s bedroom.
The chamber matched several of the guest rooms throughout his townhouse.
Sharply presented in the most elegant of fashions, with silken, hand-painted
wallpaper and dark wood furniture. This bedroom was decorated in
handsome navy. But there was a significant difference: There were
numerous books scattered across the floor, and Beau had put several copies
on one cabinet, and even one inside his wardrobe and another on the bed.
One of Beau’s nursemaids looked close to tears at the sight of the mess
before her. She bobbed a hasty curtsy at the sight of Woolwich, clearly
embarrassed at what havoc Beau had rendered.
“What are you doing?” Woolwich crouched down next to Beau and
pulled the boy into a hug. It wasn’t the most natural action in the world, for
someone who had been practising keeping his distance. But he singularly
loved the feel of the boy in his arms. Soft and smelling of soap, Beau
wriggled his nose up at him and giggled in response. He was now so much
more at ease in Woolwich’s presence.
“Putting my books in order.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I did try—” the nursemaid said.
“Do not fret, Sorsby,” Woolwich said in what he hoped was a
conciliatory voice. “I will deal with him. Go have some tea.”
The maid looked shocked at the suggestion, and Woolwich realised he
might have overstepped the formalities he was meant to stick to. But it was
difficult. Constantly being around Beau was teaching him to let go of a
great many of the rules he’d held on to for far too long. The maid nodded
and slipped from the room.
Pulling Beau on his lap, Woolwich asked again, “What do you mean
about putting them in order? They look remarkably messy to me?”
“Those are my best ones.” Beau pointed, “and those are the ones I
haven’t read.”
An idea bloomed in Woolwich’s head of how much his son would love
to see Hatchards. Its handsome façade held inside it a treasure trove of
wondrous books that surely Beau would enjoy. Unable to help himself,
Clara’s image popped into his mind. She, too, was likely to be a frequent
visitor to the store. Could not the three of them go? Would that not kill two
birds with one stone? Determined to go and now with a better reason for
seeking out Miss Blackman, Woolwich smiled down at Beau. “If you help
me order them on a shelf, I think we can go and find you another one to add
to the collection.”

W ITH B EAU TOTTERING ALONG NEXT TO HIM , AND THE NURSEMAID IN HIS
wake, Woolwich marched towards the Hurstbourne townhouse. Only
glancing back at Sorsby did he realise he would have to say something in
lieu of a real explanation.
“A brief call,” he said, waving towards the mansion. “It should not take
me too long.” So saying, he swept up the steps and rapped on the door. The
remembrance of etiquette flooded in upon him—it was the time of day calls
were made, and it was entirely possible that Miss Blackman, nay the whole
household, was out visiting friends and acquaintances. Worse perhaps, Miss
Blackman was being lavished with flowers and gifts from Mr. Goudge.
Envy wormed its way through Woolwich’s chest, leaving a bitter taste in his
mouth.
Why hadn’t he thought to bring a posey?
Because, he told himself quickly, he wasn’t courting the blinking girl.
And turning up with flowers would give her entirely the wrong idea.
Then why else was he standing outside her home with sweaty palms?
That question Woolwich chose to ignore.
 The door swung open, and there, in a simple, mused day dress, her hair
damp and her face sweaty, stood Miss Blackman. There was a little stain of
what looked like blood halfway down her dress. She had been crying, and
she stared at him in wordless confusion.
He turned back and looked at Sorsby and his son. “Take him home,” he
ordered. “Do not worry, Beau. I will return soon.” Unbidden, Woolwich
stepped forward through the doorway. He wanted to know what had caused
such distress in his courageous Clara. His hands came out and captured
hers. Holding on to her tightly. To his surprise, she let him, allowing his
strength to support and keep her upright. “Are you well? What has
happened?” His questions peppered her as he stepped farther into the
marble hallway and looked around them. It was empty, although from
upstairs, there was noise and the sound of voices.
Miss Blackman made a strange noise halfway between a giggle and a
snort, and then she started to cry. She wobbled where she stood, and to
Woolwich’s confusion, she stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms
around his neck, leaning all her weight against him. With an almighty sigh,
Miss Blackman cried into his chest.
“What happened, Clara?” He asked, his voice low and close to her ear.
This distress of hers was so unexplained. She was so vulnerable and clearly
in need. It touched him to be required, to be relied upon—satisfying
something deep inside him—that she might think of him in such a way.
Her small hands moved to cling to the front of his lapels as she eased
herself back, her face contorted as she tried to master her emotions. Then
she finally spoke. “My sister—”
Memories flooded in—Lady Hurstbourne was pregnant. Due any day
now. One look at Clara’s wrought face caused Woolwich to hold on to her
shoulders more tightly. His own wife had died in labour. Was there a more
daunting task before any woman—let alone Clara, who was so sensitive, so
attuned, so close to her sister?
“Oh.” She saw his face and clung to him more closely. “She is all right,
she is fine—”
“And the infant?” Woolwich asked.
“Alive and well,” Clara said, great wet tears streaming down her face.
There was nothing refined or elegant in her response, and Woolwich adored
it. The sheer emotion, her willingness to express it, was a boon. It was
madness, pure and simple, that anyone in the ton had not already proposed
to this woman. She was fire, passion, and life. “The baby… it’s all so per-
perfect.” Clara interrupted his whirling thoughts, a tremendous smile on her
wobbling lips as she gazed up into his face.
It was at that point, as Woolwich pulled Clara back into his arms, that
the hallway suddenly filled with people, their voices and cries mingling
together. From the lower floors, there emerged what appeared to be a rather
intoxicated butler—he had been given leave to celebrate with the family
servants. From the landing above them, appeared a sweaty-looking
Hurstbourne, who gripped the banister tightly as he let out a whoop. Behind
him appeared a doctor, who did not pause but proceeded down the stairs,
making his way towards the door.
Hastily, Woolwich released Clara as she sprung away from him, guilty
at the emotional intimacy and rule breaking—rather like naughty school
children caught stealing cake.
As the doctor departed, Hurstbourne came down the stairs, everyone’s
hand was shaken, and general hubbub ensued before the butler ushered the
servants back down the stairs. Then it was just Hurstbourne, Clara, and
himself standing awkwardly in the hallway, smiling away.
“You were a godsend,” Hurstbourne said to Clara before looking up the
stairs. “I must go back to Isabel.”
“To both of them.” Clara smiled at her brother-in-law.
Hurstbourne grinned at both Woolwich and Clara with the pride of love
bursting from him. “I think I might be the luckiest man in London, perhaps
the whole world.”
From high above, in one of the upper rooms, there came a loud, hungry
bellow from the lungs of the newborn baby. All three of them started. The
shock of the noise smarted something at the back of Woolwich’s throat, or
perhaps it was all the raw emotions on display before him. Hurstbourne
grinned and ran back up the stairs before glancing over his shoulder at
them. “Go, and do drink some of the champagne. We all should celebrate
the arrival of my daughter.”
Then he was gone, up the rest of the stairs to his wife and new baby.
When Woolwich and Clara’s eyes met, there was true awkwardness, as
if they had both seen something they shouldn’t. An act that was intimate
and private, and yet they had witnessed it in all its disordered beauty.
“Come this way.” Clara turned and walked through one of the close-by
doors, pushing it wide and revealing a cosy-looking sitting room, well
decorated and, based on the bottle that Clara fetched, well stocked. She
poured them both glasses, before moving with slow steps over to the sofa
and sinking down. “I know it is not traditional for me to attend the birth, but
the baby came sooner, and my mother wasn’t here… and well, Isabel was
calling for me. I had to go.”
Her words were sore and needful, and Woolwich gulped down his glass
of whisky, placed it on a nearby side table, and crossed to the sofa. He
found he did not wish to sit next to her. That would be too close, too
pressing, so instead, he sank to his knees in front of her and took Clara’s
free hands in his own. “There is no place here today for any recriminations
or speculations—the mother and child are well. That is what matters.”
With a tentative tightening of her fingers, Clara returned his gesture.
“There are a great many things that you could use against me that would
simply ruin me in front of the ton.”
“I trust you no longer think me likely to do that.”
Tilting her head to one side, Clara mused. “No, not likely, although I do
think you ruthless enough if crossed.”
Reaching forward, Woolwich moved one of her curls which was
hanging over her eyebrow. He found himself eye level with Clara, properly
able to consider her rounded cheeks, the indent where, were she smiling,
her dimple would appear, the auburn colour of her lashes and eyebrows, the
intelligence that blazed out from every element of her. It was, he realised, as
if he were staring into the sun. He simply had not appreciated it before now.
Getting to his feet, he moved to a seat farther along on the sofa. He was
not quite ready or prepared to cross away from her and sit an appropriate
distance away.
“I looked at them, Isabel was so brave, but I was scared—I didn’t know
what to do, and then the doctor and… here”—she touched her heart, pulling
at the material of the gown—“I didn’t think it could be worth it, the pain of
labour and the hours it took, and then I saw Nick’s face, and my sister with
their little girl. They wanted her so much. She is so dear, so beloved, so
perfect.” Clara’s fierce eyes blazed into his, eyes that matched the sea, all
swirling together and wet with feminine strength and zeal. “And I didn’t
know what to do or where to look.” She gave him a weak smile. “I don’t
think I know what to make of such overwhelming love. It is like seeing God
made manifest.”
 Throwing all caution and propriety away, Clara lifted her feet off the
floor. It was then that Woolwich noticed they were bare and her toes were
visible. With a small sigh, she pivoted and tucked her feet beneath her
before sitting farther back into the sofa, huddled as if she were a girl
preparing to take a nap.
“I should leave you.”
“No.” Clara’s hand shot out, and she stopped him from taking more than
a step away from her. Woolwich froze and allowed her to guide him back
into the seat. Now that he was closer, she leant against him and murmured.
“I am suddenly so tired.”
With a soft, gentle touch, Woolwich stroked his hand lightly down her
back, the movement soothing as Clara rested her head once more at the
point close to his heart. She let out a little noise of contentment. Her breath
all the while stirring against the top of his shirt. This was what they had
been doing earlier, embracing, holding on to one another when everyone
had suddenly descended on them—breaking them apart. Previously it could
have been dismissed as an innocent, spur-of-the-moment action. This was
different. No one would be likely to disturb them here, and it could never be
considered innocuous. At least not from his perspective.
The heat of her body resting against his chest, nestled in his arms, fired
all his dreams to life, ones which Woolwich had told himself not to
remember, to never consider them, for his own sanity. He wanted her with
an intensity that was painful.
One of her hands held on to his jacket, keeping him latched to her as if
she needed him too. Wanted to cling to him because of who he was, not just
because she was in need.
“Jasper.” Her voice was low, more of a whisper, as she said his name for
the first time. “I am so sorry for what you lost.” Her gaze focused on his
face, sympathy shining from her eyes. “I should have said that to you
before, but I… well I am saying it now.”
“I don’t want your apologies,” Woolwich said. He wanted, no, needed
her to say his name again, to whisper, to gasp, or better, to cry it out as he
ravished her. With as much care as he could, he loosened her fingers from
his person. Then he leant forward kissing the top of Clara’s forehead. “You
should rest.” He said as he moved to leave the sofa, but the look on her face
stopped him. “What is it?”
 “I am tired. Bone tired. But I’m also so close to tears. It feels as if there
is every type of emotion inside me, and they are all desperate to escape.
Does that make any sense?”
Woolwich smiled across at her. “It does.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“You know it’s not proper that I’m here.”
“None of our interactions have been proper,” Clara said. Her hand held
on to his, their fingers interlacing as she studied his face.
“I should go.”
“But you aren’t.”
“I don’t think I can offer you—” Whatever he had been about to say, the
excuse or reason perhaps, was lost when Clara closed the distance between
them and kissed him.
 CHAPTER 14

I t wasn’t their conversation, or what she had experienced for the last
five hours with her sister, nor the handsome sternness of Woolwich that
made him so appealing. No, it was the unmistakable kindness he had
demonstrated with her. Perhaps she should have shown some reservations—
she was dressed in a hastily thrown-on gown, her hair was loose around her
shoulders, not to mention Clara was fairly certain there was blood on her. A
more unappealing sight she could not have presented to him, and yet
Woolwich had been nothing but considerate.
That was Clara’s motivation in kissing him—that sweet kindness she
saw, which was finally peeking out from the hard exterior he presented to
the world.
His face was so close to her, enough for her to see the flecks of dark
blue in his slate-coloured eyes, a few strands of grey in his blond hair,
peppered in and noticeable now that he was so near. There was an
undeniably appealing aspect to him, a uniquely Jasper-ian… She speculated
on what to call it. An aspect of goodness which he hid, but which,
nonetheless she had found and treasured.
She pressed her lips passionately against the thin line of his mouth.
Clara expected him to gently but firmly push her away, to list and remind
her of all the reasons why this was a mistake. It was an error of seismic
proportions. But when Woolwich’s hands came up to her shoulders, he
tightened his grip on the material of her dress, and then when his mouth
parted, he let out a groan and pulled her more tightly against his chest and
onto his lap. One of his hands moved up to hold her head, angling it for
better access as his tongue slipped in between her parted lips. Butterflies or
winged creatures fluttered beneath Clara’s skin, plunging her entire being
into the realm of golden light, a universe built entirely on sense, touch, and
desire. Kissing him was as good as a new book or the discovery of an
unknown author.
Woolwich’s other hand had shifted from her shoulder and was slowly
palming its way across from her collarbone to the front of her dress. Those
clever fingers pried buttons loose until his fingertips slipped inside and
made contact with her skin. Clara could not imagine how it would feel
when his large hand finally encircled her breast, but she wanted it, her body
willed as she leant forward into his searching hand. Heat was running
beneath her flesh, featherlight at first, until it came to throb between her
legs. That need, the tumbling, ratcheting winged creatures, were alive under
her skin, and if he didn’t touch her breast right then and there, she would
never forgive him. Breaking free of his tempting mouth, Clara muttered,
“Please.”
There was something so forbidding in his eyes as Woolwich peered
down at her, but now this sternness simply added to her own growing lust
for him.
“Do you even know what you’re asking me? I doubt any of the books
you’ve read would be so informative.”
Unable to entirely let go of him, Clara wrapped herself more securely
around him and then asked, “Does your knowledge of the act make you any
happier in this moment?”
A wry smile and a shake of his head was her only answer, and then,
with a sweetness that moved her, Woolwich leant forward and captured her
lips again. Much to her delight, his hands returned to her loosened gown,
tugging it free and exposing her breasts, which were contained and lifted in
stays. Her bosom pinked from the barest touch of his finger, and she was
eager to feel more. How she could be so desperate for his touch baffled her.
Whenever she had overheard her friends talking of sexual congress, she had
always thought it unlikely for her to be so consumed with desire. She had
always assumed she would not be so foolish as to fall for a seduction. But
now, her entire frame was desperate for him.
Woolwich’s actions were not practised or artful in Clara’s limited
experience. No, there was a wonderment to the slow, gradual movements he
made, determined to never go too fast or without her consent. His careful
consideration had her almost yelling at him to hurry.
 With an easy movement, Woolwich pulled her farther down onto the
sofa until they were nestled in amongst the pillows. He leant back but only
to remove his coat as his eyes watched her face with the sort of hunger that
thrilled her. When Woolwich re-joined her, he placed a tender kiss on her
lips as his hand leisurely flicked the gaping material of her gown to give
himself better access. Having always been aware her breasts were
considered unfashionably large, Clara tried to shrink back deeper into the
sofa, despite how much she wanted to enjoy Woolwich’s caresses.
Leaning down, so his breath brushed against her ear, Woolwich said,
“You put Venus to shame.” Feathering his palm out to encircle her right
breast, his fingers slipped beneath the top of her stays, rubbing against her
nipple with a slow circular movement until a gasp broke free from Clara’s
mouth. Her cry brought a smile to Woolwich’s lips, and he leant closer,
kissing her thoroughly. The tips of his fingers danced over her. The
sensation was fewer fluttering birds and more like those paintings of molten
lava—burning away through her limbs and settling at the apex of her thighs.
She wriggled, pressing herself more fully against his chest and hips.
There was a yearning, an eagerness to move and shake as if by doing so the
tremendous pressure he was creating within her would cease.
“I want…” There weren’t words in her mind to express what she
wanted.
Freeing himself from her hands with a calmness that implied he did not
feel quite as on edge as she was, Woolwich smiled. He moved his hand
from her breast in a flex over her dress, down to cup and hold the pressure
between her legs. The movement, every little one his hand made there
caused a breathy sigh to escape her. Even better, through the layers that
separated his hand and her skin, Clara felt the press—both gloriously
tempting and offering her an answer. “That?” he asked, a smug look on his
serene face as he looked down at her.
Leaning forward, Clara pushed herself more fully against his hand. She
wanted Woolwich to feel as heated as she did. Her tongue dipped into his
mouth. Her hands sought out and caressed his broad chest. She could feel
the strength of his muscles. When she heard a rasp at the back of his throat,
it moved her to know how much she could affect him too. On lifting her
head, there was a pinkish tinge to Woolwich’s face that made her grin. He
was not as unaffected as he wanted to appear.
 “God, last month I thought I wanted to murder you. You would drive a
saint to distraction.” His words were thick and made Clara blush. If her
prior self could see them now, she would not believe her eyes.
“I never claimed to be a saint, and you might as well be the devil,”
Clara argued back.
Woolwich shifted his hand, his body weight resting between Clara’s
legs. Their eyes locked, and she could watch his reaction to her lust as he
leant closer. This, she reasoned, was the rationale for her reaction: Her body
wanted him. There could hardly be a deeper reason. A more sentimental
one would defy everything she knew about him, everything the two of them
had always believed about the other.
“But you want me.” His hand was moving, lifting, and pulling her skirt
out of the way until he found what he was seeking, the gap between her
drawers. It took a moment for the ribbon to be untied, and then his fingers
were delving into her. “Despite that.” His other hand was rubbing against
her scalp and down her neck in such a sensitive dance that it drove her wild.
“Do you think?” Her words were not her own as he delved into a more
sensitive area, his fingertips pressing against two different points inside her,
and Clara was certain she would melt against him. All the while, her hips
pressed up, the movement both an encouragement and a plea. “It might be
because of that?”
Woolwich slipped one finger into the small, tight gap, seemingly
touching her core. The place Clara’s mother had warned her, again and
again, where only a husband should touch his wife. It was enough. It was
bliss. It was heaven, and it was torture too, as the shakes buckled her.
Clara’s body came apart as she stared up at him, drowning in the intensity
of his gaze, as all the pressure, the heat, those blasted birds burst forth, and
she shouted his name.
Swooping down, Woolwich cut off her cry, sealing her gasps with a
kiss. His hands stroked against her sides, and Clara’s shakes, the burst of
colour and taste, eased away from her as she held on to his large shoulders.
“No,” Woolwich said as he righted her dress, buttoned up the loosened
gown, and set about putting Clara to rights. “No, I argue with you because
you are forever sticking your nose in where it was not needed. That is why
we disagree. The passion between us is entirely different.” It was hardly an
honest answer, but Clara was sure she wanted to hear the rest of what he
might say. She nestled back into the pillows and his jacket. “You see, I
wanted to do that.” Woolwich had finished righting her dress, leant closer to
move one curl off Clara’s forehead. “I want you for entirely different
reasons and not because of the arguments.”
Propping herself up on her arm, Clara nudged him, “You can tell me
about those reasons, you know.”
“I don’t like being teased.”
“No one does. Besides, I wasn’t teasing. I can, if you like, tease you.
After all, I am the youngest of four. I was hoping you would pay me
compliments. Surely if you’ve ever flirted with a woman before, you must
have done so?” She was loath to bring up his wife in such circumstances.
Everyone who ever spoke of the long-gone Annabelle mentioned how
divine she’d looked, willowy, icy, and blonde. An angel, in appearance, at
least. Of course, she’d had an affair, but nonetheless, Woolwich still clung
to the memory of her.
The pinkening of Woolwich’s cheeks was growing, and it was a slow
realisation that made Clara see that, despite the reaction he’d drawn from
her, Jasper was hardly the most knowledgeable about courting. Not that
they were courting. But he wasn’t even very good at flirting. His grand title
made him a desirable match to every woman he met, regardless of how
much effort he put in. She was about to voice her displeasure at that when
he spoke up.
“I find myself wishing to know poetry, or words you love, to better
compliment you. It may seem unbelievable to you, but oftentimes, I would
prefer not to talk. Words betray me, and my mind moves faster than a
sentence would keep up.” His hands came and captured hers, so if someone
were to spot them, they looked like the old-fashioned sketches of a romantic
pair. Except, Clara reminded herself, that wasn’t them, it could never be
them, whatever he might say next. If it was that he was a duke and she was
a tradesman’s daughter, that would be galling. If it was their mutual fiery
temperaments and that despite their current truce, they would forever be
unsuitable—that she might agree to, albeit reluctantly. Or rather, perhaps
she might be able to see the sense of it.
“Given how we spar together,” Woolwich said, almost as if he was able
to read her mind, “you might not believe me too sincere when I attempt a
compliment.”
“Now, who is teasing?” Her hand reached out to playfully swat at him
but stilled instead on the beat of his heart. It was a fast tempo—as if he
were nervous. There it was again, a sign of his vulnerability—a chink in his
armour—which moved her enough to bring tears to her eyes.
“I want more than anything to go further with you. If I took advantage,
then accept my apologies.” Woolwich stopped abruptly. “But I swore I
would never marry again.”
There, it was voiced without her having to mention it. Marriage. The
implication heavy and unwelcome between them, and then all Clara wanted
was to run as far as she could from him. The weight of him close to her was
harsh, and all their special intimacy was gone—he had spoilt it by bringing
the reality of life, society, and expectation down onto their little world.
Abruptly, Clara pushed him away from her, separating the two of them,
so she could get to her feet and move through the room. With harsh, quick
movements, she pulled at her dress, hoping to hide her hurt and clear her
eyes by the time she turned back up at him.
“Just because you are a duke, and many women, I am sure, throw
themselves at you, do not cast me in the same light. That was not why I was
with you today.” Clara drew in her breath. It steadied and prepared her.
Lifting her shoulders back and her head high. Yes, she was familiar with
this battle stance, knew how to argue with Woolwich—this ferocious
ground was one where they both knew their positions. “In some hope of
entrapping you. Besides, I would not wish to wed someone like you.
Either.”
“I find that unlikely. Women frequently put great stock in such acts.”
Woolwich had sat forward and was frowning as he watched her. It seemed
like he was trying to see beneath the shield Clara was using to protect
herself.
Blast him.
Desperately, she sought out a response. She would not let him know that
such intimacies, such feelings, such affection did, in fact, mean a great deal
to her. It meant something that she had shared it with Woolwich. “Well,
your wife did not put much stock in such things.”
It was a direct hit. A painful one based on how he reacted. Woolwich’s
eyes blazed, his perceptive concern fled, and he got to his feet. “Madam. I
will leave you.”
“Good,” Clara snapped when it was the last thing she wanted to say, but
damn him, why shouldn’t she have her pride too? Surely, he was a fool, but
would he be so quick to say “I will never marry” whilst still holding his
lover in his arms? It was the first time she had felt and known such things.
“I think it for the best if we agree such an occurrence should never happen
again.”
“No, indeed,” Woolwich said. “I cannot imagine a moment when I
would allow that to reoccur.” He bowed to her with an abrupt inclination of
his head, a distinct muscle in his jaw twitching.
“Nor me.” She followed him towards the door, both pulled by his
presence and wanting to furiously argue with him. Clara was determined to
have the last word and to inflict yet more damage if she could. The nerve of
the man somehow implying that, were she willing, he would be able to take
advantage of her again. “I should never wish someone such as yourself on
my body again. I will be engaged to Mr. Goudge and then—”
This statement stopped Woolwich, his hand on the door handle. “Then I
can only wish the man luck.” His eyes swept over her in a dismissive move,
and he left the room.
“Damn you,” Clara said. The burning rage was bubbling up in her, and
she started to pace. Normally with such emotions, when she felt as raw and
fragile as this, she would turn to her beloved books, but she doubted the
wisdom of that. Perhaps her other guides had been her sister or her friend.
But she could hardly run up the stairs to Isabel, who had just only given
birth. Nor explaining any of this to Lady Heatherbroke, who had all the
reason in the world to loathe Woolwich, would not be sensible.
Clara’s pacing brought her to the window, and she watched Woolwich
departing down the street. The man moved with the ease of his aristocratic
heritage, with the self-assurance he presented to the world, where his
vulnerability was never let out. The perfect façade of a duke, yet it was the
qualities beneath the title that held such appeal to her. When he allowed his
true self to be seen, it was a glorious, beautiful thing, and Clara was certain
she had just crushed her chance of ever seeing such preciousness again.
A knock sounded, and she looked over her shoulder to see Hurstbourne
enter the room. He looked bone weary, but he smiled at Clara. “There you
are. Isabel has had a nap, and she is now asking for you.”
Crossing the room, Clara followed him through the hallway and up the
stairs, allowing her brother-in-law’s words and happiness to surround her
without taking any of the substance in.
“So, you agree?”
 “Uhm…” Clara had been focusing on the feel of Woolwich’s lips, how
soft the taste and press had been but how hard it had felt when she’d levered
herself up against him. The contrast, the divine contrast. How did Woolwich
reasonably think she would forget such a thing in her life? It was imprinted
on her mind and would haunt her dreams she had no doubt. “What did you
say?”
“Perhaps,” Hurstbourne was looking at her with a touch of worry, his
hand coming out to steady her. “You should have a rest too.”
“No, go on. I just missed what you said.”
“Since my wife will not be able to attend the May Ball that we had
planned for next week, I hoped you would consent to be the hostess. I think
Isabel mentioned it previously, we had thought to ask Mrs. Trawler, but
given her standing within the ton, perhaps that is not wise. I do not wish to
put you on the spot—”
Clara was already nodding. She knew that Hurstbourne’s sister was not
always the most welcome in high society. If there was anything in her
power she could do to aid the earl and Isabel, Clara would do so.
“Excellent,” Hurstbourne said. “I know from Mr. Goudge’s attentions to
you recently that perhaps we won’t just have the announcement of the birth
to share. It will be nice to have an engagement to celebrate as well.” He
carried on towards his wife’s room. This passing comment left Clara with
the realisation that her throwaway remark to Woolwich might suddenly see
her entrapped into a marriage she had no desire to enter into. Did she have
enough courage to defy everything and refuse an offer of a comfortable
marriage when Woolwich gave her nothing else to hope for?
 CHAPTER 15

I t wasn’t until he had found himself in front of White’s that Woolwich

fully digested what he’d done. All his good intentions of taking his son
for a walk, of being a pleasant companion to Miss Blackman, of
thanking her like a gentleman, had evaporated into thin air. Part of him
could not regret it, for he had wanted her past reason or sense. There were
cruel but justifiable words for someone of his ilk, someone who had taken
advantage of an innocent woman like Clara Blackman: Cad as a descriptor
sprung to mind, although he assumed there would be worse available words
some would choose. Hurstbourne would certainly wish to call Woolwich far
worse.
A servant, dressed in a handsome livery, bowed Woolwich inside the
building, and despite it being only eleven in the morning, Woolwich wanted
nothing more than a strong drink. The alcohol would burn through him and
take away the gasping, desiring memories of Clara’s curves. Her needful
body wanting him. Her voice in his ear begging him for more. It was too
easy to recall the feel of her beneath him, to remember the dark flash of
passion in her blue-green eyes and the play of curiosity awakened on her
deliciously wide mouth. Alcohol was the only answer that he could think of
that might help cure him of the memory.
He ceased his steps towards the upstairs library, pausing halfway up as
he remembered that that room was exactly where he’d found Clara in her
disguise. That would be hallowed ground.
Curse her, Woolwich muttered under his breath. There would be more
and more locations across London he would need to avoid because of her.
He would have to return to the hallway, to one of the larger, more boisterous
rooms, and endure the talk of larger groups of noblemen who would have
clustered there. As with everything Clara put her mind, or hell, even her
body to, there was such zeal. It was not surprising she took to love making
with enthusiasm.
Perhaps it was naïve of him, he thought as he walked back down the
stairs and into the lower, busier rooms of White’s, but shouldn’t there be
joy, fun, and delight in sexual congress? The idea she might give any of that
to Mr. Goudge caused a physical reaction in Woolwich, one which affected
his vision—so he even conjured up the blasted don in front of him.
Only when his sight cleared did he realise that Mr. Goudge was there,
talking to several gentlemen that Woolwich did not know, and a few of
them he did vaguely. Nothing more than nodding acquaintances.
Determined not to be invited over, Woolwich ordered a drink from one
of the servants and grabbed a newspaper before making his way to an
empty window seat. When he sat down, he realised that he could hear their
conversation all too well. So, his choices were as follows: listen to their
inane chatter or think about her.
Clara Blackman. Her name ran through him. A gift. An affliction. Either
word could be used to describe her—was she a blighted sweetmeat or an
adorable plague… Either way, he should have resisted her. He was old
enough to know better, to be the wiser head in the room. But there had been
such a trembling honesty and need about her, which had proved irresistible
in the moment. At least he had not entirely lost his honour by loosening his
breeches, pushing up the remainder of her dress, and taking her virginity on
the sofa. He could picture the angle of her neck as he plundered her body,
the slope of her breasts as they would move with him inside her. How she
would gasp, and how her nails would dig into his shoulders. The fulfilling
urge to feel yet more of her soft curves beyond the shape of her breast, the
desire to see her stomach, her rounded shoulder, and delightful bottom.
The image of him making love to Clara played tantalisingly through his
mind—and how much he wanted to turn on his heel and march back to
Hurstbourne townhouse and commit the act a dozen times, in every
imaginable position possible until Clara was left crying out his name again
and again. Until neither of them could think of another argument to pick
with one another. As long as he lived, he would be able to hear that catch in
Clara’s voice as she called out his name. The devastating thing was,
Woolwich knew far too well that whatever he imagined, it would not be a
patch on the reality of slipping into Clara’s body.
With a rasp of breath, Woolwich rubbed at his face with a roughness he
was sure would make his skin red. Desperate to purge the images from his
mind.
But like all good society girls, even one as bright and clever as Clara
Blackman, wanted matrimony. The golden exchange of rings. The high
society wedding. The beautiful, lace wedding dress, and a church filled with
bright-eyed guests. Having fallen into that parson’s mousetrap before, he
could hardly allow himself to do so again. The betrayal of Annabelle was a
warning: Woolwich would never allow himself to be put in such a situation
again. For himself, her treachery had created a bitterness that was in his
soul like rot. No one would be allowed to slip beneath the surface and
entrap him again.
It did not matter that, in every single way, Clara and Annabelle were as
different as two women you were ever likely to meet. Woolwich would not
be a fool for love.
“It is true that at some point or another, one must take up the great
burden.” The voice speaking was loud, cutting through Woolwich’s
thoughts and disturbing his memories of Clara.
“What a sacrifice.” There was a sarcastic undertone to this, and
Woolwich lowered his paper an inch to see who was making enough noise
to pull focus. It was from Quarles, who looked slightly worse for wear as if
he had been drinking the night before and had not fully recovered yet.
“Marriage does not seem like such a curse.” The man Woolwich did not
know, but he had beady eyes and an optimistic look on his puppy dog face.
Fresh to Town, Woolwich concluded. “No, indeed, if one marries a gel with
good birth and a better fortune. It must be seen as honourable and right.”
Instinctively Woolwich looked to Mr. Goudge, the final man at their
table. There was a smugness to the younger man’s face, especially around
the mouth, a barely suppressed grin of satisfaction. “I will say that provided
your match has equally good connections, then an eager bridegroom might
well be prepared to sacrifice much.” Here, Mr. Goudge coughed, covered
his lips, and then continued, “Were I to seek an advantageous match, a
woman with a well-connected family would be necessary. As I am sure you
know, Mr. Shore, since we spoke on the point during the term.”
 Goudge’s meaning could not be clearer, and it left a distasteful sensation
in Woolwich’s mouth. Clara had influential relations, she might be bookish,
but she was sister-in-law to an earl, with friends throughout the Oxford Set.
It seemed that was what Mr. Goudge was after her for: those great
connections rather than her own self.
Rather than stopping on that particularly unpleasant revelation, Mr.
Goudge continued, digging himself deeper as his two friends listened on. “I
daresay it’s to my distinct advantage that no one else is sniffing around her.”
“Who is it?” asked Shore.
“Never you mind. Just to say that no one would normally look twice at a
red-haired wallflower, and we’ll leave it there. There is something rather
pleasing about swooping in when no one else has seen the offering, a
pathetic gratefulness to the female ego that I rather enjoy witnessing.”
To this, the other two chuckled as if they were schoolboys.
On the balance of it, Woolwich thought as he lowered his paper to the
table, describing Clara in such terms told the man’s friends precisely who
she was, just as well as saying her name would do. If anyone else had
overheard them as Woolwich had just done, Clara would have to hope for a
proposal sooner rather than later from the bloody scoundrel who had just
insulted her.
He got to his feet and made his way closer, towards where Goudge,
Shore, and Quarles were gossiping. When he reached them, Woolwich
dropped his paper onto their table, cutting off whatever they had been about
to say next.
All three jumped, guilt reddening their faces. There was something in it,
Woolwich reflected as they looked at him with society-dictated respect, in
commanding a title.
“I think such errant comments regarding a female would have no place
amongst the learned halls that you patronise, Mr. Goudge.” Woolwich
turned unfeeling eyes on him. “They certainly have no place being uttered
here amongst good ton.”
“I thought this was a gentlemen’s club,” Mr. Goudge replied. There was
a laugh to his voice and, to Woolwich’s surprise, a challenge in his eyes.
“And anything may be raised as a topic of conversation, provided one is
prepared to follow through on one’s words.” Looking around at his friends,
Mr. Goudge sought out some kind of confirmation or solidarity from them.
It did not appear forthcoming. Rather than backing down, Mr. Goudge fixed
a cheerful look on his face and said, “I have been given to understand by
the girl’s brother-in-law an offer would be most welcome.”
Curse Hurstbourne and his desperate desire to see everything in the
world slotted together neatly. Why did he have to be such a good-natured
fellow who simply believed everyone else could be seen in a similar light?
Could the dratted man not see that there was some solace and order to
spinsters and bachelors, or must the entirety of London be paired off?
“I certainly meant no offence,” Mr. Goudge continued. “Will you do us
the honour of joining us?” He indicated a free seat at the table.
With a shake of his head, Woolwich remained standing. He felt sure any
woman would be mortified to be described as Mr. Goudge had done so,
especially one as sensitive and intuitive as Clara. If the blasted fool could
not see beyond her studious tendencies, and thought he only wished to wed
Clara because she was well connected, then he simply did not deserve to
look in her general direction, let alone make light of marrying her.
“I would hope you do not make a habit of this.” Woolwich raised a
hand, cutting off whatever the don was about to say next. “As a friend of
the family, such speculation would be unseemly.”
Sometimes even to his own ears, he sounded like a prude. But it could
not be helped. What precisely could he be expected to say? Morality was
the only option as a defence of Clara—anything else would be mighty
suspicious, and if he laid Goudge flat out on his back, as he dearly wished
to, it would only stir talk.
An uncomfortable silence stretched, and it was all too clear that other
surrounding tables and listening nobles had picked up on the air of hostility
that resonated out of Woolwich. That could hardly be helped. His entire
being felt stiff and uncomfortable, and he wanted to hit Mr. Goudge more
than anything. There was a pollution to the idea that someone of Mr.
Goudge’s ilk would ever get near Clara. A new thought occurred to
Woolwich: He would simply inform Hurstbourne of what he had overheard
—damn it most of the room would have heard the stupid man—and the earl
would ban the match. Unless Hurstbourne felt Clara’s name was too
despoiled. Woolwich shot a look at Goudge. He had his doubts that this don
would wish to spoil his connections by acting too quickly or ruining Clara.
The very idea made him clench both of his hands into fists.
A smile reached Woolwich’s lips, and he doffed his head an inch in
readiness to leave. Perhaps he should return to his estate early. He had
promised his son to take him fishing and then, in the summer, buy Beau his
first pony. Engaging in such, such…
“It is most touching, Your Grace, that you would care so much about
such lowly creatures.” Mr. Goudge was still speaking and forced Woolwich
to focus back on him.
“I do not consider that particular young lady to be lowly.”
“No, indeed.” This was said by Quarles, who reached out and tapped his
own nose wisely, indicating that he had something sensible to impart. “But
it’s as God says, all ladies are put on this earth to serve us, and this chit
doesn’t even have a title. To boast of. On the shelf too.”
“You would think,” Shore said, taking up the subject, “that the lady
would be grateful for the attention.” This generated an unpleasant snigger
from the man and even drew the smallest of smiles from Goudge.
“I have always assumed,” Woolwich gripped the back of the chair he
had been previously offered as he gazed around at the gentlemen before
him, “that if one was using a woman to boost one’s own name, or rather if
one only sought out a lady because you felt certain of success, this said
rather more about the gentleman’s own… failings than it ever did about the
lady.”
Feeling pleased with himself for such a cutting remark and having
jumped to Miss Blackman’s defence so adequately, Woolwich turned and
walked away. Surely such a speech would stop any more talk from the men.
He had barely moved five feet back when an outbreak of churlish giggles
escaped from the table he had just left. Looking back, it was with
disappointment, Woolwich realised, that rather than take him up on his
suggestion of dropping the subject, Mr. Goudge was apparently confident
enough in his own success to continue to crack jokes at Clara’s expense.
Having never been one for a copious amount of words, Woolwich
walked back to the table, coming to stand right by Goudge’s chair. “What
did you say?”
To Goudge’s credit or perhaps to his detriment, he merely muttered,
“Nothing of import.”
“I would like to know. I am sure if it was humorous, I would enjoy it.
Or perhaps it was funny enough to share with my good friend
Hurstbourne.”
“No, no, it quite slips my mind.” Goudge looked shifty and then shot
Woolwich a smile, as if this would dispel anything.
 “Are you calling a duke a liar?” Woolwich asked. The question was
raised before he’d really rationalised it. But here he was, blindingly angry.
He was spoiling for a fight. He wanted an argument, wanted to hit Goudge.
The idea of this man making off with Clara was lighting a rage within him
that was colouring all his senses. It was probably beneath Woolwich’s
notice to resort to using his title as a way of gaining what he wanted, but it
would at least stop the blaggard from his insults.
To this provocative question, everyone at the table stood up. There were
several rounds of heated denial, and Mr. Goudge had the grace to pinken
and apologise for the implication. Still, Woolwich moved closer, his voice
low and penetrating.
“It is a shame,” Woolwich said, “that the threat of my name is enough to
garner respect, but a woman you would consider as your potential bride is
given none. Makes me think you cannot be worthy of any respect yourself.”
Much to his own surprise, the younger man chose at that point to shove
Woolwich away. It had some impact separating the pair of them, but not as
much as Goudge seemed to expect. Nonetheless, he drew back his fist and
slammed it into Woolwich’s eye socket. Having not been expecting this
sudden attack, despite some reasonably strong provocation, he did not move
in time to block Goudge’s fist. Through the throbbing side of his face,
Woolwich smiled. This was, after all, what he had been hoping for.
Fighting was hardly encouraged, and he had no doubts that all too soon,
they would be separated. Straightening and ignoring Quarles’ attempt to
drag Goudge away, Woolwich moved forward and, with two quick hits,
caught Goudge first in the stomach and then in the throat, sending the
younger man crashing to the floor.
With grim satisfaction, Woolwich walked past the slumped figure and to
the doorway before anyone had the speed or time to ask him to leave. He
had his doubts his membership would be withdrawn for such an incident,
although he might receive a rather scolding letter.
The problem was, as he proceeded back through White’s establishment,
that if that was the only consequence of the day’s events, that might be
enough. He had seen a gleam in Goudge’s eye, and the blasted man clearly
relished the idea of competition. Now Clara would be pursued with an
earnestness that had nothing to do with her connections and everything to
do with Goudge’s pride, and there was nothing Woolwich could do about it
unless he was prepared to offer for her himself.
 CHAPTER 16

H aving witnessed the birth of her niece, and then welcoming her
mother to Town to meet the tiny, beautiful newborn, Clara barely
had enough time to contemplate what had occurred between
Woolwich and herself. At least, that is what she decided. She had no
immediate rationale or answer for her actions. Perhaps it could be written
down as a dream.
She loathed him. At least that was what she kept telling herself. Or she
had done prior to the experience of actually getting to know him. Now she
felt something else entirely. She had let Woolwich’s hands and lips, his
mouth and tongue tease and taste her. God, even his teeth—she flushed as
she recalled the feeling of his mouth closing over her nipple and, with the
lightest of bites, his teeth dragging along to the tip. Those kisses of his
would sink a lesser woman than her. The memory of which, as she rolled
over the following morning after a rather sleepless night, was a torment.
Looking around her bedroom, she blushed to know what she had
permitted downstairs. With any other man, she could expect him to arrive
all too shortly, a bouquet and a proposal in hand. The actions, the intimacy
he had shown her would warrant such a step. Yet she had too much pride to
ever beg him—besides, it wouldn’t do any good were she to try, he would
refuse. He had made that abundantly clear.
Distantly, there was the faint cry of baby Eleanora. Clara stretched,
edging her feet towards the colder part of the mattress. Witnessing the
outpouring of familial loyalty and love that her sister and Hurstbourne had
for each other and their growing brood? Had this changed her mind on
Woolwich? Was her changed and eager attitude attributable to seeing such
family dynamics at play before her? Had she latched on to the duke because
he was convenient, and she had been feeling lonely? Were that the case, it
did not say very much of her character, nor did it signal an overly happy
outcome before her—a person who would use another in such a manner
was not an individual that Clara wished to be associated with, let alone be
one herself.
What could be the other reasons, though? That she desired him, despite
his nature and character? Perhaps even because of it?
With an abrupt movement, Clara forced herself out of her bed. Much to
her surprise, she found the clock on the mantelpiece above the fire read ten
past nine. Her restlessness had nonetheless carried her past her normal
hours of repose.
She padded across the carpeted floor and over to the armchair by the
window. This was where she had left her favourite book. Sitting down into
the chair, she settled amongst silk cushions and tried to enjoy the well-
thumbed pages of Radcliffe’s novel, The Romance of the Forest. It proved
as absorbing as ever, propelling Clara away from her own worries and into
the familiar comforts of the gothic French countryside, as the mystery with
Adeline tugged her further into the bucolic adventures. The only problem,
Clara realised, after a good thirty minutes, was her vague imaginings of the
hero had morphed from his typically Gallic picture in her mind’s eye into
the broodingly tall, blond, and severe form that was all too well known to
Clara.
In frustration, she slammed the book down on the armrest. It was all
very well that Woolwich had disturbed her day-to-day life, but she would
not allow him to claim her beloved novels.
“Blast him,” she said loudly as her maid entered the room. The young
girl, who was carrying a tea tray, looked rather shocked at Clara’s outburst.
Hurrying to her feet, Clara apologised and accepted the tray, which was
made up of her favourite chocolate, buns, and toast, alongside some fresh
apricot preserve.
“Is there anything troubling you, miss? That I, or one of the other
servants, might help you with?” her maid asked as Clara tucked into her
breakfast. The servants in the Hurstbourne household had always been most
kind, and after yesterday’s generosity from the earl, they no doubt wished to
continue the good cheer throughout the establishment.
 “No, no, it’s my own blasted temper,” Clara said. “I will try to gather
myself this morning and perhaps wander over to Fortum’s or Trawlers to
find a present for the tiny new arrival.”
It had only been a vague plan—to stretch her legs, enjoy the late spring
weather, find a present or two for her niece, all the while ensuring she did
not dwell on Woolwich. Perhaps if she found she had time, she would be
able to seek out her favourite place on earth, Hatchards. That was a location
that would be bound to fix what ailed her. From its numerous floors to its
sprawling, book-lined walls and resplendent nooks to hide oneself away
with one’s treasures, Clara defied anyone to feel bad in such a place. Such a
divine spot could hardly be called hers since most of the ton would visit.
But they did not touch the walls with the same reverence or venture onto
the upper floors, eager to seek out books that were not just fashionable, but
also titillating, exciting, and entirely absorbing. Clara had found, much to
her shock, on arriving in Town that some girls read to be seen, whereas she
read to disappear.
“But miss, won’t you want to see your callers?”
“What callers?” Clara stretched. If she were to venture out, she had best
pick out something suitable to wear—her basic and simple walking dress
would suffice. It was cerulean blue and looked pleasant on her.
To her surprise, her maid smiled at her. “Why that is why I came up.
There is a gentleman to see you. He has been waiting.”
It was a mark against her, Clara knew, that whilst she had friends
amongst the ton, she had not been lucky enough to receive the highly
desirable morning call of a courting gentleman, posey in hand, here to lay a
claim to her. It had been her objective of this Season—but then so many
other things had occurred, that, frankly, Clara had forgotten about her prior
goal.
“Lud, who?” Clara asked. She scrambled to her feet. Whoever it was,
she could not keep them waiting—she would need to dress in all haste.
Not even Mr. Goudge had been so blatant in his display of courtship as
to call on her. Yet. Was this morning when he changed his behaviour? It
beggared belief.
“Why it’s His Grace, the duke of Woolwich,” her maid said, an
encouraging look on her round face. “He has the loveliest pink roses with
him, miss.”
 Clara slowed in her steps. She returned to her chair, reaching out a
measured hand towards the rest of her chocolate. With as much effort as she
could manage, she forced her grip not to shake as she placed the cup against
her lips and dwelt on what his arrival could mean. Nothing good—nothing
complimentary. She would not allow herself the pleasure of thinking he
might be there to say anything romantic to her. A snort rose in her throat at
the mere idea. Perhaps, at best, he was downstairs to apologise. At worst,
she found herself shaking her head. There were a plethora of options before
Woolwich. Numerous terrors that he could do to her, all of them ruinous if
he were to reveal one of the hundreds of things he knew about her. He
needed only to reach out and reveal that she had surrendered her virtue on a
sofa.
Would he be so cruel?
“Will you help me dress?” Clara lowered her finished cup. “I will, of
course, go down to the duke as soon as I am ready.”
When Clara swept into the parlour, she was relieved that it was not the
same one they had been intimate in only yesterday. Thankfully, Woolwich
had been placed in a different receiving room, a large pleasantly furnished
room with immaculate handcrafted poised chaises and matching chairs. One
of those rooms, Clara reflected, no one would try to dally in.
He presented such a handsome sight that it hurt her eyes. The sharpness
of his cut blue suit, his ever-so-slightly waved blond hair in the fresh light
of day, the squareness of his large shoulders, and the offered-out blooms
caused Clara to drop a neat curtsy on her entrance as she accepted the
proffered gift from him. It was only when she looked over his face did she
see a large purplish bruise around his right eye, marring the otherwise
pristine vision he presented. The heavy contrast of the masculine blue of
him and the pink of the flowers made for such an appealing sight contrasted
against the soreness of his injury. Clara could not help but look in shock at
the mark for a second longer than was necessary.
With a flick of her hand, she indicated he should resume his seat. She
picked one opposite him and sank into it. “My apologies for keeping you
waiting, Your Grace.” Before he could speak, she continued, “I have also
taken the liberty of informing Hurstbourne, who, whilst not mentioned,
was, I am sure, the reason you called this morning.”
Let him disturb the earl whilst she slipped from the house.
“I came to see you. Not Nick… just you.”
 There was no answer that Clara could immediately think of. She could
not bring herself to look again at him, so instead, she stared down at the
flowers. They were beautiful, small, shaped as if by a skilled sculptor,
coloured with a pink that blurred the line between a dawn sunrise and the
blush of a girl’s cheek. They were the sort of flowers she had always
imagined a suitor might bring her. Why did it have to be Woolwich? Not,
she reminded herself, that he was courting her.
“Was this to again extend your apologies?”
Woolwich grimaced, his jaw twitching, and he gave a stilted nod.
“Indeed.”
“It was unnecessary.” Clara went to stand up. If this was all, then she
could be on her way.
“It was also to warn you.”
“About what?” she asked.
Woolwich raised his hand to the edge of his face. The soreness and the
bruising caused him to wince. “To tell you to avoid Mr. Goudge.”
“He did that to you.” It did not need to be a question. It was clear who
had delivered the blow.
“He was paid back in kind.”
There was something so petty and childish to this that Clara just shook
her head. The sheer silliness of them both.
It seemed her reaction was the spur needed for Woolwich to begin
speaking more expansively. “Do you shake your head at the notion of me
banning you from accepting his attentions? I will admit it is unorthodox of
me, but he is not worthy—that is, I am not sure any woman would be a
suitable bride for such a man.”
“Of course,” Clara snapped back, “rather than complimenting me, you
would rather seek to insult him.”
“My presence here today is meant as a warning. Mr. Goudge has proved
himself an unworthy gentleman, a man seeking a woman of good
connections to better himself. There is nothing more to him. He has
admitted as much.”
“I hardly think that is an extraordinary statement. That is why a great
many marry within the ton.”
“He would not…” Here, Woolwich blinked several times as he looked
down at Clara. His tone changed. “He would not make you happy.”
 To this, Clara laughed. It came out as an ugly, unpleasant sound, unlike
her normal gaiety, bitterness forcing her upright and towards the duke. She
dropped the beautiful flowers onto the floor because it was better than
throwing them at Woolwich’s head. “You have no right to talk of my
happiness or what I should seek in matrimony. It is no concern of yours.”
“As someone who has experienced an unhappy union, do you not think
I would suggest all avoid such a fate?” Woolwich sighed. “It may seem
improbable to you, but I would not have you think badly of me. I wish to
explain myself. Do you think you could let me?”
“I do not see the value in it.”
“Perhaps it is a selfish sensation, an unworthy motivation, but if you
hear all, it would be your liberty to judge as such.”
All that Clara wanted to do was run away. She had no desire to stay and
listen to his justification for defending her.
It was a small comfort to see that when she nodded her consent for him
to continue, Woolwich had the grace to look deeply awkward. He shifted on
the balls of his feet, grimaced, and then said abruptly, “For all of society’s
perceptions of me, that I would callously reject and hurt ladies, nothing
could be further from the truth. Certainly, that would never be my intention
with you. If I thought a union between the two of us would bring you even a
slither of joy, I would consider it.”
Unable to listen to such self-indulgent nonsense anymore, Clara folded
her arms under her chest and let out a dramatic sigh. It cut through whatever
Woolwich had been about to say, and his pale cheeks grew red. “Trust you
not to understand.”
“Not to understand the privileged, lucky gentleman’s position. No, as
the daughter of a tradesman on her third Season, I would not say I was so
fortunate.”
“You have all the options of life, liberty, and love available to you.”
Snorting at Woolwich’s turn of phrase, Clara interrupted. “And you do
not? Of all the men living, aside from the King and his family, you are one
of the luckiest men in England.”
“That is how it seems. But the truth,” Woolwich stepped closer, “is far
darker.”
He would be within reach if Clara were to stretch out her hands towards
him. The absurd idea was shoved roughly from her mind. “I have my
doubts as to that. I have read every horror available. Or if I haven’t,” she
saw he meant to question this, “I will certainly make it my mission to, and
there isn’t anything half as bad as what you might have gone through as
what’s in those pages—”
To her surprise, Woolwich snapped and snatched her hands to him,
pulling her against his chest. Clara wanted to gasp, but it died as she looked
up into his face. His expression was wretched.
“There is no recovery, no answer for what my wife and Heatherbroke
did to me.”
“Because you love the duchess still?” Clara found her voice. There was
an earnestness, a desperation to the man that made her want to reach up on
her toes and pull him even closer.
“No.” He was shaking his head, only stilling it when Clara freed her
hand and cupped his cheek. “No, because I think they destroyed any chance
I have of hope, and I do not think I could inflict myself on one such as you.
I would not wish it on Beau, but he has no choice. You, though, do. You
belong with someone worthier than me. A man who might be able to find
and give happiness where I cannot.”
They were inches apart. All the anger she had felt at the beginning of
Woolwich’s speech had seeped out of Clara, leaving her close to tears. He
truly believed such things. Believed himself unworthy and incapable of
giving or receiving love. He did not even think he could hope for such
things.
His intention was to save her, the fool, but he believed it
wholeheartedly. Even if it meant confining her to a marriage with a man
who, at best, she was indifferent to.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Woolwich, who had been
looking down at her eyes, shifted his gaze to her mouth. The tension in the
room changed and went from sympathetic and understanding to something
far more complicated. A pull, almost like a cord between them, felt as if it
were levering Clara towards him—answered only if they were to kiss.
From behind the closed door, there came the noise of footsteps, and
Clara released her hold of Woolwich, stepping back and finding her seat in
time for the door to swing open. There stood the smiling Mr. Goudge. His
grin faded as he looked from Clara to the duke. There were no noticeable
marks on his face, but Clara doubted that anyone would get away with
delivering such a blow to Woolwich without receiving retribution.
 “Excuse me, Miss Blackman, very good of you to pass on my regards to
the countess,” the duke said. He bowed to her most formally, with none of
the heat or desire of just a few moments ago. Woolwich then walked
straight past Mr. Goudge without acknowledging his presence. Thankfully,
the shorter man hastily jumped to one side so Woolwich could continue.
An uncomfortable stretch of moments lapsed as Mr. Goudge walked
over towards her, a rather ugly bunch of daisies in his hand. He handed
them to her, and as she took the new posies, she sank farther into her seat.
Mr. Goudge then took a seat across from her. The roses lay on the floor
between them.
Mr. Goudge glanced at her, clearly ill at ease, before he leant forward
and said, “I’m glad to know he was only here to pass on his congratulations
on the new child. I would hate to think I had any err… competition for your
attention, or should I say affection, my dear Miss Blackman. I came here
today as I most earnestly wished to see you.”
It was then that Miss Blackman realised she was likely to receive her
first proposal. The tragic thing was she had no desire to say yes to the man
before her, but instead, all her thoughts, desires, and feelings had departed
with the man who had run from the chamber without a backwards glance.
 CHAPTER 17

A week later, Woolwich looked down at the invitation his mother was
holding out to him. There was a slightly quizzical expression on her
face as she reminded him of his promise. He knew all too well if he
continued to plead ignorance of the upcoming Hurstbourne May Ball, the
dowager’s mien would rapidly shift to annoyance.
“Of course, I will take you,” Woolwich said.
His mother smiled graciously and lowered the invite back to the little
sideboard next to her.
He returned to looking out of the window. She had requested his
presence this morning, but was it only about the upcoming party? Perhaps,
he reasoned, or rather hoped, Miss Blackman would not be in attendance.
Mayhap, she could have sprained her ankle. Caught a chill? Just vanished
from society forever. Any of these would be welcome. Anything would
answer so long as he did not have to see her. It was not very likely since the
blasted invite was her own brother-in-law’s affair and since it was the house
in which she was staying. One of the events of the Season, so the rags had
claimed.
His mother was speaking, “With Lady Lamont’s removal to Sussex—”
“Eh?” Woolwich raised his eyes up as he’d barely registered Lady
Lamont’s presence in the household, her sudden departure had likewise
gone unnoticed. He had been too preoccupied with bonding with his son. At
least that was the excuse he was going to give for causing his distraction.
The truth might be more complicated than that and involve the spirited
curves of a redhead who currently seemed to haunt his waking and sleeping
moments.
 “Yes,” his mother continued. “Gertrude left on Wednesday. There was
an invitation from the Silverton’s to stay with them at their estate in Sussex
for the summer. She does not strike me as a gel much suited to the Season,
but I will try for her dear mother’s sake next year, I suppose.” Here his
mother paused as she frowned at him. “Honestly, Jasper, it is amazing you
do not lose your head, the lack of attention you pay to things around you.”
At least, Woolwich thought, he had observed why Lady Lamont would
be so eager to journey down to Sussex because Silverton Hall was precisely
where Miss Grace Walsh would be staying. His mother had missed such a
blatant love affair. Still, perhaps, he would make this point clearer to her in
the future, but it had no relevance to the upcoming Ball.
“Why would you wish to go?” he asked. “Without Lady Lamont to
chaperone—”
“A lady may have no other interest than marrying off a chit?” The
dowager was shaking her head. “After the death of your dear father, I have
occupied myself with a great many worthy and important—” She saw his
face and got to her feet, walking across towards him, clearly bent on giving
him some much-needed motherly advice. “Sometimes you do amaze me
with your pronouncements and your baseless, poor opinions on the female
sex.”
“You can hardly blame me for my own prejudices when you witnessed
first-hand what harm Annabelle caused.”
“Silly girl,” his mother added. “Whilst the union was not perfect, I do
not think it wise to forever hold on to such dislike. If not for her sake, not
even for yours, but for little Beau’s.”
“I do not hate her anymore. I do not think I ever did. I have arranged to
speak to Heatherbroke when he can spare the time, but… it is not merely
her who makes me believe that all women seek out marriage. Since
Annabelle’s passing, there has not been a Season when some silly chit has
made a fool of herself chasing after—”
“You?” His mother laughed and stepped back. “Most men would
appreciate being so sought after.”
“I feel awkward when all eyes are on me. I have never enjoyed the
attention. I am not as amusing as my friend Trawler or brooding like
Silverton. There is the expectation I shall know what to say because of who
I am. It is rarely the case. If they were to know me better, they would regret
the knowledge they had gained. Just as Annabelle did.”
 “I do not think that would be true of all young women,” the dowager
said, her tone sympathetic. To his surprise, his mother then added, “This can
be the last event if you like. Then the three of us can return to the country.”
It would have been preferable, Woolwich longed to say, if they could
leave today, but this offer was a compromise, and he nodded gratefully. To
return to his country seat, buried deep in the rolling countryside, caught
amidst the mists, close enough to the sea to ride out and enjoy the crisp salt
air… Beau had mainly resided in the dowager’s house, but this summer, he
would be alongside Woolwich. It would be glorious, fun filled, and surely,
after a good few months of these child-focused activities, Woolwich would
no longer think of Miss Blackman as much as he currently did.
“I look forward to the Hurstbourne Ball, Mother,” he lied.
She made a snorting noise, highly unsuitable for a lady of her station.
“What a falsehood. But you can comfort yourself by removing to the
gentlemen’s card room as soon as the first dances are done.”
Of that, he had no doubt he would, and if Miss Blackman were to be
leading out the first dance, he might well remove himself sooner.

D ESPITE MISSING THE LADY OF THE HOUSE , THE H URSTBOURNE TOWNHOUSE

had been transformed. Every effort had been made to make the hallways
resemble a medieval wonderland. Tapestries had been draped from the
walls, there was the sound of flutes being played, and even the servants had
been dressed to mimic a character from Chaucer or King Arthur’s Court.
From the taper lights, smoke rose, creating a glimmering, mysterious
atmosphere, and when Woolwich looked down at the carpets, he saw that
rose petals had been scattered beneath the guests’ feet. He recalled one of
the earliest conversations he’d shared with Clara—an argument about the
merit of the Arthurian Legends. He wondered if that was why this theme
had been chosen. His stomach twisted with the realisation that it probably
was not, and more likely was the rationale that it was something both
Goudge and Clara liked.
Ahead of them, someone gasped and clapped.
When Woolwich glanced at his mother, her curved eyebrows were
perfectly raised in mild admiration so as not to show too much enthusiasm.
But he caught the speculative half smile that gave her away—she was
impressed and surprised despite herself at the fabulous display.
They proceeded down the receiving line until he reached Hurstbourne,
who he greeted with more enthusiasm than he normally would have. Clara
stood next to Hurstbourne, dressed in a flowing, cream silk gown, her waist
encircled in a thick band of green, pearls at her throat and ears. Everything
that a demure lady might choose, but Woolwich knew the truth. Beneath the
gown, the real warmth and heart of her passionate soul could not be
confined to such garb.
Miss Blackman bobbed her greeting to him, her smile warming up
considerably when she turned to his mother. His stomach clenched as he
stared at her.
“What an unusual theme. But I do quite like the rustic change.”
“You are too good, Your Grace. I can promise you,” Clara continued,
“that more traditional music will commence when our guests are gathered.”
It was time to move. Time to take his mother’s arm and take her into the
ballroom, but Woolwich desperately wanted to say something else. He
hadn’t seen Clara in a week—there was the bland enquiry after her health or
that of her sister. No, that was hardly worth the breath it would take to utter
it. There was a question on what had happened after he’d left Goudge and
her alone. But that would be deemed inappropriate, at least in mixed
company—the only solution was to continue the torture and suggest they
dance.
“Will you honour me with a waltz and quadrille?”
Clara looked at him blankly for a fraction of a second, and then she
gave him a decided smile. “I’m afraid, Your Grace, my dance card is full.”
She then tilted her head to the guests just over his left shoulder and called
out, “Oh, my dear Mrs. Wright, so good of you to come.”
With that, Woolwich found himself dismissed. He took hold of his
mother’s arm and nodded, not hearing any more of her comments about the
arrangements or the guests, not even when they entered the grand ballroom
and took in the magnificently arranged candles, the hose-clad minstrels and
the hanging row after row of flowers. They circled through the mingling
guests, nodding and offering out greetings to friends they saw. The words
were sluggish in Woolwich’s head, as if the guests, ladies and gentlemen
who he knew well, were talking at him from miles away.
 “That is the second time you’ve ignored me,” the dowager said, her
voice low but clear enough for Woolwich to catch it. “If you’re so ill-
disciplined as all that, go find a card room now. I mean to locate Mrs.
Blackman and congratulate her.”
“For the birth of the baby?”
“No.” His mother looked annoyed. “For the engagement of Miss Clara
Blackman. Surely you must realise that is why we are here.”
Heightened embarrassment coursed through his body. His assumption
had been that Miss Blackman would continue in much the same way as she
always had, a bookish wallflower. Her blossoming this Season had caused
the ton to finally pay her some attention and make more a fool of Woolwich
for being too arrogant to see she always deserved it. The acknowledgment
did not make him feel any better. Having been deserted by his mother, he
cut farther through the gaudily dressed crowd in the hopes of finding a
drink. When presented with a goblet of mead, Woolwich dutifully took the
beverage, silently wishing for the whole dratted evening to end.
Far away, on the other side of the ballroom, there came the sounds of a
horn, and when the noise ceased, Hurstbourne moved up to stand on the
podium alongside the musicians. There was a scattered outbreak of
applause. Hurstbourne looked to the right and then to the left of him,
waiting for silence to speak.
“Thank you. Thank you. It is most kind and gracious of you all.”
Hurstbourne’s voice carried as he beamed around at the multitude of people
welcomed into his home. “I was most happy to host this little party and to
see so many of you in attendance. My dear sister-in-law, Miss Blackman,
had most kindly agreed to be my hostess as my dear wife is unable to join
us. But you have by now heard the news that this week, we welcome to our
family my darling daughter.” There was another round of clapping before
Nick continued, “Likewise, this evening, we will be heralding another new
member. Allow me to announce an engagement.” Behind Hurstbourne, the
musicians started plucking at the bows in an excited way, and Nick gestured
towards the bent head of Clara. “I think,” Hurstbourne called out, “I will
have the pleasure of beating the press to this engagement between my dear
sister-in-law and my honoured guest and future brother-in-law, Mr.
Goudge.”
The loudest round of clapping greeted this, and when the earl, Mr.
Goudge, and Clara stepped off the podium, a happy spring piece of music
began playing. The ballroom immediately shifted to one side or the other,
giving space for Mr. Goudge and Clara to walk out into the centre of the
room. Unmoving, hands gripped tight on his untouched goblet, Woolwich
watched them dance. For a solitary minute, it was just the pair of them, and
then more dancers flocked onto the floor.
Soon, it would be over. After all, Woolwich reminded himself that it
was already ten o’clock, and after midnight, surely his mother would want
escorting home. Of course, she could probably go by herself, but he had
offered to be her escort. Hell, he was happy to leave right now. Only his
word and the number of guests who surrounded him gave him any pause.
What sort of damned idiot was she? There was any number of criticisms
he had levelled at Clara Blackman over the Season, mainly to her face.
Some of them had been fair, whilst others had not been. Wedding someone
of Goudge’s character smarted of stupidity. Had she been blackmailed into
the match? Or had her stated keenness to end her single status been her only
motivation? He could not quite believe that of Clara, but still that lingering
question remained.
Unbidden, Woolwich found himself approaching the dance floor, his
eyes unable to break away from watching the newly engaged couple. All
around him was a buzz of happy chatter. His earlier target for seduction—
Lady Heatherbroke—was watching the dancing pair with a slight frown on
her pretty countenance. When she glanced his way, Woolwich bowed. To
his surprise, she murmured something to her two surrounding friends and
walked over to him.
“Your Grace,” Lady Heatherbroke said, her heart-shaped face looking
further vexed on closer inspection.
“I am surprised not to see you on the dance floor,” Woolwich settled on.
“I did not come here to beg a dance partner.”
“No, indeed.” Woolwich tried again, the words brittle in his mouth.
“What happy news for all those who know the couple.” Vaguely, he waved
towards the dance floor. “You must have exchanged many confidences
about the prospective groom.”
“No,” Lady Heatherbroke replied, looking out on the floor. “Not one
word.” She fidgeted. “Is that not strange? Are not the freshly engaged
normally verbose?”
“I could not say.” Woolwich forced himself to speak. He was baffled,
too, that Lady Heatherbroke would seek him out. They had barely any
exchanges, and given what she must have told Clara in the intervening
years, he was the last man the marchioness should wish to confide in.
Lady Heatherbroke continued, “I suppose I reasoned, were Miss
Blackman to wish… that is, I thought she trusted me enough to tell me such
things. It is odd I sought you out but after Vauxhall…”
The music shifted and changed, the song becoming a country set. It was
infeasible to attempt getting through the chamber, but they would certainly
be able to dance closer to Clara and Mr. Goudge if he had a partner.
“Would you care to dance, my lady?”
With a quick nod of her head, Lady Heatherbroke took his proffered
arm, and they walked forward as one of the sets formed. It would hardly do
to crane his neck and try to see Clara, but as the dancers flowed this way
and that, his hand held different women’s gloved fingers until, finally, he
was looking down into Clara’s face.
Shock coloured her movements, enlarging her bright eyes and slowing
her steps. “You are dancing with Lady Heatherbroke.”
“Aye, she, too, is taken aback by your choice of spouse.” His words
came out harshly, and then they parted, the necessary steps driving them
asunder.
When they were joined again, Clara had a reply for him. “I promised
myself I would not be a burden to my family. I wish to wed. And so, wed I
shall be. I would hope for my friends’ blessings, but I do not need them.”
“Would you receive their warnings?”
“Lady Heatherbroke wishes to scare me off from the match?”
“No, I do. Against such a fool of a man who seeks—”
She cut him off, speaking rapidly before they were parted again. “You
are not my friend. No friend would treat another as you have treated me.”
She moved off, with that one step out of time as she did so, leaving
Woolwich with no choice but to hurry and dance with the lady opposite
him.
When the set finished, he found Lady Heatherbroke and escorted her off
the dance floor, close to where Miss Blackman stood. The two women
immediately started talking in hushed, hurried whispers, which Woolwich
did not attempt to hear. On them running out of things to say, he saw that
Lady Heatherbroke was wan and Miss Blackman pink-cheeked. Clearly,
they had argued.
 Miss Blackman pivoted and caught him looking. “Come to scold me
once more?”
“It is hardly scolding to inform you of a mistake, one which will cost
you every chance of happiness. Even your dear friend warns you of this
error. I thought better of you than to settle for what is so evidently beneath
you, but my earlier assumption of your desperation governs all.”
“Please,” Lady Heatherbroke said, her tone far gentler than the one that
Woolwich had adopted. “I only wish for you to have the same—”
“I don’t want, nor do I expect to have, what you have in your marriage.”
Miss Blackman squeezed her friend’s hands and then released Lady
Heatherbroke’s grip, stepping farther away from her. “Pray excuse me.”
She shot only one look at Woolwich as she darted past him, one he did
not expect to ever see her show anyone: grief.
“We have tried and—” whatever Lady Heatherbroke had been saying
was lost as Woolwich rushed after Miss Blackman. He could see that she
was making for the wide, tall, open glass doors that were ajar and led into
the gardens below. Without a second thought, Woolwich followed her into
the night.
 CHAPTER 18

B last the man. If Clara could curse someone, she would have done so.
The tears were falling hastily from her eyes, blurring her vision as she
hurried through Hurstbourne’s gardens towards the conservatory.
Like a coward, she was running away, but the truth was, if she stayed, she
would not be able to control herself.
Why did Woolwich render her so? It was as if she had no power over
herself.
With a few failed swipes at her face, Clara gave up and let the tears run
down her cheeks until she reached the glass doors of the conservatory,
which she shoved against with all her fury.
The night’s air was warm, not quite summer yet, but the heat of it gave
the impression of the true heat of an August day in London. Abuzz around
her were the scents of the nearby rose garden in full bloom, which drifted
through the slight breeze and, were Clara in a better mood, might have
moved her. Instead, she just wanted to stamp her foot and rail against the
unfairness of it all.
No one, save the King and the royal dukes, was of a higher social
standing than Woolwich. No one was loftier or more conceited than
Woolwich. What had she been thinking, even speculating idly, that he
would look at her? She was not good enough… Clara stopped herself. She
would not sink so low as to criticise and abase herself. What good would
that do? Neither of them were of the same world.
Beneath her hands, the door gave way, and she stomped through and
into the domed glass building. It was even warmer in here, the ceiling
sweating from its enclosed environment and making Clara resent the full,
elaborate evening gown she wore. It had been donned with the purpose of
presenting her as a happily engaged woman, and now she would forever
look back on this night as a failure. The night Woolwich had made her cry.
Reaching a small wooden bench in the centre of the conservatory, Clara
let out a large dramatic sniff. She had learnt that a good way of keeping her
emotions in check was to release them all in one go. Therefore, her logic
was as follows: weep her heart out, and return in the next ten minutes
before too many people remarked on her absence.
She sat down on the bench and prepared herself for tears when there
was an ominous click of the door swinging wide. Someone was entering the
one space where she had hoped to gain some clarity and, if not, at least
some privacy.
The conservatory was chiefly filled with flowers, fully blooming
because of the season. There were a few twists and turns to get to her
bench, as well as the occasional tree which hid Clara from sight. Or the
intruder from her vision.
Knowing that her eyes were probably still swollen from her crying,
Clara sank farther back into the seat and hoped that whoever it was would
leave. A sudden vision of it being a pair of lovers danced before her eyes.
Surely, she could not be so unlucky?
When Woolwich walked into her view, she realised she was worse than
unlucky. She may be blighted.
She forced herself to stand as he drew nearer. “Why have you followed
me here? Determined to truly humiliate me? Or just continue to berate me?”
“I did not wish to reduce you… that is, I came after… I wish to offer
my apologies for any offense I have caused. I took advantage of you on the
day your niece was born. It was wrong of me, and I apologise.”
“Accepted. I accept your apologies.” Clara looked over his shoulder, not
allowing her eyes to be drawn to his face or the sympathy there. “You can
go now.”
Woolwich did take a step back, but he did not leave her. “I will escort
you back to the party when you are ready.”
“That, Your Grace, is entirely unnecessary.”
“Your reputation, your safety—”
Unable to help herself, Clara made a scoffing noise. “When has that
been a concern of yours?”
 A muscle in his jaw twitched, and Clara hoped if she could provoke him
into an argument, at least it would end the tortuous kindness he was
currently paying her. But no such luck. Instead, Woolwich drew close
enough to push an errant curl off her face, his fingers lifting her chin, so she
was forced to stare up into his face. Take in the severity of his features,
mark his expression, and try to understand what he was thinking.
“I would hope you know me better than to believe me capable of
deliberate maliciousness.”
“You may no longer be cruel, but you are thoughtless.” She tried to
move away, but Woolwich was quicker, and his free arm snaked its way
around her shoulders to stop her from running away. Clara supposed she
could have struggled, but where would be the dignity in that? Instead, she
went limp. A small, fragile part of her, she reasoned it must be her heart,
clenched at having him so close. The scent that was uniquely his—
bergamot, lemon citrus, and a touch of heat as if his body was a furnace—
threatened to warm her entirely. It was embarrassing to admit, but it made
her mouth water for him and wish to curl up closer despite everything. How
could her body betray her in such a manner?
“Have you fainted?” Woolwich asked, cutting into her ridiculous
meandering thoughts.
“It would serve you right if I did. Then you would be forced to carry me
back to the ball. Ruin both of our reputations in one fell swoop,” Clara
snapped.
“I think I would survive.” He still had his arms around her, and Clara
looked up, his tone catching and making her stare. His expression when
their eyes met was curiously intense as he stared down at her. The grey
darkness of the conservatory turned the duke’s gaze almost black. “You
know none of this is about my reputation or my title?”
Unable to resist, Clara rolled her eyes. In response, Woolwich’s arms
tightened about her, bringing her body flush against him until her chest was
crushed to his, and she was on her tiptoes. To be held so, to be embraced—
so tantalisingly close to kissing him was bittersweet. She swore she would
not give him the satisfaction of closing that gap. The only explanation Clara
told herself was perversion on her part—she was acting against every
instinct she possessed.
“None of what?” Clara asked, embracing the lie. “Your arrogance is
extraordinary if you think I am cast low because of anything you have
done.”
Briefly, there was some satisfaction in watching Woolwich’s frown
deepen, but he did not release her. “I thought—after what occurred between
the two of us. It connected us—”
Red rage bubbled in her chest. “Well, that was your mistake,” Clara
said, taking her falsehood further.
“So, it meant nothing?” There was a note of sadness to his words, which
Clara ignored.
Even in the dark, there was a touch of colour warming his face. Every
movement or twitch was visible, and it was oddly satisfying to see such
annoyance on display from Woolwich. But even with that spark of a
familiarly dangerous fire, Clara was tired. She could not continue playing
these games with him, not when she was engaged. Whilst she might not
think highly of Mr. Goudge, it did not mean she would act against her own
morals.
“Release me, please. This is not fair,” Clara said. “I have a fiancé, and
he would not wish to see me like this.”
Woolwich hesitated, emotions battling behind his eyes. But he nodded,
and said, “I suppose I should say goodbye in that case.” He then bent his
head and brushed his lips against hers, just the briefest of touches, but
enough to spark every single spinning sensation off in Clara. Her very
mouth tingled at the contact, and she desperately desired to know what
would happen if he were to deepen the kiss or move his mouth elsewhere.
Here was the very coldest of men. His stilted control was all an act, and
beneath the surface of his severity, there burnt a passionate soul. It killed
Clara that she would forever be left to wonder about what would have
happened if she were to give in to temptation.
She sank back from him, but her treacherous hands reached around his
neck when he kissed her, so they were rooted together still. The grip of her
fingers dug into the strength of his shoulders, steadying her. A part of her
knew she did not have the strength to pull herself away. “You should not
have done that. You should never have kissed me.”
“I could not resist.”
Clara nodded. At least he was able to acknowledge that he, too, felt that
irresistible bond that linked them together. It wound the pair of them
inexplicably into a dance, Clara did not know all the steps to, but she
wanted to find out every single one.
 “I suppose that is not true. I did not wish to resist any longer,”
Woolwich said, his hands lifting and burying his fingers in amongst the
strands of her chignon. This loosened the curls until Clara gasped. “Tell me
to stop, tell me to leave, and it will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I
will go. I will let you go.”
The brush of his fingers on her neck jolted Clara forward, and she
closed the distance, kissing him hungrily. The promises, her agreement,
what society might think, any of the consequences of this foolish action
shrank, and all that mattered was him.
“Jasper,” she murmured against his mouth. Only ceasing to utter the
words that would give him permission to continue. “I want you.” She was
realising, as his tongue slipped past her lips, the touch and taste of him were
enthralling. It was not merely want, or desire, or lust she was experiencing.
No, this sensation, these feelings he inspired in her, transcended such
fleeting emotions. It was beginning to dawn on Clara that unbeknownst to
her, despite all her intentions and wishes, that this was love. That she had
fallen in love with her enemy. She doubted she had the courage to admit as
much to him.
Still kissing her, Woolwich bent and scooped her up in his arms, holding
her tightly against him. With purposeful steps, he carried her through the
conservatory and over to the stretch of carpeted floor designed for interior
picnics. He sank onto the material, lowering Clara gently down onto it,
gazing at her as he loosened the silk at his throat.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
“You know I’m not going to,” she reached for him, needing the weight
of his body pressing down on top of her. Keen to know the exhilaration of
his muscled chest, warm and eager against her. Desperate for yet more
kisses and whatever might follow. When it was love, it was worth the risk,
she decided. Surely after the last time, the next time he touched her in such
a manner, it would be even greater—now she knew what to expect.
With impatience, she pulled at his jacket, and it was discarded to the
side of them. He continued to stroke and caress his way over her curves
despite her formal evening dress. Jasper leant down next to her, his eyes
drifting over her body with such a hunger on his face that Clara was sure, if
she weren’t already lying down, she would have had to sit. With care, his
large hand encircled her breast, the touch light at first through the silk,
before it grew stronger, then slipped beneath the folds to free her nipple
from the cloth.
Blushing, Clara angled her face away, but she still caught the admiring
gasp from Woolwich. He bent his face and whispered in her ear, “You are
perfect.”
And she felt it. Truly and completely perfect. She believed him entirely,
and the ease and admiration caused her to arch her back off the carpet, to
press her breast more fully into his cupping hand as he thoroughly ravished
her mouth.
The kiss was all-consuming, making Clara hope it would never end, and
believe that when it did, she would never be able to think clearly again. He
would have stolen her wits and wisdom. That very idea brought moisture to
her eyes, and Woolwich must have sensed it because he broke away, his
fingertips brushing the small tear at the corner of her eye.
“It is my fault?”
“Entirely. Both the good and the bad,” she told him. When he frowned
as if he did not follow her train of thought, Clara pulled him close to her
again so that he was leaning over her, their faces only an inch apart, “I did
not mean for you to stop, I don’t wish you to ever stop, but I feel more with
you than I ever thought possible.”
He grinned at this. It was not the smug or arrogant smile of a man
complimented, but one that spoke of actual happiness. “In this realm, in this
arena, we will never argue. Here we are attuned.” With utmost tenderness,
he kissed her again, and it felt like a form of worship.
With his body pressed against hers, his legs resting between hers, the
shape of his manhood warm through several layers of clothes, but
nonetheless noticeable. Clara was far too good at listening in on the wives
of the Oxford Set talk about matrimonial relations, not to know the
fundamentals of what occurred between a couple. What their overheard
scandalous chatter had little prepared her for was the feelings such a joining
currently inspired in her, and secondly, even though it was masked by
fabric, how large Woolwich seemed. Well, she figured, it seemed he was big
in all regards.
Unable to resist any longer, she wriggled against the press of his body,
causing him to gasp out a curse.
“Damn it, Clara, you would—”
 “Please,” she cut him off, pressing and lifting, eager for him, her hips
finding a slight relief when fully flush against his. She needed them to go
further, to be bound physically to this man, as she always would be tied to
him emotionally. Beyond this connection, this growing love, there was
nothing else that mattered. A familiar tightening was happening within her
core, heat which sang through her body and blood, the sensation he had
sparked last time his hand had delved with skilful fingers inside her.
“Jasper,” she said as her hand slipped between them, reaching out to undo
the buttons of his breeches.
A recognisable frown marred his features for a moment as if he doubted
her certainty. It vanished entirely when her fingers slipped in between the
folds and touched his penis, encircling it with curiosity. He closed his eyes
and leant his forehead against hers. “You can see I want you too.” Jasper’s
voice was thick and not his own. “You undo me.”
She wondered if he simply meant literally, but having a technical debate
did not seem fitting for the position they found themselves in. And when his
hand pushed up her skirts, and he started to stroke against the folds of her
drawers, all thoughts of continuing to talk fled from Clara. The pressure of
his touch increased its tempo when he slipped his hand against her curls
again, the movement far more sensual and seductive than the increasingly
desperate Clara needed. She raised her hips, keen for more fulfilment.
Jasper chuckled in appreciation at her keenness. He was still wearing
his shirt, and she was still wearing her gown, but their mutual hunger would
brook no more waiting. The pressure within her body was crying out for
him, and distantly Clara knew the outside world would not give them
forever. All too soon, someone would come looking for them.
Shifting, Jasper pressed his manhood against her cleft. There was such
warmth and heat emitting from him that it made Clara’s innards clench in
anticipation, and she knew once they were locked together, it would be
more than she could currently imagine. Jasper was pressing against her,
ready to fill her, and all Clara wanted was to know what it would be like to
have him inside her at last.
His eyes glanced back at her face, questioning whether she was ready
for this. In answer, Clara reached up, placing her hand on the exposed gap
of skin between his shirt and his breeches, eager to feel him inside her. She
would have liked to have whispered that she loved him, but she hoped the
demonstration of her willingness for him said what words could not be
voiced.
He sank deep into her, inching down into her wet, willing core, until
Clara cried out at being so possessed. Until she could not understand how
they would ever be parted, having been so tied together. There was a
momentary pressure, a grip of pain that shot through her body as he filled
her, a curious sensation. One which stretched and made Clara’s breath catch
as she shifted under him. Immediately Jasper stilled, his expression caught
between fear and worry. Touchingly concerned he might have caused her
any pain.
“Are you well?” His two arms bracketed either side of her head, and
using his left hand, he stroked down the side of her face. “Clara, darling,
please answer me?”
She nodded, her body still as she looked up into his dear face. “I might
be misinformed, but I thought we were supposed to move?”
 CHAPTER 19

H er question jarred him, and unable to think of another response,

Woolwich laughed. An affection, deep abiding warmth bubbled
through him, all for her. He had felt attraction, care, what he had
believed to be love once before, but amusement, that soft-hearted
protectiveness was something else entirely. He realised it was that very
emotion that had sealed them together. To want Clara above all, and to tell
the consequences to go damn themselves.
Her lush curves cushioned and held him, still mostly hidden beneath her
evening gown with only the occasional delightful aspect visible. Woolwich
reminded himself that he was concentrating not simply on satisfying his
own lusty thoughts, but he wanted her to enjoy the experience completely
too. It took all his concentration, and his body was shaking with the effort,
but he was determined.
His forehead was still pressed against hers, and despite his humour, he
was, in fact, doing his best not to move, to give Clara time to adjust to the
feel and shape of him.
“Yes, movement does happen.” His lips kissed over her face with all the
adoration she deserved.
“I see.” Clara shifted her hips, a frown creasing her face as she stared up
at him.
“God,” he muttered. The feel of her movement, the tightening shift as
she better angled herself, her clenching caused a ragged breath to escape his
lips.
He leant closer and teasingly kissed her mouth, encouraging her to relax
beneath his body so that her limbs and muscles were at ease, as with soft,
gentle thrusts, he started to rock within her. It mattered that this experience
was good for Clara. He wanted to capture her entirely and the desire he felt
for her. No, this would have to be everything because neither of them
wished to think about what came next.
Shifting himself within the tight confines of her clinging sex, he
adjusted himself on the ground, his knees resting on the thrown-down
carpet.
Then she moved again. All curiosity and delight as her hand moved up
to hold his cheek, fondness and kindness radiating out of her, and he almost
lost himself as he plunged deeper into her wet, warm hold.
Looking down at Clara, a smile creased his face. Lord above—she was
desirability personified. All lush, delicious curves peeking out of her
evening ball gown, a flash of her left nipple, inflamed and pinkened, visible
still. Her golden-red hair was loose and encircled her head. The wide,
tempting curve of her mouth begged for more kisses. He wished he had
time to thoroughly divest her of her clothes and completely explore her
body. Still, he reasoned, there would be time in the future to think about this
—the most important thing was to ensure she was happy with her first time.
The way she held him and gripped his shoulders as if she were reluctant
to let go. As he eased out of her, Woolwich started to rock more
persistently. A slow, gradual movement, gently rocking in and out of Clara’s
body. His mouth sought out hers, to kiss and slip his tongue over the seam
of her lips, slipping his tongue inside, teasing and tasting her in a mimic of
the way his manhood was plundering her body. Clara responded sweetly,
her mouth and tongue matching his hunger, her hips lifting to better
accommodate him.
At the back of his eyes, there was a gripping, gnawing need—the
threatening grip of his own climax was starting to mount within him. His
mouth moved from her lips, down her throat, and over her décolletage to
capture that tempting nipple. With as much skill as he could manage, his
tongue tasted and teased the elongated pink nubbin, listening to Clara’s grip
on his hair as he felt her body clench about his, keen to drive her wild
before he found his own release.
Her gasped-out response unmanned him. Clara’s legs wrapped around
his back, tearing, by the sounds of it, her skirt in her eagerness. Her sex
gripped him more securely, flexing and milking him until Woolwich could
no longer see straight. The familiar skin and muscle which was his own felt
foreign, robbing him of his worries and fears, whipping such things away as
his own cry joined hers. His body past control, and he pounded into her
again and again until everything came apart.
Bliss.
The utter stillness of being inside her, still and at peace with himself for
the first time in such a long time.
Think clearly. Focus.
He was conscious of his breath, deep and heavy, as he righted himself
and withdrew from her body. He collapsed beside her, and then when he felt
a touch more prepared, he leant over and pulled her against him, wrapping
his arms around her tenderly, completely, as if to tell the world, were it to
enter here, no one would be able to take this woman away from him.
Clara was still in his arms for minutes, neither of them speaking as
emotion buzzed through the pair of them. Woolwich reasoned they were
staying silent for fear of breaking the magic that burnt brightly between
them. That was certainly the case for him. With gentle hands, he stroked
along her back as she lay across his chest. Discarded items of clothing had
been abandoned close by. There was the faraway chatter of voices—soon,
far too soon, someone would come and look for her. And it was this thought
that made him sit up finally. Easing them both into a sitting position,
preparing to dress and once more face the outside world.
Closing his hand over his jacket, he pulled it roughly on. When he
turned, still on his knees, it was to see that Clara had righted the front of her
gown and was twisting and pulling her ringlets back into place. For all her
righteous actions, it would make very little difference since they had torn
the skirt of her gown. It would take a skilled dressmaker to mend this, and
Woolwich told himself he would supply her with any new clothes she might
ever need. Despite this, there was a warm blush to her cheeks. Her lips were
likewise pinked from his stubble and kisses. Anyone with an ounce of sense
would know what had happened to her, and Hurstbourne would take one
look at her and insist on a special license.
Shifting back closer to her, Woolwich drew in a breath to begin. Slowly,
he placed a hand beneath her chin, so she would look up into his face and
meet his gaze. It was important they be honest with each other now and that
she be safe. “You need to go straight to your bedchamber when we leave
here. Ring for your maid and tell her that you feel sick.”
“I can change my dress.”
 “It is not worth the risk.”
Clara frowned. “I don’t understand. What risk? The risk that we… we
could be—we might have…” He could see tears forming in her eyes.
“There is always a slight risk of you falling pregnant, but you need not
fear that I would do anything to desert you. I would never be so cruel,
please believe me.”
She wasn’t listening, too busy pulling the folds of her dress away from
her feet so she could stand up. “I will need to wed immediately.”
Woolwich stayed on the ground. He had been meaning to get to that
point, although trust his Clara to get there so directly. It was, of course,
typical of Clara to come directly to her point, and he couldn’t resist smiling
at her outspokenness. Bending on one knee, he came into the traditional
position to make an offer of marriage.
To his slight amusement, Clara did a double take once she had righted
herself and seen him.
Stretching out his hand, Woolwich reached for hers, and caught up her
unresisting fingers, bringing them to his lips and planting a kiss upon her
palm. Surely, she could not be so surprised at him or his question, not after
what had happened between them. “Will you marry me?”
His query hung in the air a moment too long, and the expected reaction
he had sought or desired did not materialise. In fact, Clara started chewing
her bottom lip as she considered him. After a moment, awkwardly,
Woolwich got to his feet. For all the delightful progress he had assumed
they had made as lovers, they did not seem any more aligned now as they
stood here looking at each other, the space between them fraught.
“You have only offered for me because you think I may be pregnant?”
Clara asked.
“Is that not a very good reason to offer for a woman?” There was a
touch of annoyance within him, Woolwich knew. Since Clara had to
question absolutely everything, could this not be the one time she did not?
Clara nodded, but she was still frowning. It was hard not to assume she,
therefore, did not entirely believe him. Or rather she did not think it was
true. “We don’t know that I am. Fertile or able to procreate. Many couples
never have children.”
With a decisive move, Clara made as if to walk away from him. The
threat of such a retreat caused Woolwich to hurry after her, catching her
arm. Perhaps, he reasoned, she had not been informed in such great detail
on the matter and thought it would take them already being wed before she
might fall pregnant, He had heard some girls were taught such nonsense.
“Your sister seems to have no… problems there. Nor did your mother,
who had four children, yes?” Woolwich asked. He did not wish to start a
long debate on fertility with Clara. “I have fathered a child. Given all these
signs, I would fear consequences if we did not marry.”
“That is the best reason you can give for matrimony?” Clara was
looking up into his face, a query bending her features, but as to what
purpose, he could not ascertain. What did she want him to say?
“I have ruined you, and I would not wish…” Woolwich paused,
uncertain precisely what he wanted to say next. There was a distaste of
speaking so brutally to her, and yet she could not be ignorant of such
realities. He had no desire to see her marry another. The idea that the
blasted Mr. Goudge might presume to be in the same room as Clara made
him want to murder the don. “You know you cannot wed Goudge now.”
“I would dishonour him by pretending or entering a marriage with such
a falsehood. So, you are right.” She seemed remarkably sanguine about the
whole affair, and her calmness was starting to annoy Woolwich. Why could
she not just say yes? He had gone down on one knee, acting honourably
towards her, so why was Clara still viewing him with so much uncertainty
and distrustful disdain? “I will break my engagement with Mr. Goudge. It
would not be fair to wed him now. I see that, of course. It would not be
within my nature to lie in such a manner or commit that kind of falsehood.”
With such a statement uttered, she started to walk towards the door.
“Wait.” Woolwich strode after her, his longer legs catching up with her
in no time and pulling her back against him. He wrapped his arms around
her, hauling Clara close against his frame. The unspoken rejection of hers
was more painful than he had expected. He bent his head close to hers, and
Clara closed her eyes to avoid his gaze. With her so close, so still within his
arms, he realised how desirable she was, how she continued to be, and how
he suspected Clara always would be. Woolwich kissed her, breaking away
only to whisper, “You haven’t answered my question.” It was said in a
teasing manner, and he hoped she would respond in kind, and she would see
the sweetness he was offering and embrace it.
Her hands bunched on his lapels, keeping him rooted to her. “You only
offered for my hand because you have ruined me.” She repeated his words,
yet there was no warmth or happiness to them. “And only because of the
risk there may be a child.”
“I–I–”
“I know many women would be pleased, no, even delighted, to be
offered by someone as lofty as Your Grace. But I had hoped for more. From
you.” She lowered her eyes to settle on his cravat. “I am, of course,
flattered, Your Grace, for the honour of being asked.”
“I don’t want your flattery,” Woolwich said. “This is not a game, some
childish risk you can play.”
Colour sparked in her face, and she fixed him with a furious glare, any
shyness disappearing because she was vexed. “I am not being a fool or
playing with you. It is not unusual for me to wish for more when I see my
sister so happily married. Or my friends. They have husbands who adore
them, who did not propose to them because of a simple obligation. Or fear.”
Woolwich opened his mouth, keen to defend himself, but Clara was too
quick. “You make this offer because you must. That is not a good enough
reason for me to tie myself to another for the rest of our lives.”
Choosing to ignore her perceptive dig about his motivations, he tried to
remind Clara of the need for their marriage. “I am hardly repellent unless
you were pretending when we–”
“I did not call you as such,” Clara said. “Let go of me.”
Immediately, Woolwich released her, and she turned on her heel, forcing
him to follow in her wake. “You must see the logic of marrying me.”
Clara finally stopped. She had reached the edge of the conservatory, her
fingers on the door handle. She let out a sigh, a mixture of frustration and
sadness. “I do not understand how we could share something so beautiful
together that we moved beyond words, and yet we cannot find the right
phrasing here and now when needed.”
“If it is poetry and a perfect way of saying…” His mind was whirling,
unable to focus on precisely what she wanted him to say. Then again, his
conscious whispered, you know what she wants. Clara wants to hear a
declaration of your feelings, not of a societal demand.
“No,” Clara cut him off. “If it happens that I am with child, I will tell
you and agree to marry you, provided you are still willing.”
“And if you are not?”
She pushed the door handle down, swinging the door open as she
prepared to step out into the garden. “Then you may consider yourself free
from me and remain the bachelor you have always said you wished to stay.”
With that, she left him. Woolwich watched her move through the
gardens, grateful to see her re-enter the townhouse through the servants’
door, avoiding the larger, grander entranceway and the out-jutting veranda.
He was pleased to see her duck through and go unnoticed inside.
A dark element within him, an unpleasant, roiling animal, sparked in his
chest, and he marched back towards the townhouse, one aim in mind. He
was done being honourable and now was determined to win.
On entering the ballroom, his eyes swept the room seeking out the earl.
Hurstbourne stood talking to several matrons, and as Woolwich drew closer,
he could see a slight note of worry playing across the earl’s features. He
must be concerned about where his errant sister-in-law had gotten to.
“A word, Hurstbourne,” Woolwich muttered as chatter surrounded
them, feminine voices bright and happy with the ball that was in full swing.
The earl bowed and started walking off with Woolwich. He smiled and
nodded at the guests as they moved through the ballroom. Beside him,
Woolwich felt cumbersome, and the burden of playing the next card felt
brutal but, he reminded himself, necessary.
When Hurstbourne paused, Woolwich pointed him towards the card
room, located to the side of the ballroom.
“What is this to do with?” Hurstbourne asked. “Have you seen Miss
Blackman–”
“That is what I wished to speak to you about.”
All the charm and good humour that Hurstbourne had been displaying
vanished in an instant as he took in the seriousness of Woolwich’s
expression. His body stilled, and he pivoted to stare at Woolwich, assessing
him closely, his blue eyes narrowing. “What have you done?”
“We must wed.” Woolwich thought this rather neatly avoided
explaining anything too detailed to Nick, who already looked ready to kill
him.
With a stride, Hurstbourne moved away from the doorway of the card
room and over towards the hallway. “Miss Blackman is many things but—”
Hurstbourne grabbed the door and pushed it wide, with Woolwich
following him out. In the empty corridor, Nick slammed him hard against
the wall as he glared at Woolwich. “She is my wife’s sister. Tell me I
misunderstood you, and this is just a piece of tomfoolery.”
 “I mean to marry her. I will elope with her if necessary, but I would
prefer to have a special license. And your blessing.”
“This ball is serving in part as her engagement party to another man.”
Hurstbourne’s grip tightened, and Woolwich let him half throttle him. He
was sympathetic to the position he had put Nick in, but this was all in order
to get what he wanted. If playing dirty was what it was going to take, then
that was just a means to an end.
Abruptly, Hurstbourne released his hold of Woolwich’s collar and
stepped back. “You bastard. What is wrong with my friends? After Trawler,
I never imagined…” He stopped talking, but he still looked furious. “This
will need the utmost of care. I will deal with Goudge.” He sighed, seeing
that Woolwich was about to interrupt. “No, I must manage this on my own.”
Woolwich watched him turn and go back into the ballroom. Nick may
well take care of the problem with Goudge, but there was still the
unsolvable problem of Clara, who was refusing his match.
 CHAPTER 20

C lara passed a sleepless night, uncomfortable in her own bed, her

thoughts a jumble of regret and nerves that were eating her alive.
High above her stretched a dark-patterned wallpaper of green leaves,
lightening as dawn arrived. But still, despite closing her eyes tight, Clara
had not found sleep. Her fingers drummed on the intricately decorated
coverlet, twisting it this way and that until she was annoyed even with
herself.
By most women’s standards, she was a fool—a grand duke had
proposed to her, and she had turned him down. Even without the title, a
great many females would think Jasper was divine. He was austere but
appealing, wealthy, and added to that, he was heartbreakingly delicious to
kiss, not to mention all the other wicked things he’d done to her body. On
that subject, she was ruined, as he had so straightforwardly put it. If her
disgrace got further than the two of them, it would make her one-time
dalliance of playing at being a man in White’s seem innocent. This
scandalous offense of being intimate with a man was enough to have her
thrown forever from good society, no matter that her sister was a countess
and her best friend a marchioness. No, Clara would be shunned. Of course,
if she were to marry Woolwich, none of this need be her concern—she
would be a duchess. Immune and untouchable, a distant image of herself
appeared before her. If she were to agree to wed Woolwich, all the colour,
the vivacity of her life, she feared, would be lost—she would love and love
Jasper until there was nothing else left. And she knew he would not deign to
care for her.
 More than once, the thought of society, or her sister’s face when her
ruination was discovered, had Clara composing a note to Woolwich
internally.
Each time, she forced herself back beneath the sheets, pulling the thick
cotton around her like a shield. There was no escape if she were to wed. It
would condemn her to a lifetime of painful regret and remorse.
When her maid arrived with the breakfast tray, Clara asked for her help
to dress. The younger girl tried to talk of the ball, but Clara could not think
of an adequate reply. When the maid started on her hair, Clara remembered
Woolwich’s caress, the careful feel of his fingers through her curls, and it
brought tears to her eyes.
Clara picked at her breakfast tray and answered only in monosyllables.
It was when there was a soft knock at the door and her sister, Isabel, arrived
that Clara roused herself, despite her fears and tiredness.
Isabel moved through the chamber, smiling charmingly at the query
from the maid and agreeing to an extra cup of chocolate. They were so
different physically, of course, blonde to red curls, small versus tall, and
curvaceous versus slim, yet Isabel was the only person in the world that
Clara wished to confide in, the only woman who would give advice that
would be a balm to her soul.
Before Clara could muster up the right words to explain things, Isabel,
who had been watching the maid slip from the chamber, turned clear, tired
eyes on her sister and gave her a sympathetic smile. “I hear the ball was not
quite the outstanding success we might have hoped for.”
Clara moved, lifting herself out of the armchair, coming forward to sink
down in front of Isabel’s seat. Tears flowed as she felt Isabel start to stroke
her back, as she had done when she was a little girl confiding in her big
sister.
“I do not believe the duke to be worth such sadness,” Isabel said after a
minute.
Blinking up at her, Clara wondered if somehow the rumours were
already circling, and her indecision had been pointless—she was already
trapped.
“Hurstbourne spoke to me,” Isabel said, quickly seeing the rising panic
in Clara. “He was informed last night by Woolwich of the duke’s offer.”
“The blaggard,” Clara said wetly. Hurt and anger raced through her as
she felt the betrayal in Jasper’s actions. He had gone against what she
assumed was an unspoken agreement of silence. He was manipulating her.
Clara pictured his face smug as he issued out what he wanted. “He had no
right.”
“My husband acted out of his best interests,” Isabel said with a knowing
grin, teasing Clara by deliberately misunderstanding her. She leant forward
in her seat as she looked at Clara closely. “I am still quite tired from the
birth, so I may not be giving this my full attention. Or perhaps I have
missed a crucial element. But nonetheless—”
Clara felt immediately like a scolded child, but when she opened her
mouth, Isabel held up her hand, and Clara allowed her to finish speaking.
“However, I do not know it all, and I insisted that there must be a good
reason—a very good reason—for your rejection of such a man.”
Before she could quite muster up her courage for an explanation, there
was a slight cough, and both women glanced across to the earl as he entered
the room. Hurstbourne was watching his wife with a deeply concerned look
before moving forward and kissing Isabel’s hand.
Getting to her feet, Clara looked between the two of them. Awkward
despite the fact they were both in her chamber, clearly wishing to resolve
the matter as quickly as possible.
“I did not want to interrupt, but the doctor said you should be resting as
much as you can. Besides, dear Robbie wanted to give you some roses from
the flower garden.” Hurstbourne looked sympathetically towards Clara and
then said, “If I had known what my friend would do, then I would have kept
the two of you apart. But Woolwich is a wealthy, well-connected man who
would ensure you want for nothing. On that point I am certain.”
“We all know that the duke can be cold and domineering, but he is one
of the grandest matches of the Season. It would be a lofty marriage.”
“I see now, in hindsight, that his attentions toward you have been
marked. I must have been blind beforehand to miss them.” Hurstbourne
sounded bitter.
Was that why Jasper constantly sought her out to argue and bicker,
Clara wondered, but she bit her lip at voicing that remark. “Before last
night, I had no idea of how serious those intentions were,” Hurstbourne
continued, “If I had known… I can only apologise for my lack of foresight.
After Viola this Christmas, and the inevitable drama that her marriage has
caused, let us hope that baby Eleanora causes no such scandal in twenty
years.” This he whispered softly to his wife, and Clara had to look away at
the gentle regard with which Hurstbourne was looking at his wife. With a
sigh, he pressed a kiss against Isabel’s forehead.
“Provided she stays well away from the Set’s sons, I think we may
count ourselves lucky,” Isabel replied.
Clara felt the embarrassment and shame of having her secrets known by
these two people. Even ones who were so kind and well-intentioned as her
sister and brother-in-law, it did not mitigate the mortification.
She was certain that, whilst Hurstbourne was a good man, if she refused
both Woolwich and Mr. Goudge, there was only so much he would be able
to manage in terms of her good name. Besides, the earl had other concerns.
Exile from the ton would be inevitable, and by extension, a great many of
her friends and family would be cut off.
“I will not see you forced into a match,” Isabel said. Her graciousness
illuminated her, and Clara knew all too well Isabel’s own prior marriage to
Mr. Hall had been a hideously ill-matched affair. There was certainly no
likelihood of Woolwich being a traitor or an abuser as Mr. Hall had been,
but nonetheless, to lock herself into an unloving marriage was not a fate
Clara would willingly choose.
“She may not have a choice,” Hurstbourne said. His face was pained as
he spoke, a slight pinkness dancing over his cheekbones.
“Someone saw me?” Clara found her voice. She had been so careful
returning from the conservatory and going back up the stairs last night.
“Not that I am aware of,” the earl replied.
“Then Mr. Goudge has some inkling of what has happened?”
“No, and I have spoken to the young man,” he replied. “I took the
liberty of breaking the engagement on your behalf, with no dishonour on
anyone’s part. We agreed that settlements and the like could not be matched
to everyone’s satisfaction. It will be so dry and uninteresting that no one
will think any more of it. At least, that is my hope.”
Clara was not certain what Hurstbourne said was entirely true. After all,
there was nothing the beau monde liked more than gossip, although there
was the slight comfort that as a wallflower, Clara supposed she would not
hold the interest of the scandal rags for long.
Hurstbourne moved closer to his wife, his hand soothing down her back
in a soft rhythmic touch, which brought a smile to Isabel’s face.
“I hope it was not too costly, my dear,” Isabel said quietly, and
Hurstbourne shook his head hastily.
 Guilt rumbled through Clara. She suspected her brother-in-law had paid
handsomely to free her, and how she might repay him was beyond her
abilities. Little emotion stirred in her for Mr. Goudge. He clearly could not
have been too perturbed about her—yet another man who did not love her,
despite his supposed desire to wed her. What was it about her that rendered
her unlovable? She was pretty and well-read. Yes, on occasion she could be
argumentative, but surely no more so than Lady Verne or Mrs. Trawler.
“I refer…” Hurstbourne paused and then looked between the two of
them, so uncomfortable Clara wondered if he were ill. “Woolwich implied
an interlude that well, might… oh hell.” Hurstbourne reached up and
adjusted his collar, clearly wishing he was anywhere but here. “Woolwich
said you might discover yourself to be with child. His child.”
In the pained silence, Isabel raised one arched eyebrow, a fuller
understanding now dawning on her. Hastily, she reached across and patted
her husband’s hand, hoping to dispel his discomfort. “It is best if I talk to
my sister alone.”
“It was not done from maliciousness,” Hurstbourne said. “I was
thinking within the next few days of returning to Sussex and the estate. It is
time to get some fresh country air, and I, for one, am keen to leave the
oppressiveness of Town.” With that, Hurstbourne slipped from the room,
leaving them alone once more.
Embarrassment tumbled through her. It did not matter that she knew for
a fact Isabel and Hurstbourne had been intimate before they wed, and
Prudence and her marquess had been too. It was the fact she was unwed that
counted against her. On top of that, it was she who refused the duke. If she
had more sense, she would be desperately accepting Woolwich’s offer and
would be forever grateful for his attention.
“He is very tall,” Isabel remarked into the frosty quiet of the room.
Clara, who had been close to tears, looked up at her prim sister’s
comment and giggled. Pleased that it cut the tension neatly.
“I would have that, well… I am sure Mother would have discussed your
marriage night or would have wished to prepare you,” Isabel said. “Then
again, I did not find her instructions especially useful. Or accurate.”
“Given my best friend is married to a former rake, and all my friends
are matrons—”
“Not to mention all those books you read,” Isabel added.
“I was not so unprepared as I might have been.”
 “Then you were luckier than me,” Isabel said. “I hope His Grace was
kind to you.”
Kindness was not the word that Clara would have used to describe what
had happened between Woolwich and her. She was not entirely sure she
wanted to share any details of precisely what had happened with her older
sister. That night was passionate, wild, gripping, all-consuming. It had been
a secret, too, until Jasper had decided to tell. Yet another reason for her to
feel hurt and betrayed by him. Here he was, demanding and insisting that
his way was the only way, and it infuriated Clara immensely. Presumably, if
she had agreed, much of their marriage would be the same—with Jasper
convinced of his own wisdom and never listening to her opinion. Lord
above, the man vexed her past endurance, and yet she wanted to see Jasper
just to tell him so. And when she did, she would also add that she never
wished to see him again.
“You look rather distracted,” Isabel remarked. Clara rushed forward to
embrace her older sister, feeling as if she were close to being a child again.
“I love him,” she admitted into Isabel’s arms. The confession was
painful, ripped from her unwillingly. Everything would be easier if she did
not love Woolwich. She could have left him and married another were it not
for her treacherous heart that longed for Jasper despite everything. Pulling
back from Isabel, she stared at her sister, hoping to somehow find an
explanation or a way of stopping these feelings. “I love him, even when I
know it is hopeless and he cannot ever care for me.”
“Hopeless?” Isabel frowned. “I do not understand. The duke wishes to
marry you, and you love him. What could be better?” She was smiling now,
warmth lighting up her face. “I thought perhaps there was only attraction or
a moment of madness.” Isabel cupped Clara’s cheek. “You say you love
him, and yet you do not wish to be his wife?”
“You love Hurstbourne?” Clara asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes,” Isabel said. “I love my husband dearly, but I do not see what—”
“Can you think of anything worse than being married to him, knowing
he did not, nor was there any possibility that he could ever love you back?”
Isabel’s expression fell, and understanding dawned on her.
“There are worse things,” Isabel said finally. “Marriage to a brute is
worse, and I do not think Woolwich capable of such cruelty. He was able to
forgive his late wife as they had Beau together, an act many men would
never do.”
 To this, Clara nodded. No, Woolwich would not be guilty of deliberate
brutality. It was more her own sanity she feared were she to marry him,
forever dependent on a man who could never feel as she felt for him.
“Yet,” Isabel continued, a tiny amount of fear entering her voice, “being
an unwed mother would not be a fate I would wish for you.”
“If I find I am with child, I will wed him,” Clara said. She did not think
she had the strength to consider bucking convention so much to be a single
mother. A dismal fate to be played out if that were the case, and how
women were treated in such cases. “That particular hardship I might be able
to tolerate myself, but I would not disgrace you or the earl or mother and
father with my shame.”
“Or separate a child who would wish to know their father,” Isabel said.
“Indeed,” Clara said, refusing to let herself picture anything to do with
any children she may have or what they might look like. That would be a
step too close to madness, she feared.
“London has grown quite tiresome, I find,” Isabel said. “And I have a
dear desire to see the Sussex countryside again. If we remove ourselves
immediately to the manor, we may well be able to come to a more
satisfactory conclusion in just a few short weeks.”
It did not need to be said, but Clara knew of what Isabel alluded to. If
her courses came, she would be bound to tell both Lord and Lady
Hurstbourne, and whilst she might be humiliated, there would not be a need
to arrange a shoddy affair post haste. Neither option was especially
appealing, but she would need to make the best of a bad lot.
“I will send your maid to you,” Isabel said. “We must begin packing,
and I must find Robbie and those flowers.” She moved towards the door.
“Pray.” She looked back over her shoulder at Clara. “Do not fret. Whatever
fate awaits, you will always have a home with me.”
Nodding, Clara watched Isabel leave. It was a goodly gesture, one
which was kindly meant, and Clara did not doubt the sincerity of it. Yet, as
she moved to her bookcase and began pulling her dear tomes from their
shelves, she heartily wished for a happier choice to present itself, although
she could not imagine what that might be.
 CHAPTER 21

A s was his way, Woolwich positioned himself in his club, happy with
the newspaper before him and the neatly poured coffee close to his
elbow. He had dressed in great fastidiousness this morning, hoping
that this afternoon he would be able to go and greet his new fiancée.
Therefore, his double-breasted waistcoat was of a rich blue colour that, in
certain lights, matched Clara’s vivid eyes. His shirt and cravat were crisp
and ivory, his suit black. Beneath the folds of his jacket was a carefully
selected ring from his family’s treasure troves, a pearl and diamond-
mounted ring which his grandmother had been gifted on her thirtieth
wedding anniversary. It was old-fashioned, but there was something
romantic that Woolwich hoped Clara might like. Of course, if she wanted a
new ring, he would happily go and buy her something different. There was
no way in hell Woolwich could give Clara anything that Annabelle had ever
worn, but he was rather excited about the idea of spoiling his new wife. His
focus was on these smaller, trivial things and not on her previous refusal.
He reached out a hand and patted the little box. It made his jacket bulge
slightly, but he hoped it was not too noticeable.
If only he could keep his eyes focused on the pages of the fine print and
not on the ever-present stream of gentlemen who came and went through
the doors of White’s. None of his Oxford Set arrived, nor anyone who he
wished to seek out as he waited for his friend to arrive.
Late last night, he had received a quick note from Hurstbourne with the
instruction of making himself available on the morrow at White’s. There
was nothing else included in the note, but what else could Hurstbourne need
him so urgently for? Clara must have bowed to the wishes of her family and
agreed to wed him. It was an underhanded move by him, true, but he never
claimed to be a saint.
So, Woolwich hoped for the following good news, that Hurstbourne
would arrive, curse him for being a bastard, which was, of course, deserved,
and then reveal the good news that Clara had agreed to wed him. It was
inevitable. The only question was how long Hurstbourne would drag out the
punishment before he gave Woolwich his reward.
A small, petty part of him—one which embarrassed Woolwich, but he
nonetheless recognised to be true—felt this proposed engagement to Clara
continued their game, admittedly with higher stakes. The highest stakes of
all: marriage. His attitude changed after making love to Clara. It was not
merely to do with honour, or having taken her virginity—feeling the weight
of that decision, Woolwich felt oddly relieved. Yes, it raised the rules of the
game between Clara and him, but there was a sense of anticipation
whispering through him. Woolwich dwelt on it; he realised it was
excitement.
With hindsight and her engagement now broken to Mr. Goudge, Clara
would see the logic of their union. Hopefully, a night’s rest and recuperation
would make her agreeable to the hasty marriage he much preferred.
Selfishly, he desperately wanted her in his bed.
The door opened, and Woolwich forced his face into what he hoped was
a welcoming and approachable expression at the sight of Hurstbourne.
Sweeping forward, the earl reached the table and sank into the chair
opposite.
Nick’s face had taken on a hard, contemptuous look, so much so that he
almost resembled a statue from the ancient world, one which would pass
down condemnation on those beneath him. “I am disappointed in you. My
belief in you was that, despite it all, you were a good man, one who would
act honourably. Your treatment of my sister-in-law is shameful, and given
that you berated Heatherbroke for years whilst—”
“I was married.”
“She was engaged.”
“I will pay you back for whatever you had to pay off that—” This offer
seemed to have an even worse effect on Nick as he looked close to throwing
a punch, one which Woolwich would have no choice but to allow
Hurstbourne to hit him.
“I have left my distressed wife at home.”
 “My answer is to remedy this. I am not a rake—it is unfortunate, I
agree. But like many before, I was unable to resist temptation.”
“I am well aware of that,” Hurstbourne said. He glanced over
Woolwich’s shoulder, and a slight smile appeared on his face as he saw
someone he knew enter the room. “So, I have invited a peacemaker along.”
For one brief moment, Woolwich wondered if Lady Hurstbourne might
have copied her sister and donned some gentleman’s garb to appear inside
the club and help resolve matters. She was one of the most calming
presences that Woolwich could imagine. If not her, then the ever-reliable
Verne, whose superior manners always kept everyone on their best
behaviour. But it was not this person who Hurstbourne signalled to, and
Woolwich glanced across and saw the Marquess of Heatherbroke
acknowledge them and start to make his way towards them.
“Et tu, Brute?” Woolwich asked waspishly as Heatherbroke drew closer.
Ever since the marquess had pulled his son from the water, Woolwich had
known that he would need to close his account, settle the score, and whilst
he had sent his card to Heatherbroke, there had been no date set for their
talk.
Heatherbroke bent his dark head in greeting as he reached them and
lowered himself into the last armchair.
Perhaps, Woolwich reasoned, it was his just punishment to have
Heatherbroke watching him so quizzically—a form of self-satisfaction
shone out of the marquess—or maybe it was something else entirely.
“I invited Heatherbroke here today so that I could have a witness, or if
you refused to act honourably, a second.” Hurstbourne leant back in his
chair, crossed his legs, and watched Woolwich bleakly. Whilst his words
were aggressive, his pose was not.
Unable to help himself, Woolwich sighed. “It seems unnecessarily
dramatic—”
“Given what occurred with my supposed friends when these young
ladies were under my protection, that has not raised my opinion of The
Oxford Set.” There was a decided heat to Hurstbourne’s reply, and guiltily,
Woolwich remembered it was only earlier this year that the earl’s little sister
had been involved with, and then married, Trawler in a rather scandalous
manner. Still, he reasoned, he could not be held responsible for Trawler.
“Unlike others,” Woolwich said, “I have come directly to you. I have
offered matrimony as soon as the need arose.”
 “Why the hell couldn’t you just have a normal courtship?” Hurstbourne
snapped. He ran his hands over his face and yawned, “If either of your sons
come within an inch of my daughter—”
Leaning forward with an easy winning smile in place, Heatherbroke put
a restraining hand on Hurstbourne’s arm. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“I don’t see what the problem is.” Woolwich cut off whatever
Heatherbroke was about to say. “I have proposed. We can go and arrange a
special license as soon as you give me permission. If you prefer, we can
wed this week or next or have a grand society affair.” He wanted to add that
he would even settle for a dash to Gretna, as Heatherbroke had done, but it
felt unnecessary, and he was sure he would be unable to say it without a
derogatory dig slipping in there.
“That would be straightforward,” Hurstbourne said. “But she won’t
have you.”
The air in the room of White’s suddenly felt decidedly hot despite it
actually being a relatively mild May day. There may as well have been
coals around Woolwich for the flame of heat and frustration that washed
through him. Pride wounded, he acknowledged as both Heatherbroke
smirked and Hurstbourne sat there watching him, but there was another
emotion at play within him, one he was not sure he even wanted to accept
himself. Was he hurt by her continued rejection of him?
“I did not force myself on her,” Woolwich said in a low voice. Their
night together was a passionate and mutual one, and any implication of that
not being the case filled him with horror.
“She does not claim that,” Hurstbourne replied, which, whilst a comfort,
provided no rationale for Clara’s refusal. Did she not care for her own good
name? She had not struck him as a fool, headstrong and argumentative
delightfully so, but stupid, no. Could she not see the risk?
“Then I fail to see…” Woolwich said. “Is this out of some misguided
loyalty to Goudge?”
“He has been settled up with. So, no, I do not believe Miss Blackman
felt any particular discomfort or sadness at the ending of their engagement.
Course, it was bloody difficult and will not look right, but that would not
matter if she agreed to wedding you.”
“Then I cannot understand what the problem is,” Woolwich said. “I
would be happy to go to the archbishop myself. My father and he went to
school together, so he regards me with a great deal of fondness. It should
not be a problem.”
“I do not think you are grasping that she is refusing you,” Hurstbourne
said, a touch of annoyance edging its way into his voice.
“Did you actually ask her? As in getting down on one knee with a ring
and flowers?” Heatherbroke asked, “Or simply inform her that she would
be your duchess?”
Woolwich shifted in his seat. The idea of being lectured by one such as
Heatherbroke was immensely annoying. Nor the implication that he was
demanding, which was perhaps a level one, but still, it did not sit right with
him.
“As it currently stands,” Hurstbourne leant forward, “she declares that
unless she finds herself needing to wed you, she won’t.” The earl glanced
left and right, his voice low so that no one nearby was close enough to catch
their talk as the implication of his statement rang through Woolwich. Unless
she was pregnant, Clara would not wed him. A slightly wicked idea of
trying to get her with child as quickly as possible occurred to him. Some
people, after all, only needed one attempt, and he would be more than
willing to try multiple times.
Hurstbourne was still talking, but Woolwich was only paying the pair of
them the slightest of attention. “I would recommend you try to develop half
a brain and court the girl. Miss Blackman is a very sweet, well-intentioned
chit, so I cannot see why she would be so willing to defy convention.”
That shows how much you know her, Woolwich thought wryly. His
Clara sweet? She was spirited and defiant, and part of him was not
surprised she was refusing this next move of his. There was something
uniquely spirited about her which explained, he saw it now, why she was
rejecting him.
On Hurstbourne went, discussing Woolwich’s attempted courtship
whilst Woolwich tried to think of what the next best course of action was.
“…A more traditional offer. That is clearly what she wants.”
“Right, right.” Woolwich said. A particularly graphic image danced its
way through his mind of Clara in his bedroom, dressed only in her shift and
stockings, and how he would slowly, deliberately, and with the utmost care
remove those things. Slowly, tortuously so. He still hadn’t seen her fully
naked nor properly explored every delicious, curving inch of her, as much
as he would like to. The heat had returned to him now, but in a way that was
thrilling, and suddenly the idea of making his way across to Hurstbourne’s
townhouse seemed like an excellent idea. Surely, repeatedly seducing—
reducing Clara to a wanton who was desperate for him and then getting her
with child was a solid enough plan, albeit not really what he would ideally
be doing. But if Clara refused to see sense, what choice did he have? It was
a little ruthless and not the gentlemanly way of doing things. Still, it
couldn’t be helped. It was not as if he had any intention of abandoning her.
It was purely out of a good instinct that motivated him.
Once he made love to her again, Clara would have no choice but to
admit that they were a fine match. Besides, he would gift her the ring in his
pocket, and surely, she would find that pleasing. He imagined slipping it on
her finger as she lay in his arms, content, sleepy, and satisfied. He would do
as Hurstbourne suggested and make a small speech clearing away any
concerns she might have—be it settlements, where they would live, or her
allowance.
“I shall leave at once and call on her immediately,” Woolwich said. He
stretched his legs. It was time he was off, having been scolded for long
enough. If nothing else, whilst he could probably stay and resolve matters
with Heatherbroke since the marquess was here, surely Clara took priority,
and getting the proposal settled was of the utmost importance. Besides, if he
was honest, he wanted and needed to see her again, kiss her lush mouth, and
feel Clara’s form pressed against his again.
“You’ll likely find the household in an uproar. My mother-in-law has
arrived to help with the process of packing everything. I only just escaped
alive.” For the first time, Hurstbourne sounded jovial, pleased, it seemed,
that the matter was settled. “But in the end, my wife insisted I make my
way here to see you and resolve this.”
To this information, Woolwich nodded. For his plan to work out, if he
needed to make his way past his future mother-in-law and Lady
Hurstbourne, so be it. Although presumably, they would be busy with the
packing and the moving of children. In his mind, he drew out the layout of
Hurstbourne townhouse, knowing the locations of the downstairs he knew
well indeed. The upstairs rooms, where Clara’s chamber would be—that
would be harder to find.
Getting to his feet, Woolwich nodded at the pair of them. “Good day to
you both. I will go directly there.”
 “Will you stop and get flowers for her?” Heatherbroke asked. “What
one is her favourite?”
“If you ever come near my soon-to-be wife in anything other than
cordial politeness, this time, I will murder you.” Woolwich looked directly
into Heatherbroke’s face. “In terms of flowers”—he sighed—“I think that is
the sort of thing that I will ascertain when I am wed to her,” Woolwich said
as he turned and made his way towards the door. He tried his best to ignore
the noise of disappointment he heard from Hurstbourne or the slight
chuckle from the marquess, clearly amused by him.
It was typical, because of his awkward and abrupt manner, that his luck
with women was not worthy of note, but they did not know how much
Clara’s acceptance meant nor how hard he would work to win her over. He
had the ring. He had the undeniable logic of their marriage and the
scandalous risk if she said no. And if that failed, well, there was the
seduction. Perhaps the seduction was a conclusion anyway, he thought as a
faint smile curved his lips.
The journey to the Hurstbourne townhouse in the bright May sunshine
took him less than twenty minutes, cutting through the busy Town as he
practised again and again what he might say. On arriving, Woolwich found
the house in disarray, as boxes and belongings were being loaded into one
large carriage.
“Where’s the lady of the house?” Woolwich collared a distracted-
looking maid.
“Oh, my lord.” The girl looked this way, and that, a hat box and a small
bag balanced in her hands. “My lady left for Sussex with the family.”
Discomfort seethed through Woolwich, and he wondered suddenly if
Clara had forever gone from his life, slipped too quickly from him. A large
black hole, the one he normally ignored, gaped wider in his chest.
He nodded at the maid and hurried up the outer steps of the house to
reach the cooler interior. More boxed goods and valises cluttered the
hallway, and then from high above, he heard Clara’s voice, talking lightly to
her maid, a giggle to the tone. Often, he had heard it raised in argument or
disagreement. On occasion, he had heard it engaged in lively debate. Last
night, he’d heard her sweet, cooing noises, which had heated his blood. His
only conclusion was that her voice was the most intoxicating sound, a blend
of heat and passion, wisdom, and excitement, that no other woman could
match. Her voice locked its nails into his chest and pulled him forward,
exerting her influence without even knowing her power over him.
Without thinking it through, Woolwich took the stairs, rushing up to the
higher levels of the mansion, eager to find his temptress.
“Now Saunders,” she laughed, “it shouldn’t take me too long to gather
the last of these things. You head downstairs, and I will see you tomorrow.”
Woolwich had paused in the corridor and watched Clara’s maid depart,
carrying luggage with her. Stepping through the open door, Woolwich
entered Clara’s bedchamber, relieved she was still here, the pleasure at
seeing her afresh alive within him.
There she stood, surrounded by several piles of her beloved books, a
novel in each of her hands, bending close to one of the cases, her rounded
derriere pulling the gown she wore flush against her frame. Her red curls
were loosely tied back with a black ribbon and hung low down her back.
She had not heard him arrive.
Unable to stay still any longer, Woolwich walked forward and wrapped
his arms around Clara, pulling her against him so that he could finally
breathe again.
 CHAPTER 22

W hen Clara felt his arms close around her, for the briefest of
moments, she allowed herself just to feel. To acknowledge this
pleasure of being close to Jasper after the tumult of thoughts and
worries which had consumed her, to luxuriate in the strength of his arms,
which made her feel safe, and the warmth of Jasper’s breath against the
back of her neck. It was so tempting to whisper, ‘I’ve missed you,’ but she
feared what power this would give him, given the amount of sway he
already had over her.
Leaning down, she loosened Jasper’s arms from around her and turned
to look up into his face. Her friends, her dearly beloved friends, were all
wives, and their gossip had removed a great many anxieties she might have
had about the marriage bed, as well as laying the groundwork for an
expectation that it would involve some joy. Clara had not been prepared for
the rising desire she felt now as she looked at Jasper. One taste, one night
had merely stirred the ache within her. His presence in her bedchamber, of
course, fed that hunger—from his haughty stare and posture, a presence of
his which was both known but not indulged in. As she searched his brilliant
eyes, part of her felt sure he must feel a similar desire. It thrilled her to feel
as if the power of their physical appeal to one another was mutual and that
he wanted her as much as she wanted him. The only problem was, of
course, how angry she was with the duke and how much she would need to
cling to that shield unless she wanted to drop to her knees and beg him to
take her. That image of doing just so blazed through Clara, warming her
innards and making her want him all the more.
 “I did not expect to see you here,” Clara said. Her words could be
applied to his presence generally, or rather to him being in her bedchamber
—she liked how her statement had multiple applications. She stepped back,
away from him, until her legs came to rest against her desk. If this were
downstairs, she would perhaps sink into the seat next to the desk, but she
did not want to grace this visit with the impression of formality.
“You knew I would need to see you.” Woolwich remained stationary,
although his gaze never left her face. The expression was intense, almost
like he was memorising her features.
“Your choice to run to my brother-in-law was humiliation enough. You
now seek to make it worse by what, being discovered here?”
Woolwich shrugged. It was a nonchalant gesture, and it infuriated Clara.
How could he remain so calm and careless when she may well be ruined?
She certainly was, in the eyes of the earl and countess and anyone else he
might have told. Marching away from the desk, she reached Woolwich and
grabbed his coat, shaking him, determined he would see the damage his
reckless actions had caused. Sadly, she realised too late that this put her far
too near to him, and when she tried to step back, Woolwich’s hand had
already snaked around her waist, locking her to him.
“Do you think I would let you remain engaged to another man?” He was
bending close to her, and when Clara looked into his eyes, she realised the
coldness he had shown had melted, and the very soul of him seemed
enflamed. “After what had occurred between us.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Like hell it was.” His free hand came up and tangled amongst her
curls, encouraging her to stay looking into his face. The very touch of him
seemed to be causing cartwheels beneath Clara’s skin, a burning mixture of
heat, desire, and light which was scolding its way through her body, blood,
and deeper still. Now, of course, she knew all too well what that lingering,
desirous feeling meant. She wanted him pressed against her, inside her once
more. Overwhelmingly masculine, the touch of his hands gracing and
stroking against her body until she could barely think clearly.
“All we do is argue,” Clara said, her frame leant in for just the briefest
of moments, merely to satisfy her curiosity, she told herself, but she then
found it impossible to pull away.
Woolwich was smiling, his thin lips oddly amused as if she had made a
joke. “I think we’ve found something we prefer doing.” His touch trailed to
the point just below her ear, and he made a soft circular movement before
leaning closer, giving the impression that he would kiss her. Clara closed
her eyes, ready for the taste of him, but it never came. Instead, she heard
him whisper, close to the now sensitive spot he had touched, “I would much
rather stroke you elsewhere.”
Clara’s eyes shot open, and she stared into his face, unable to look away
because of the proximity and how well he seemed to be able to read her.
How did he know she had desperately wanted to feel his fingers precisely
doing that across every inch of her? When not racked with concerns and
frets of the night, she had been consumed with the hunger to repeat what
had happened in the conservatory.
“We can’t.” Clara’s voice was not her own. There was a pleading note to
it, and it further fed the heat in her face, but Woolwich did not seem to
mind. In fact, he just smiled.
“All the servants are busy, and your sister—”
“She has already left with my mother and the children,” Clara muttered.
It was galling to realise that the blasted man was right. She was angry,
furiously so with him, but it seemed as if it came in second to how much
she wanted him.
There was a decided smile on his face as he nodded. “I thought that
seemed the case.”
“I am grateful for the time to gather my thoughts—”
“And receive more offers of marriage?”
“Why? Do you know someone who might be interested and is not
seeking to blackmail me?” Clara asked. She tried her best to match his
teasing tone, but she had her doubts it had worked.
With a careful step backwards, Woolwich eased away from her and
dropped to one knee before her. He drew out from his waistcoat pocket a
box, and Clara watched in surprise as one of the most eligible men in the
whole kingdom lifted the engagement ring up for her approval. It was a
stunning ring, elegant and expensive looking, a twist of diamonds and
pearls, but all Clara wanted to know was whether the man behind the ring
might love her as much as she loved him.
So, she asked, “Why?”
Frowning, Woolwich stared up at her, “Do you not like the ring?”
“It is beautiful.”
“Will you try it on?”
 The devil may as well have been tempting Eve, Clara thought as she
looked at the ring once more. If the more practical side of her mind won,
she would say yes to him. She would be a wealthy, well-connected woman
for the whole of her life. The worries or isolation she had, on occasion,
experienced or feared would be gone. She would never have to don male
clothes in a desperate bid to win a groom.
Woolwich had captured her left hand and slipped the ring in place as he
got to his feet. “It suits you.” There was a tentative note to his voice as if he
still wanted to give her the impression she had some choice in the matter,
and this wasn’t a manipulative ploy on his part.
Tentatively, Clara touched the largest diamond.
“It was not Annabelle’s if that was your fear.”
“That is considerate of you.” Immediately, Clara wondered what
Annabelle’s ring had been like.
As if sensing her query, Woolwich said, “There are not two more
dissimilar women I can think of.”
“She was very elegant and beautiful,” Clara supplied, feeling her
confidence dip.
Woolwich made a strange noise, and said, “Your beauty matches hers,
and besides, there is the matter of your internal nature which far exceeds
hers. Loyalty and strength of will and mind are more worthy indicators than
a neatly turned wrist.”
To this, Clara nodded, only half agreeing with his assessment. The
problem, as she saw it, was straightforward: She was different as night was
to day in comparison to Annabelle. And she normally wouldn’t mind, but it
was Annabelle who he’d loved. Clara did not think herself an envious
person, especially not about a woman who was dead, but that she might be
held up in comparison or to a standard. She did not think she could bear
that.
“If you do not like it, there are other family rings you can pick. Or we
can choose something new.”
Swallowing, Clara tried to think of what to say that would adequately
describe the push and pull her feelings, how tempted she was by him and
his offer, and yet how she knew it would not be wise to lock herself in
matrimony to a man who could never love again, as Jasper had said was the
case for him.
 “We can have a great society wedding if you want or a discreet one here
in Town. It would not take much to arrange a special license.” His voice
changed and even seemed mildly amused as he made his final suggestion.
“I suppose we could also run off to Gretna if you really wanted to. My
preference would be for a discreet service within the next week. I will, of
course, visit your parents in Sussex as well to seek their blessing. There will
be no need for a dowry or anything like that. Hurstbourne informed me that
your former fiancé has been paid off, so we need not fear any problems
arising from him. The sooner our own announcement is made, the better.”
“You have not answered my question,” Clara said. “I want to know your
reasons for wanting this union. I know there are practical—”
“There is a risk, a chance of you being pregnant. I will not see you go
through that scandal, and I would not put my child through such a…”
“And if I am not? Then we have tied ourselves together unnecessarily.”
“I would want you either way. Whether you are or not. If we had a
dozen children or none, I would still wish to marry you. You and I are alike
—we are both stubborn creatures who would prefer solitude to company,
who find it hard to unearth kindred spirits amongst the Ton.” There was a
pained expression on his face. Woolwich found the words difficult to
formulate, but nevertheless, he soldiered on. “With you, there is a comfort
and a solace that I never expected to experience with someone I fought with
in such a manner.”
A flood of emotion made Clara smile at him, although she wished that
Woolwich would say such things with a touch more sentiment, rather than
his normal, brusque manner. She returned to the desk, leaning against the
solid structure. If he wanted her in such a manner for his wife, was that not
remarkably similar to affection? And could deep regard and lust, humour,
and time blend into something strikingly similar to love? Besides, the
practical voice in Clara’s head reminded her she was ruined by this man.
He must have seen that moment of hesitation because suddenly Jasper
was before her, his hands cupping her face, angling her mouth to kiss her
wholeheartedly, as his body pressed against hers. It was humbling to realise
that, whilst she could question everything else, she had no doubt she wanted
this: his kiss, the feel of him, his touch close to her. Lifting her hands onto
his shoulders, Clara accepted the taste and feel of his tongue slipping
between her lips and the heady sensation of him being so close to her once
more.
 One hand moved from untying her hair to gliding down her back before
lifting her more securely onto the desk and moving between her parted legs.
Jasper leant forward and kissed her, the momentum carrying them back
to lean over her wooden top, spilling the remaining books onto the floor.
Her hands clung to his hair as she held on to him. With scrambling hands,
he eased apart her gown, keen, it seemed, to touch her. As desirous as she
was to feel his fingers on her quivering flesh.
As soon as Jasper did, Clara cried out. She could not hide her eagerness
for him. His fingers slipped inside, tentative at first, until the rhythm of her
hips begged for more. The wood of the desk on which they were located
was hard against her back, making Clara conscious of her body against the
unforgiving material. He loosened his touch from her and freed his own
manhood, and Clara felt it brush first against her leg and then against the
wet folds of her sex. With a passionate thrust, he pushed inside her.
With his arms on either side of her head, Clara felt certain there was a
world outside the one they were making together, but all that really
mattered was what existed between them. He was stretching her with silken
ease as he moved deeper inside her. Each time he did so, Clara swore she’d
remember the sensation, note it down to treasure it for later. But the truth
was, every time he pumped in and out, the rational sense she prided herself
on slipped away from her, and all she could do was cling to his shoulders,
lift her hips, and enjoy every inch of it. Of him. The sensation of being
made love to. Now she knew why it was called such—it transcended all
reason being linked to another human, and in this case being connected so
to Jasper meant that he was touching, devouring, consuming not just her
body but her soul too.
Comprehending what Jasper was doing to her was beyond Clara. How
he was making her beg, the gasps uttered forth from her lips, unbidden and
unchecked. Especially when he caught her eye and slid his hand down
between their joined bodies to first touch and then stroke and enflame the
sensitive spot buried at the top of her sex. The pressure caused stars to
appear before her eyes, and Clara’s breathing grew ragged, and her hands
clung to his pulsing back. Her touch seemed to trigger something within
him, and Jasper rocked faster, catching at that burning, bright, glorious need
that was ratcheting higher within her. There were colours not present within
her bedchamber blurring her eyes, and as she gazed up at Jasper above her,
she felt tears flood her eyes, and the needful release clawed its way through
her body, making her cry out in desperation, because of the beautiful
trickery of his hands.
“Jasper,” she said. Her voice changed to high pitched and needy, eager
for more, the thrill of his fingers touching her, the strength of him inside
her, of his body so close and surrounding her. Loving her in a way he could
not say yet, but nonetheless showed in these gestures and care.
“Beg me, Clara, say how much you need me.” There was a desperation
to his tone which forced Clara to focus on him, to see how keenly he
wanted her, as he plunged deeper into her. “Tell me how good this feels for
you.”
“It does, it does,” her voice was growing fainter, and she realised it was
because it was being robbed—stolen away by that pressure that was
loosening her limbs, pinpointing over her skin, and dancing through her
blood. That mounting crescendo heightened as he surged into her more
fully. Clara screamed, her release coming on her again as the colours burst
and the pressure lessened. All of a sudden, she was more conscious of her
body, of the weight of him, and the scent and feel as he plundered her.
Instinctively, her arms and legs, despite being somewhat held in place by
her dress, wrapped closer to him. Enjoying the sensation as Jasper found his
own release, swept up in what she assumed would be a similar feeling as
her own.
Their foreheads came to rest against each other’s, still and at peace,
after that whirlwind of emotion and sensation that altered all of her being.
Had he felt it too, she suddenly wondered? There was a sickening feeling of
fear as she realised that he had committed this act many, many times, and
surely it could not be so special to him as it was to her.
As if he knew her fears, she heard Jasper say, “You are extraordinary.”
With his arms around her still, her head against his chest, their breathing
uneven and their clothes mussed, Clara knew she should have been
embarrassed, but with Jasper, she never could be. Slowly she lifted her face
to receive his warm kiss as he slipped from her and righted her dress. To her
surprise, he then lifted her up in his arms and carried her towards the bed in
the corner of the chamber.
“You know,” his voice was raspy, heated and laced with a touch of
humour, “people generally tup in bed.”
“That is what I have heard,” Clara said as he placed her down upon the
coverlet. All she wanted to do was slip beneath the sheets, feel Jasper slide
in next to her, and not stir for a good hour. Perhaps they could even
barricade the door. She leant back on the pillows and reached out to him,
pulling Jasper down next to her. She kissed him, her hands running over his
loosened shirt. The feel of his body, heat, and the very scent of him had
occupied her mind for so long, and now they were linked. “I love you,” she
whispered as she kissed him.
He stilled. And, in that moment, Clara realised her mistake.
Immediately she knew her error, and she knew that this was not why he had
come to her room—he was not waiting for her to say it first, admit
something so she could clear the air—he did not feel that way about her.
Jasper kissed her hair and her forehead and tried to capture her lips.
Clara went rigid, and hastily Jasper sat up. There was a shadow on his face
as he waited to broach the subject. “What is wrong?” he finally asked.
“If you do not feel that way, why did you come here?”
“I want to marry you.”
“But I made it clear that—”
“We have fucked, so we must marry.”
Watching his face, one that Clara was sure she could paint from
memory even if she never saw him again, she saw the truth. She sat up,
resisting the temptation to pull the coverlet around her like a shield. Her
eyes travelled over to the desk where they’d… “Did you come to my room
in the hope that you’d seduce me to your point of view?”
When he didn’t answer, she knew she was right.
“Or rather, you wanted to increase the chance I would be with child.”
“It is not some malicious game.” Woolwich moved around the bed, and
hurriedly Clara scrambled off it.
With a sigh, Jasper stood too. He reached the desk and lifted his jacket
off the floor where he’d discarded it. “I want to marry you. I wish to be
honourable.”
“Which is ironic given the trickery you have engaged in today.”
“I never claimed to be able to love. I am no longer capable of those
feelings. But I will care for you. Protect you and honour you. All your
worldly needs will be met.” He gave her a wry smile as if there was some
humour to be found here. “I would say, if we had fewer arguments and
more sexual congress, we might even be happier.”
It might as well have been a slap, Clara thought, fury and
disappointment rippling through her. With a shaking hand, she reached
down and pulled loose the engagement ring, flinging it at him. “Leave.” At
least her voice was steady as she yelled at him. Sucking in a breath, she said
with as much dignity as she could muster, “I cannot believe you would try
to trick me like that. Leave.”
 CHAPTER 23

F or a moment, Woolwich was tempted to follow her directive and

depart. Why could she not see that this was all he could give her? If
she knew how dangerous his love was, she would not seek it.
However, if Clara could not be made to see sense, then he may as well wait
for her to discover if she was enceinte or not. There was an unpleasant twist
to his stomach that told Woolwich that this ruthless instinct would not
benefit him in the slightest. Nor, apparently, was it at all appealing to
Clara’s senses and desires. It baffled him, but stay put, he did.
“I do not wish to lie,” he set about straightening his clothes. He hoped
that within the next ten minutes, Clara would be made to see his viewpoint.
Then, they might as well go straight to either the archbishop or Gretna,
whichever she preferred. “This would be our arrangement. Our marriage
should be built on truth. When I married Annabelle—”
“Must you speak of her?” A look of hurt passed over Clara’s face, and
Woolwich wished more than anything to replace it with some kind of joy—
it just seemed that half the time, he was incapable of doing so.
“Are you jealous?” he asked. If that were the case, he could reassure
Clara immediately and let her know there was no need. His affections, or
lack thereof, had nothing to do with his dead wife and everything to do with
his own character. Clara must be made to see that his faults meant his love
was not good, healthy, or wanted. It would not be a benefit to her, and
entering into a marriage with those false feelings again was simply unwise.
“I am not jealous, no.” Clara’s face was flush, but she was speaking
with a degree of consideration. She was still keeping her distance from him,
and the raw anger she had shown earlier had faded. “But I will not compete
with a memory.”
“I do not ask you to.”
“By refusing to ever think you might be able to love me, that is
precisely what you are doing. The comparison is in there.” She moved
forward and touched the side of his head. “Buried in there because you
refuse to see what might be between us. I cannot and will not compete with
a ghost. Because that is what exists between us at present.”
“I have compromised you twice now. No one in our society will
understand your refusal.”
“Well, they have never understood me, so what does it matter?”
“You would risk everything for some flight of fancy?”
“Jasper, you know it is more than that.” Clara gave him a sad, wry
smile, her plump cheeks deflated as she sighed. “I did not expect you to be
a coward over such matters.”
“I could force you to marry me if I say what occurred here again. One
slip may be understandable, twice, though. Will your family be quite so
understanding?”
“Only if you want me to hate you,” Clara said. “Our marriage would
become one of resentments if you did that. No, I will not consent—and
unless you wish to act out some barbaric practise of throwing me over your
shoulder—”
“It worked for Heatherbroke and your friend.”
“I am not Prudence.” Clara moved farther away from him, crossing to
the door which she opened for him. “It was always your initial thought all
those weeks ago in White’s to publicly humiliate me. I suppose you have
your choice of what way you can do it now. No,” she raised her hand as he
made to move forward and reassure her. “Do not touch me. Please leave.”
In what must have been a state of shock, as this was the only logical
explanation that Woolwich could find, he walked out of Clara’s bedroom.
Perhaps, he thought, he could sense that he would not be able to argue her
around. As far as he had been concerned, it had been going well just
moments ago—they were engaged, they had tupped, and she had seemed
happy. Then her absurd, romantic notions had taken over, and the end result
was she had acted like a mad thing, ranting and flinging the engagement
ring to the other side of the chamber. Surely, she knew he would never air
such rumours or seek to publicly ruin her—his threat had been exposure to
the Set at most. Even in his head, this defence sounded weak.
Why anyone, any sane, rational creature, believed in or wanted romantic
love was beyond him.
But he wanted Clara, and there was little logic or rationale to that.
With brisk but aimless steps, Woolwich made his way forward through
the Hurstbourne townhouse, past the agog servants, and then into the streets
of London with only the vaguest of ideas where he might be heading. His
footfalls carried him away from the townhouse and through Green Park.
The dying light of late spring blossomed in the afternoon, beautifully
colourful and fresh as an apple, which of course did not match his bleak
mood. No, his mind was completely preoccupied by what he could have
said to alter her answer. Would she have wanted him to lie? After loving
and losing Annabelle, the idea of being able to trust another with the
battered remains of his heart was a joke. So, it was far better to give Clara
something worthier than his love—an untrustworthy emotion anyway—she
would be his duchess, his wife, and have his name, things of real tangible
value.
Selecting, almost at random, a seat on a nearby bench beneath a tree,
Woolwich sank down and waited for a new, calmer plan to come to him.
But all he could see was the hurt he had caused her, playing again and again
on Clara’s dear face as he pictured her, freezing as he realised how truly he
had upset her. It did very little good to offer the cold comfort that the pain
was unintentional. I warned you I was too damaged to ever love again, beat
through him.
“Woolwich, what are you doing here?”
Twice in one day was simply too unlucky to be born. Glancing up,
Woolwich found himself looking into the faces of the two people he least
desired to see, the Marquess Heatherbroke and his wife, out for an
afternoon stroll with neither of their children to act as a barrier or
distraction. They were stopping, it seemed, for a prolonged interaction. The
horror of having to make small talk dawned on him, but either way, short of
bolting over the hedges or the bench he sat on, there was little to no choice
but to make conversation with the couple.
Both of them were watching him with concerned looks as Woolwich
realised how strange and out of place he must look, morosely sitting on his
own on a bench.
 “My lord and lady,” Woolwich began, already on his feet and hoping to
make this talk as short as possible. “I wrote to you expressing my thanks for
your brave actions in saving my son. It was a heroic and just thing to do. I
know I should have made a more fulsome, heartfelt, appreciative show,
but...”
“I am sure you would have done the same for either of our children,”
Lady Heatherbroke said, her round blue eyes wide as if she could see far
more than he wished to display.
“Please excuse me.” Woolwich dipped his head and made to leave, but
Heatherbroke stretched out his hand and caught Woolwich’s arm.
“You.” Woolwich looked down into Heatherbroke’s face, the man who
had betrayed him years ago but had also selflessly saved his son. Hatred
and gratitude swilled together, mixed alongside the memory that
Heatherbroke’s brother had been his dearest friend and poor George had
died—the two of them could have been close, should have been, had
Heatherbroke not tupped Annabelle. But instead, animosity burnt through
him, alongside the knowledge that because of those furies, he was going to
lose Clara too. “You have ruined my life. Have the goodness to at least
allow me the liberty of solitude in a park.”
To Woolwich’s annoyance, Heatherbroke did not release him but instead
frowned, his handsome features twisted as he looked back in confusion. “I
thought to offer you congratulations on your engagement to Miss
Blackman.”
“Your wishes on this are unwelcome and unnecessary, as she will not
have me.” Woolwich shook off Heatherbroke’s restraining hand.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” An exasperated sigh came from Lady
Heatherbroke, and she walked forward and around Woolwich to take his
arm, preventing him from making the departure he had planned. She was
slight, but she was staring at him with the fury he was used to eliciting in
Clara. When did he start drawing such anger from women—for simply
being unable to express feelings? “I was pleased to hear you would wed my
friend. Heatherbroke could not see the logic, but to me, you would be an
excellent match. A balance of passions,” she added when his curled lip did
not shift. With a small smile, she looked a little wistful. “I was surprised, of
course, since Clara had not mentioned it, but when I thought about it more,
I saw the sense of it.”
 “Unfortunately, that same sense cannot be said to be applicable to Miss
Blackman. She will not have me, madam.” Why on earth the lady thought it
appropriate to converse in such a manner was past his comprehension. Yet
he could hardly shake her off as the lady might fall over. He looked up from
her and caught Heatherbroke’s eyes, hoping that the marquess would aid
him. But Heatherbroke shook his head, an amused and loving look on his
smug face as he stared at his wife.
“We’ve all made mistakes.” Heatherbroke shifted closer to him, his tone
lighter but his meaning sharp. “I, perhaps more than most, but it is how we
rectify those errors that make us—that heal us and those around us.”
A wash of anger swept through him that Heatherbroke would dream of
lecturing him. Of daring to advise him—yet in this sunlit, woody grove, it
galled him to admit that between the two of them—Heatherbroke was the
happier man.
“It won’t help me,” Woolwich replied, grateful that the lady had
released him. Perhaps this humiliation could finally end, and the two of
them would be on their blasted way. “It seems that no matter what I do, I
have the ability to lose in whichever scenario I find myself in.”
He would have liked nothing more than to leave, but Lady
Heatherbroke was blocking his progress. She crossed her arms over her
chest and gave him a sceptical look. “What did you say to Miss
Blackman?” Her voice lowered a fraction so that no one passing on the
pathway twenty feet away from them would be able to hear their
conversation. “I know she has these occasional wild ideas, but if you spoke
to her of your care, of your love for her, then—”
Unbeknownst to her, Lady Heatherbroke had inadvertently honed in on
the point which was rendering Clara and himself divided.
Unable to help himself, or rather, driven to a point of frustration, his
restraint snapped. “I am unable to offer her such an arrangement. It is not
within my power to give Miss Blackman that,” said Woolwich. “With me,
however, she will be a duchess, one of the most important women in the
country. If she cannot see the advantage of the union, I will not reduce
myself to beg, nor do I seek my bride by abduction.”
“I see.” Lady Heatherbroke’s eyebrows went up. She ignored his
allusion to her own romantic entanglements and marriage to Heatherbroke.
“So, at no point did you tell Clara that you loved her? Or that you were
capable of such a thing.” A ghost of a smile played along Lady
Heatherbroke’s lips, and she moved over to her husband, taking his arm,
and muttered in what was not a convincing whisper, “I thought he was
supposed to be intelligent.”
Heatherbroke looked torn as if he wished to see the humour, but there
was some sympathy on his face. Either way, he bit back his reply.
“What do you mean?” Woolwich asked her.
“Miss Blackman is a great romantic,” Lady Heatherbroke said. “She
would not look twice at a man because of his title or wealth. She will not
care a jot for your duchy.” Tugging lightly on her husband’s arm, Lady
Heatherbroke clearly wished to depart. “Perhaps I was mistaken in thinking
you would be suitable together. Forgive my impertinence. We should
depart. We are due at the musicale.”
His fate lay in the balance, Woolwich realised as he looked at the young
marchioness with her fetching teal bonnet and matching shawl. Soon the
couple would go back amongst the swilling masses of the ton. He could
watch the pair of them leave and, in the process, lose Clara forever, and he
discovered with a hideous, blinding comprehension that her loss from his
life would destroy him. He had dragged his way onwards after Annabelle’s
death, but knowing that Clara would be out there with her family, possibly
finding a new love, caused his breath to catch at what would be lost from
his life. If he felt that at the prospect of her not being in his life, what did
that mean?
Clara’s words around his cowardice crystalised through his body and his
mind. He staggered after them, breath catching in his throat, and it took
Heatherbroke hurrying back to his side, holding him up, his hand on
Woolwich’s chest, before he felt a little better.
His fingers gripped Heatherbroke’s jacket. “I can’t lose her too.”
Lady Heatherbroke moved closer. “Because?”
“Why does it matter so much for me to say the blasted words?”
“Because it is the thing that matters most,” Lady Heatherbroke said. “It
is a thing worth all, worth the most, and I won’t let you marry my friend if
you don’t know that. How do you feel about her?”
He could hardly describe in vivid detail all the ways he wanted Clara,
how attractive he found her both inside and out. “She says she loves me.”
“And yourself?” Lady Heatherbroke said. “I won’t help you unless you
tell me how you feel.”
 Rather lamely, even to his own ears, partly from a desire not to have to
justify himself or, worse, explore too deeply everything Clara made him
feel, Woolwich said, “She’s very pretty and good, of course.”
With a wave of her hand, Lady Heatherbroke dismissed his comment. “I
know that.”
What did she want from him? A graphic recounting of how wondrous it
felt to slide between Clara’s thighs, to capture her mouth and her gasps as
he drove her wild? None of that could be said aloud, not with a lady
present. “I care for her.” He snapped, emotion broiling through him
unbidden and unwelcome. “I want her to be safe and protected. Even from
someone like me.” The words caught in his throat as he attempted to
convey what marriage meant to him. It was safety from the cut throatiness
of society, but any deep affection was unwise. Lady Heatherbroke was still
watching him closely. It was clear she expected more from him. “I would
rather argue with her than talk to anyone else.” He would forever wish to
return to Clara’s side and hear her viewpoint, even if it meant he would
have a fight on his hands.
As he watched Lady Heatherbroke, he saw a faint smile grace her
rosebud lips, as if she was realising the depth of Woolwich’s feelings,
despite all his denials. It hit him hard as the truth of what he had denied for
so long rammed into him, robbing him of his breath. He loved her. It was
eating him up, and he’d been too blind to see it until now.
“My love is a poison, a curse.” Woolwich gave voice to his fears as he
looked between the last people he ever expected to confide in. He had
always thought that his feelings were better repressed, but it was through
Clara’s encouragement to bond further with his son that he was able to take
the next step. “I have lost one woman already, and I know all too well that
with Clara’s wit, humour, beauty, and bravery… would all the feelings that
burn through me hurt her?”
Drawing nearer until she was staring up into his face, Lady
Heatherbroke said, “You’re right. Clara is brave, strong enough to face
desertion if you were to be such a blaggard as to abandon her. I will not
speak of your late duchess since I love her daughter dearly—but I do know
that Clara deserves that passion that is within you. She would welcome it.”
The breath eased out of him. The reassurance from someone who knew
Clara so well matched what Clara herself had been saying, but he had been
too stupid, too scared to see the truth before his very eyes.
 With a grudging admittance, Woolwich said, “I don’t know what to do. I
don’t know how to fix this mistake. I don’t know how to convince her that I
love her.”
Releasing him, Heatherbroke stepped back. He wasn’t looking at
Woolwich but at his wife, considering her emotions and what her reply
might be. She looked away from Woolwich, her expression opaque. Finally,
she let out a sigh and gave her husband a quick nod, seemingly pleased with
what she had heard.
With a smile, one of charm and expectation, Heatherbroke said, “I think
we can help you, Woolwich.”
 CHAPTER 24

C lara was failing to find comfort in the realisation that her promise to
herself that this Season would be different had come true—she had
received multiple offers of marriage, she had danced at dozens of
balls, she had kissed a man, well… to claim that kissing Woolwich had ever
been part of her plan was a stretch. It had certainly never been her intention
—nor was falling in love with such a man. Her assumption and her
resolution were all crumbling away.
Hurstbourne townhouse was quiet. Her sister and the children had left
for the countryside now that Lady Hurstbourne could manage the journey.
Lord Hurstbourne was only staying a few more days for some last-minute,
London-based obligations, and then he, too, would leave, and the
townhouse would be shut up for the summer. The beckoning promise of a
summer in Sussex, filled with noisy children’s laughter, familiar cooking,
and sun-drenched trips to the seaside, lay before her, provided, of course,
that Clara did not find herself with child. Carefully, she put her hand on her
stomach. The curved shape of her belly gave no indication of what lay
beneath the folds of her dress, what occurrence might be happening inside
her—it would be at least a week before she would know for sure.
Having dressed in a travelling gown and gone downstairs, Clara moved
through the silent townhouse, nodding at the remaining servants and
holding one of her favourite books to her as if it were a shield. The dining
room was set just for her as Hurstbourne had already left, and she sipped
her chocolate without much enthusiasm. Her eyes moved listlessly over the
room, not enjoying the elegant furniture, the liveried servants, nor the
lifestyle she had been privileged to enjoy recently.
 Her mind was preoccupied with Woolwich, wondering what his next
step would be, what attempt he would make next, or if he would abandon
her and leave Clara alone. If she were to become a spinster, then a fate with
her dearly beloved books would hardly be a curse. It may well be a blessing
in disguise. There was something soothing and familiar about that option.
A sharp knock interrupted her wonderings, and a maid entered and said
Lady Heatherbroke was waiting in the yellow salon for her. Abandoning her
eggs, Clara made her way towards Prudence. If and when she left London,
it would be a great deal of time before she saw her dear friend again,
especially since Lady Heatherbroke spent most of the year in Cumbria,
hundreds of miles away from Sussex—there was the comfort of her
frequent letters. Still, the reality of a friend before her could not be
matched.
Flinging the door wide, Clara stepped inside and smiled at Prudence,
her affection undimmed despite all the emotions she was currently beset
with. “How lovely to see you.” Clara hurried over and flung her arms
around Lady Heatherbroke. Holding on to her dear friend most keenly.
Despite how much she loved her older sister, it was Prudence who knew all
the dark secrets around Woolwich. There was something in her friend’s
clear-eyed righteousness and her directness that Clara had always admired.
Perhaps Lady Heatherbroke would be able to make Clara feel reassured
about her refusal.
Returning her affectionate embrace, Lady Heatherbroke gripped Clara’s
shoulders as she pulled back to take in Clara’s face. The two of them, hands
clasped, moved across to the sofa. “I heard that you were all set to leave
today.”
“That is correct. It is most excellent that you had a chance to call on me
because it may be several months, perhaps even longer—”
“I have just realised you have the time to drive to Hatchards,” Lady
Heatherbroke interrupted her. “I had a present set aside for you, but you
must have it before you leave London. You always tell me it is your
favourite place.”
All her plans that Clara had sought dissolved as she dwelt on her
beloved bookshop, and the realisation that if she were to forever depart
from the ton, she may well not have an opportunity to visit there again.
Clara nodded. “Let us take a carriage over there. It would be a good
chance for me to tell you about a hundred different things. I should have
come to you sooner.”
Lady Heatherbroke nodded most solicitously. “Run and grab your
bonnet. We will discuss whatever you want on our way to the bookshop.”

T HE JOURNEY WAS A QUICK ONE , BARELY TEN MINUTES , AND MUCH TO

Clara’s annoyance, it turned out that Lady Heatherbroke had her maid with
her, so conducting a confiding talk that Clara had planned was restricted to
her obliquely letting Prudence know that the engagement between herself
and Mr. Goudge was at an end. She could not even bring up Woolwich at
all.
“I am sure it will be much remarked upon,” Clara said. She knew she
should be anxious. After all, it was a match she had initially hoped for. But
the truth was she was more concerned about whether she might be with
Woolwich’s child. If she were, then she would have no choice but to write
to him and beg his assistance, and if she wasn’t, a solitary existence
stretched before her. Hastily, she forced herself to smile, her hands
smoothing over the soft pink rivets of her dress. They would soon be in the
quiet of Hatchards, and Clara would feel her muscles calm in the presence
of such precious books. She would place several on her account and take
them with her today. Hopefully, after that was done, she might escort Lady
Heatherbroke home, and then she would have an opportunity to unburden
herself entirely.
“Here we are,” Lady Heatherbroke called out brightly, and Clara roused
herself.
Climbing from the carriage, she took in the large shop with its
glistening glass windows, dark green painted exterior, and gold lettering
elegantly announcing its name. She felt happy, as if the last few frantic
confusions and fears were nothing compared to her first love because, for at
least an hour of time, nothing would distract her from the joys within this
bookshop. She knew the well-stocked walls nicely, the handsome glass
cases, the thick heavy carpets that would cushion her feet, as well as the
occasional window seat where she could easily have whiled away many an
hour.
 “Come,” Lady Heatherbroke looped their arms together, and with
genuine enthusiasm, Clara picked up her pace, and the pair hurriedly
entered Hatchards.
There was something almost immediately amiss, Clara realised, as her
gaze travelled around the innards of the shop. The booksellers moved
effectively between stylish customers dressed in their most elegant bonnets
or tall black hats, Indian silk shawls, and summery netted gloves. Brown
leather-bound covers lined the shelves, and Clara’s feet carried her forward,
her fingers eagerly reaching out to stroke the spines. She could almost feel
the clamour of the voices within the novels calling out to her—in an attempt
to drown out the noise of her breaking heart. Books had always been a balm
to her soul, sheltering her when she’d suffered before, cast out as a
bookworm or redhead, or ignored because her figure did not meet society’s
expectations—those delightful pages were a place of solace in a turbulent
world. Would her beloved novels be enough now?
Turning, she glanced over her shoulder, looking for Lady Heatherbroke,
hoping to finally tell her about Woolwich, but nowhere could she make out
her friend’s slim figure or bouncing brown curls. The downstairs area of the
bookshop was full of sombrely dressed matrons and gentlemen and no
young marchioness. Perhaps Lady Heatherbroke had gone upstairs?
Clara reached out and grabbed the banister, and walked up the stairs,
heading to the second floor. One of the booksellers waved Clara on and up
the stairs before Clara could ask him her question about whether he had
seen Lady Prudence. The second floor was likewise barren of Lady
Heatherbroke, so Clara continued up to the final floor.
On the whole, Hatchards smelt like rosewood, musk, and, of course,
books: closely stacked blending ink and thick vellum pages. But there was a
different scent colouring the air today, which blended floral flavours one on
top of another. A battle of rich lily of the valley, honeysuckle, and lilac, and
when Clara reached the upper landing, she saw there was bouquet after
bouquet made of those flowers lining the edge of the room. There were
lilacs and roses attached to the ceiling in garlands. There was such a vast
cacophony of colours and smells that Clara’s eyes widened at the sight. She
was so utterly distracted by the show of flowers that the man bent on one
knee in the middle of the room made her do a double take.
Woolwich was watching her most closely. He was immaculately
dressed, and his blond hair was beautifully ruffled. A slight smile curled his
lips, but a frown cut between his brows. So, he was not at ease.
Clara tried to ignore the jewellery box he was holding and the
unfamiliar ring nestled between the velvet which was offered up for her
eyes. Annoyingly, there was a sudden swell of emotion, and she told herself
most sternly that whatever the duke might say next, she would not cry.
She hung back, her hand still on the banister rail, keeping her eyes fixed
on Woolwich’s face, waiting for his opening speech which would probably
be him continuing to remind Clara of her duty, her obligation to wed him.
“I am glad to see that Lady Heatherbroke’s understanding of you was so
precise.”
“This was a trap?” Clara asked. She moved forward a little way, but not
close enough to be within touching distance of him. Given how her body
had betrayed her previously, it was wiser, she reasoned, to keep back.
“Hardly so malicious, more of what the three of us hoped would be a
winning gesture.” Woolwich lifted his free hand and beckoned her closer. “I
can, of course, remain on one knee for as long as you like, but I would
prefer to address my remarks to you directly rather than to this bookshop.”
“If it is simply a repetition of what has been said previously…” There
was a wobble to her voice, but Clara kept her body relaxed as she moved a
fraction closer. “The change of scene and setting, lovely though the books
and flowers are, will not—”
“That was not my intention.” Woolwich closed the distance and
snatched hold of her hand, pulling her towards him. “I thought that the
setting would demonstrate my willingness to embrace the things you
loved.” A small, wry smile lifted the edge of his mouth. “And a public
location would prevent…” he trailed off, but the implication was clear
enough.
His attempt at a joke cut into her, and Clara wondered quite how much
power the smile, the look, and the mind of the man before her had over her
senses. With her free hand, Clara swatted at his shoulder, but Woolwich did
not continue in such a light vein. She had never imagined it possible that
someone could hold her in such a sway.
“You were right.” His grey eyes locked on her face with a depth of
feeling that shocked her. “About so many things.” Woolwich’s hand pulled
her closer, and spontaneously Clara’s knees buckled, and she folded down
onto the carpet in front of him so they were on a level. In response,
Woolwich’s hand enfolded her fingers, and hurriedly he said, “Let me
speak, I beg you. I owe you the greatest of apologies. I do not know where
to start on the list of things I should say sorry for. Certainly, for attempting
to trick you… but for countless other things too. I have never found
speaking or airing my thoughts to be the easiest, but for you, Clara, I would
go on until you insist I stop or my voice dries up.”
Clara nodded hesitantly, so Woolwich continued. “It was a grave error
of mine in thinking we might somehow be married without you ever
realising what existed within me. Thinking I was cold and distant when
what I was, was afraid you might know the truth of how desperately and
hungrily I need and want you.” Woolwich pulled her hand closer to his
chest, laying her fingers on his shirt above his heart. “I love you. God, you
were right. I was a coward. I should have said it earlier, but I don’t think I
realised it, not until I told Lady Heatherbroke I would rather argue with you
than talk to another soul.”
An awareness grew that her eyes were swimming with tears, but it was
odd, bizarre even, since Clara knew she was smiling too. Woolwich closed
the small distance between them, his mouth kissing her cheeks, her
forehead, to pepper her face with his kisses until she was laughing. He only
pulled back when she let out a heartfelt sigh.
“Can you forgive me?”
“I thought you came here to ask me to marry you?”
“That, too, but I realise I need your forgiveness more. I suppose I should
ask you a great deal of questions, but nothing can be gained without me
having your forgiveness first.”
“You don’t deserve it,” she scolded, still smiling.
“No, probably not, but I will strain to throughout our marriage.” He had
abandoned the ring on the floor but lifted it back up and showed it to her.
“Lady Heatherbroke’s advice on your favourite stones was a great help. I
would never have known moonstones were your preference.” Woolwich
slid the ring from the velvet box and placed it onto her hand, slowly giving
her time to say whatever she wanted.
“It is perfect,” Clara said once the ring was secure on her finger. “Yes, I
will marry you. I want to marry you.” She wrapped her arms around his
neck, and Clara plundered his mouth with her own. His earlier kisses had
been sweet and affectionate, all those promises of love fulfilled, but she was
realising she wanted something more. Her hands stole beneath his shirt,
delighting in the heat of his body. There was a passionate ferocity within
her, ignited only by Jasper so that only he could satisfy her.
“Please,” she said. Awareness sparked within him as he maneuvered her
backwards against the shelves behind them. His clever fingers darted in
amongst the pink silk dress seeking out her wet heat. When he touched her,
Clara gasped, but her moan was hastily captured by his mouth.
“We can’t do that here,” he said.
“But…” Clara’s voice was hard, rubbed raw with her desire. She pulled
him close against her. She was so desperate for him that she was prepared to
be banned for life from Hatchards. Her body and mind wanted him. They
were both aligned and eager for the act, whether it be up against the
bookcases or on the bookshop’s floor. “We two are alike. We beat and burn
together. We will not be parted again.”
“You will need to wrap your legs around me,” he whispered, “and hold
on to my shoulders.”
She was nodding in agreement as Jasper’s fingers fiddled with his own
breeches, and then, with an eagerness that matched her own, lifted her
astride him, sliding himself inside her. Clara’s cry was sucked into his own
kiss as the two of them thrust together against the bookshelves, everything
else forgotten beyond their passion. Her legs came around his waist, lifting
her, and allowing her to control the sensation. The movement of her rocking
hips, and the feel of him deeply rooted within her body, was everything she
wanted. Clara’s head pushed back against the wood as Jasper’s thrusts
spiralled her towards that desperate climax. When stars flooded her vision,
Clara’s legs encircled his back more tightly, and as she gasped out her
release, she heard Jasper find his.
It was desperate, furious, and beyond anything she had previously
envisioned.
A moment drifted past, and then Jasper eased out of her, picked her up,
and moved them both over to the small chaise lounge beside the window.
Slowly the sounds of the outside world returned, and the memory of where
they were flooded in. Clara felt a blush colour her face, but Jasper seemed
unbothered, merely pulling her close for another kiss.
“You know,” he remarked as he righted their clothes. “Most couples
make love in a bed.”
“Perhaps,” Clara replied as she pulled him in close for another kiss.
“That is something we can save for our marriage.”
 EPILOGUE

T wo months later…

C LARA WAS CURLED UP IN A WINDOW SEAT , A CURTAIN PARTLY HIDING HER

from the view of the entranceway. Next to her was her wedding dress, a
glorious pink silk gown, whose bodice was dotted with seed pearls and
whose train was overlaid with the most beautiful handsewn French lace.
Beside it was her carefully selected, cream-coloured bonnet, which had a
small lace-trimmed veil attached to it. However marvellous though those
things were, and thrilled that it was her wedding day, Clara really did want
to finish the chapter of the book her nose was buried in. Because after
today, she would be a wife, duchess, and immediately a stepmother, and as
everyone kept telling her, these tasks would easily fill up her day. It was
odd—these pieces of advice came from every quarter, especially her mother
and dowager Woolwich, but never from Jasper himself. No, he insisted that
she stay precisely as she was. Still, in case something did change, or their
honeymoon proved to be too distracting for reading, she should take the
precaution of finishing her book.
The slight easing open of the door did not distract Clara. It would be her
mother perhaps, or the maid with breakfast, and she really wanted to find
out about—
The curtain parted, and it was neither her mother, her maid, or any
female who might be deemed appropriate to be found in her bedchamber. It
was Jasper. He filled her vision, his smile charming as he looked down at
Clara—that blend of affection, love, and devotion that so moved her. He
was the only person who she would willingly lower her novel for, and Clara
placed it down next to her on the cushioned seat.
“What are you doing in here? What if you were seen?” She scolded. It
did not land since she was smiling, nor did the willingness of Clara pulling
him forward for a kiss match her query.
“I know if I am caught, we will simply have to marry.” Jasper grinned
back at her. She was pleased to see that in the intervening two months in
which they’d become engaged, parts of his humour, and the good-natured
temperament she had known was present within him was coming to the
fore. Hell, it was even manifesting in these jokes. “I snuck in, and I am sure
every other lady present will be too busy with her toilette to trouble us for at
least a few minutes.”
“Is that so? I had it under good authority from my own mother, as well
as from yours, that we were to have a chaperone at all times.”
“But surely they both know the truth?” Jasper moved the curtain farther
aside and slotted down next to her. It was immediately cramped, so he lifted
her smoothly into his lap and held her tight. Turning, Clara wove her arms
around his neck, and their foreheads came to rest together.
“What, that you are a duke whose bets do not work out well for him?”
Woolwich coloured at the reminder of what had brought them together
as Clara raised an eyebrow. The two of them had discussed the Betting
Book, and Woolwich had apologised. Snuggling into her fiancé’s arms,
Clara was pleased that whilst the vengeful motivation had not been
honourable, Woolwich’s amends to both herself and the Heatherbrokes
proved himself to be worthy of her love.
“Today will be beautiful,” she said. The rays of the warm summer’s day
were already heating their backs, and by eleven, surely it would be the most
perfect wedding day.
“I have no doubt.” Jasper’s eyes moved to the dress. “But then again, I
think you would look lovely in what you’re wearing now.”
“My nightdress is hardly suitable,” Clara said.
“I would deem it most appropriate for anything I would wish to do with
you.” He looked back at her and kissed her again until Clara felt quite
breathless. Her body warm and eager for him—they had promised since
they had gotten engaged to wait to be together until they were married, and
never had this arrangement seemed sillier than in this moment, despite in
just a few short hours, they would be wed.
“Regretting it too?” Jasper asked, seemingly able to read her thoughts.
When she did not immediately answer, Jasper placed his lips against an
especially sensitive point at the base of her neck that had Clara gasping.
A sound outside the room had them both freezing, and then reluctantly,
Jasper released her and got to his feet. From his pocket, he drew out a piece
of paper. It was a picture. Clara leant closer and saw it was a childish
rendering of three people.
“This was done by Beau,” Jasper said. “It is meant to be us.”
Touched, Clara smiled up at him. “It’s lovely. His sense of
proportion…” She pointed to the figures, as the ones in the drawing were
all the same size.
“I know,” Jasper said, tucking it back into his jacket. “But he wants us
both to know that he plans to be as tall as me in the next year or two, so it
will be true soon.”
Clara followed Jasper towards the door. She knew he had not simply
sought her out to show her the picture. That there was the tiniest cloud of
worry still within him. She reached for him and held his hand before he
could leave her bedroom. “If this is about Harriet, I can come with you.”
“No, this is something I must do on my own. But after that, I don’t think
there is anything I will have to do on my own again.”
In response to this, Clara launched herself at him. Her hands grabbed
his head and pulled him down to her lips, kissing Jasper hungrily. Their
tongues rubbed against one another, and his fingers moved from her waist
down to clasp her bottom as he held her.
A loud cough broke them apart, and in the doorway stood Lady
Hurstbourne, a rather amused, if slightly annoyed, look on her face. “If you
leave now, Your Grace, I can certainly pretend blindness for the next
minute.”
Jasper slowly lowered Clara back down, gave her one quick kiss on the
forehead, and whispered against her skin, “That was all the courage I
needed.” Before he stepped out of the room and bowed to both ladies. “I
look forward to seeing you at the ceremony later.” Then he was gone,
leaving Clara smiling so broadly her cheeks hurt.
When her sister looked at her, Clara laughed. “You two are simply—”
“Compared to the rest of the set…” Clara said in her defence.
 Hustling her back into the chamber, she said, “I don’t think that passes
muster.”
“No, you’re right.” Clara cut her off. “I will simply have to settle for
being as ridiculously happy as the rest of you.”

T HE GREEN - FLECKED FIELDS OF THE COUNTRY ESTATE WHERE W OOLWICH

resided had belonged to his family for centuries and were decked out to
welcome its first wedding in over forty years. Moorland Park was an
austere Elizabethan mansion. Its famous dark stone was golden in the light.
Its slated windows, climbing parapets, and sprawling ancient floors made it
an impressive build. But the impressively tall timbers and curving gables
marked out Moorland Park as one of the most beautiful estates in the
county, if not the whole of England, and Woolwich had always been proud
to call it home. But today it was as if the house itself were smiling in the
sunshine and it, too, realised the significance.
The same could be said of Woolwich, as he had been unable to stop
grinning since he woke up. Undoubtedly, the servants would remark on the
oddness, but Woolwich did not mind. Let them gossip to their heart’s
content since he had his.
Woolwich’s mother and Clara had agreed that the reception would take
place outside, and now it was in the midst of this setup that Woolwich
stood. Great blooms of flowers had been shipped in, scenting the air with
the happy smell of roses and lily of the valley. If someone could have told
him a year ago that he would have been attending his own wedding, smiling
graciously at the servants, and watching his young son walk towards him,
Woolwich would have thought that person mad. But here he was, decked
out in his finest black suit, his cravat smoothed, and his hair styled in a
manner that Clara most approved of.
“Father,” Beau was calling. He charged away from his nursemaid, his
fat little legs carrying him forward with all the energy of a four-year-old. He
rushed out towards the middle of the garden where the chairs, tables, and
delights were being set up, where Woolwich stood waiting for him. When
he reached Woolwich, the boy smiled shyly up at him, a dimple visible on
his rounded cheek. Sometimes it struck Woolwich how alike his young son
looked to Annabelle, which was why he had asked the maid and the
Heatherbrokes to meet him before the wedding ceremony.
Crouching down low in front of his son, Woolwich smoothed a stray
blond piece of the child’s hair off his face. “Remember I said there was a
secret your mother kept.”
The boy nodded, a small frown on his face as he tried to recall all the
things he should know. With a quick gesture, Woolwich kissed his son’s
forehead. He and Clara had discussed this, raising Beau so he would always
feel able to ask questions.
“There is nothing to worry about. In fact, today is a good day. There is
someone I want you to meet.” Getting to his feet, Woolwich took his son’s
outstretched hand, leading his boy around one of the artfully arranged tables
and to the seated family close by.
The Heatherbrokes were there, handsomely attired and clearly keen to
get to the church. Woolwich’s eyes moved between the couple’s children,
the little boy who was just a year younger than Beau, and then finally to the
girl whose birth and very existence had broken his first marriage apart.
Young Harriet, whose chin held the memory of her mother and whose dark
hair showed the proof of Woolwich’s late wife’s infidelity. But Harriet was
also clearly her own little person.
Woolwich had expected to feel a great many things at the sight of
Annabelle’s eight-year-old daughter, but all that flowed through him at the
sight of Harriet’s round questioning eyes and brown curls was a smile that
graced his own face, one of reassurance. There was no bitterness left within
him. He pulled his son, Beau, forward and said, “I want you to meet your
sister.”

THE END.
 A F T E RWO R D

Read on below for the opening chapter of Daughters of Disgrace: The

Rake

London, March 1813.

The privately hired carriage rattled from side to side, convincing Miss
Margot Keating that this was the worst sort of transport available. Except,
perhaps, for all the others.
Her eyes travelled across to her younger sister, Elspeth, who was
snuggled up in the seat opposite her. She tried to take comfort from the fact
that Elsie was tougher than she looked, resilient, and blessedly asleep. A
gentle snore issued forth from Elsie’s puckered rosebud mouth. Her small
hand was tucked under her chin whilst she slept on.
Their plan was to journey down to London to reach the Duke of
Ashmore’s abode. It had seemed logical five days ago when the two of
them had left their home in Berwick Upon Tweed. Now having travelled
most of the length of the country, since Berwick Upon Tweed was about
forty miles from the Scottish border, as late afternoon set in, Margot was
less convinced of the wisdom of her choices.
They would soon be entering high-society-laden streets filled with
gleaming white mansions, black-suited gentlemen, and fabulously
bejewelled ladies, Margot was worried she would be entirely more out of
place. A true country bumpkin. This was the world of Almack’s, of
gentlemen’s clubs, Vauxhall Gardens, Gunter’s ices, where royalty mixed
with aristocrats, which the newspapers reported upon with breathless
enthusiasm. But there were also brittle societal rules and infamous
debauchery. It was all supposedly the height of the civilised world, but
beneath its gleaming exterior, Margot was sure there would be rot.
Elsie stretched and curled up even farther into her seat, her short legs
resting on the squab, nestled alongside all her worldly belongings, which fit
into one valise. None of Margot’s worries concerned her.
Opposite her, Margot presented quite a contrast. ‘Little and large,’ she
thought of their nicknames growing up. Elsie was just over five foot;
Margot was nearly six foot tall. Finding two more dissimilar sisters would
be hard to imagine, despite only four years separating them. Her sister’s
caramel-coloured curls gave the impression of dainty prettiness, whereas
Margot’s dark chocolate waves refused to mould themselves into anything
so fashionable. Normally Margot laughed at the differences between them,
but for the first time in her twenty-eight years, she wondered if there would
be an advantage to being more of the ideal feminine beauty that society
demanded.
The carriage slowed, turning down a side street. Margot heard the driver
calling out to the servants of the household.
“We’re here?” Elsie asked. Her chestnut brown eyes were bright in the
semi-light, and Margot could see her sister’s smile. Elsie leant forward,
trying to see more of the street and the house. They had agreed to come
here, Elsie keen for the adventure, Margot far more cautious.
“I think it wise if you let me do most of the talking,” Margot said. It had
been what they’d already agreed, but as the older sister, she thought it
worthwhile repeating herself. Part of Margot hoped that the next few hours
would go smoothly, but it was just hope since she had never been in such a
situation before. Nerves rippled through her, settling in her stomach, and
she smoothed her hand on the material above her abdomen. She had some
money saved, but she knew it would not stretch far in London.
“Of course,” Elsie laughed. “I remember.”
The door of the carriage opened, and an arm shot in there, offering to
help them out.
Margot grasped the driver’s hand and climbed from the carriage. She
gave the man a brisk nod. “Is this 16 Bolton Street?”
The driver nodded as he helped Elsie out. “That’s right, ma’am. This is
where you paid to be taken.”
 She handed him the rest of his money and then turned around, taking in
the mansion before her. It was a handsome building, one which spoke of
class and wealth, and it was an order far above what her parents had raised
Margot to expect.
There was a startling noise which caused Margot’s eyes to travel from
her destination to the next-door building. It was somehow both less neat and
more appealing. There was something almost bohemian, almost appealing,
about the neighbour’s house, from the colourful purple and gold curtains to
the doorway being the only one painted black. Quite why it pulled her
attention to the extent it did, Margot could not say.
A small cough sounded behind her, and a short, rather saggy-jawed
manservant with a fine white moustache was standing on the curb, looking
between Margot and Elsie, his expression one of polite inquiry.
Turning, Margot took herself over to him, “Hello there. I’m Miss
Keating. I was invited—”
“Ah. I see, Miss Keating. A pleasure to welcome you. I am the butler,
Hathaway.” The manservant’s expression, for a moment, flashed with a
touch of considerable interest before it was schooled back into his former
detachment.
“Hathaway. We wish to see the duke if he is available. I know he has
extended his welcome. This is my sister. She is here as my companion. I
hope this will not be an inconvenience.”
With a slight bow, the manservant gestured behind him, and two
footmen emerged and lifted up their bags, carrying them inside the building.
“No, indeed. We were expecting you, Miss, and I will have another
room prepared for your sister. A hired companion has been arranged,
although Mrs. Bowley is not currently in residence.” Hathaway gestured
towards the house, “Let us proceed inside, and I will get you settled in.”
Following in his wake, Margot and Elsie proceeded inside the building,
Elsie was all bright-eyed excitement, and Margot forced a matching smile
onto her face, although her nerves had returned.

When they were summoned to the duke’s study thirty minutes later, Margot
was still not entirely ready for the meeting. Blinking, she straightened her
dress and followed after Hathaway through the labyrinthian townhouse.
Her initial impression of Ashmore’s residence was one of shock at the
decadence. Having been raised by Vicar Arthur Keating and Julia, her
mother, she was used to a more wholesome, homespun existence of a
simple, weather-beaten cottage consisting of only three bedrooms, and four
other rooms for their use. Yet that home had been filled with love and
kindness. In contrast, this London mansion was an environment more suited
to stiff bows, rigid imported French furniture, and glaring stares from the
paintings dotted along the hallway.
“Here we are, Miss Keating and Miss Keating.” Hathaway opened the
door and ushered them in, “This is the duke’s study.”
Margot stepped past the butler and into the study, Elsie following in
after her.
The room was magnificently arrayed, but her eyes settled on the man in
the corner of the space. He was rather shabbily dressed for what she
assumed was the duke. He got to his feet when he saw them. The duke was
around Margot’s height, or perhaps an inch taller, in his fifties with greying
hair. There was a tightness to his face, a sort of uncomfortable stiffness to
his features. With a studious curiosity, he moved forward to examine her,
lifting up a quizzing class to his right eye to stare at her more closely.
The moment stretched as he looked her over. Margot started to feel
annoyed, irritation building up within her. She was about to speak when the
duke finally dropped his monocle and said, “I am pleased to make your
acquaintance. Both of you.”
“Likewise, Your Grace,” Margot said.
“You were raised near Scotland by a… scholar?”
“A vicar,” Elsie said.
“Keating.”
The duke walked away from them and back to his desk. Only then did
Margot see that his hands were shaking, steadied when he put his fingers on
the wooden top.
Ashmore looked now to Elsie. “You resemble dear Julia a great deal.”
At the mention of their mother’s name, Margot flinched. She was not
comfortable with the duke discussing her mother.
“I suppose,” the duke continued, “that Julia never told you the truth?”
“Neither of our parents have explained everything to our satisfaction,”
Margot said. She did not want the duke to know this was one of the main
reasons for her journey to London. To reveal that much seemed as if she
were telling him everything.
“I have no doubt there were good reasons, but I am equally as certain to
my very marrow that my Julia would never lie to me,” the duke’s eyes
bored into Margot with an intensity that was close to hunger. “Looking at
you tells me one thing. You are my daughter. There is a striking
resemblance between you,” he studied Margot, “and my own late mother.
Thankfully I suspect few will remember my mother. She was not often in
society.” His eyes drifted across to Elsie, and he frowned. “However, I am
not your father, my dear.”
“No, that would be Vicar Keating,” Elsie said, and there was a note of
pride in her voice that Margot envied.
They had discussed between the two of them what the duke’s response
might be once the truth was announced publicly. How it was likely he
would want to send Elsie off. However, the two of them came together.
They had a plan for this. Margot took the armchair closest to the desk,
hoping to be nearer to him and hear everything else.
The duke’s letter had arrived eight weeks ago. It claimed that he was
Margot’s father. When Margot confronted Julia, her mother had turned pale
and begged Margot to cease with her questions. The man Margot had
always thought of as her father reassured her that she was his daughter, but
Margot had been unable to forget the missive. When Elsie had read the
letter, she had noticed that there was an inheritance the duke promised. She
and her sister were both considered old maids by society. They had a small
allowance generously provided by Vicar Keating, but it was their younger
brother who needed help to afford his place at university. Besides, it would
be nice to have enough for Elsie and her to finally move into their own
cottage. If Ashmore could act as something of a father, it would be better
than nothing. This was the resolve they had reached together, although
Margot was now questioning how much she really wanted that money.
“Why did you never wed my mother?” Margot asked abruptly.
“I was the son of a duke. Admittedly only the third son, but still a rank
above a companion.” His Grace trailed off here and fixed Margot with eyes
that were disconcertingly similar to her own woody hazel shade. Now she
looked closer, even the shape of their eyes were alike. “I regret it. If you
must know,” the duke added.
 “Is that why you finally made contact with me after twenty-eight
years?”
“Julia—”
“Please call my mother Mrs. Keating, Your Grace.” Margot sniffed.
They might be discussing the most scandalous of secrets, ones which
picked and exposed Margot at her very core, but she wanted something kept
proper and separated between her mother and the duke.
“Very well. When Mrs. Keating told me she was with child, I did not
have the means, nor the inclination, or my brother’s, the previous duke,
blessing to wed. She left town almost immediately, only writing to me once
she was wed to her Vicar. She told me of your birth, and that Vicar Keating
had claimed you as his own. I sent money, but I never heard from her
again.”
“That was the least you could do.”
“I assumed,” Ashmore continued, “that the sum would be enough to
cover everything you might need as an infant and then again when you were
older.”
“Indeed.” Margot felt no obligation to thank him. The duke had cast her
mother out when she was vulnerable, and it was only thanks to Vicar
Keating, the man who was her true father, that Julia and she had survived
and thrived.
“Why now?” Elsie asked.
“My letter surely explained this to you.” He looked at Margot,
obviously wishing that Elsie would leave.
“Your letter requested my presence here,” Margot replied.
“I offered you an inheritance. Of sorts.”
Margot met his eye. She wondered if he expected her to feel
embarrassed in needing money. But to her, there was no shame to it. She
might be the daughter of the duke, but she had not been raised with such
advantages, and the news he gave her—that she was baseborn—meant only
one thing: If it was ever discovered, she would never be able to wed. She
would never be respectable.
“I am prepared to help you in return for a favour.” The duke again
looked pasty, his very skin sweaty. “I will claim you as my goddaughters or
distant cousins say and launch you into society if you wish. I have, with that
in mind, paid for a companion to be here to protect your reputation. We will
say your parents are dead, so no possible rumours will be connected to me.”
 “What do you want in exchange for that favour?” Elsie asked. It pleased
Margot that neither of them were likely to be swayed by anything too
glittery.
Ashmore looked between them, weighing their faces, judging them in
equal measure. “I will tell you everything when I know you a little better.
Dinner will be at eight o’clock. Tomorrow, I will have my papers in order
and be able to tell you everything. You are dismissed.”
Feeling as if she were half her age, Margot turned and exited the room
with Elsie. The two of them walked back through the house, neither for the
first time in their lives knowing what to say. This was not what they had
expected.

Dinner itself was a stilted affair. Ashmore quizzed them but only in the
lightest and most superficial of ways—about their accomplishments chiefly.
Mrs. Bowley had still not arrived, and it was agreed that even she would
only know them as Ashmore’s goddaughters, nothing more. It was clear that
the duke trusted very few people.
After the meal, Ashmore declared he would retire to his study, but that
she and Elsie were at liberty to make use of the library, stable, and anything
in the house.
He walked them towards the stairs. Through the walls carried an
uproarious noise of next door’s party. Elsie’s eyes were alight with
curiosity, and her query was answered when Ashmore said, dismissively,
“Oh, that is Langley. He’s an earl. You had best avoid him when you’re out
and about. He’s got a frightful reputation as one of the fastest young men in
Town. Just another one of his parties.”
With that, Ashmore waved them upstairs.
The two of them linked arms and went to their bedrooms, parting when
Elsie said she felt tired. Finding sleep beyond her, Margot moved around
her new bedroom, stretching her legs, her white nightdress billowing
around her. Finally, she settled on going downstairs to fetch a book, hoping
that this would help her sleep.
The library was heaven. It was lined in heavy oak bookcases that had
leatherbound classics from novels to poetry to plays, and happily, Margot
lost herself in the contemplation of a delicious French romance. It was only
when there was a loud noise from Ashmore’s study that she realised a
whole hour had passed. Hurriedly, she roused herself from the armchair and
walked out into the hallway. The noise was louder now, and it sounded
distinctively like a struggle.
On entering Ashmore’s study, Margot was met with a scene that
shocked her. Ashmore had drawn a short sword, but the masked man, who
had clearly entered through the rear door of the study, was carrying a pistol
and a knife. The door to the garden was fluttering open in the breeze.
They had been engaged in an almighty fight, and Margot, who had
never seen the like before, wondered if she should faint. Then she saw
Ashmore’s injured arm and the streak of blood on the intruder’s neck.
Instinctively, she rushed to the fireplace, putting aside her fear, and grabbed
up the poker. Whoever the attacker was, he was clearly not afraid.
It seemed that this move of hers brought a threat to the intruder because
he levelled the pistol at her. His cold dark eyes were visible through the
domino mask he wore. There was a bang that ricocheted out loud enough
Margot thought it would wake the whole household. When the smoke
cleared, Margot was surprised to see that Ashmore had thrust himself in
between her at the bullet.
Around Margot, there was the sound of screaming. It took her far too
long to realise that this noise was coming from her.
The attacker was moving closer to the staggering Ashmore, so hurrying
forward, Margot hit the assailant with her poker, keeping him away from
the duke. From outside the room, the sounds of the household moving
became apparent.
“We’re in here,” Margot yelled, her voice breaking.
With one last desperate swipe at Ashmore, there was a strange ripping
noise, and then the intruder darted outside through the backdoor and out of
sight.
Margot turned and looked down at the man who had taken a bullet for
her. It must have hit the duke in his chest, as it was creating a blooming red
crest on his white shirtfront. In his hand, there was a sheet of paper torn in
half.
Ashmore folded to the floor. He was coughing, and there was pink froth
at his mouth. With a jagged breath, he offered her the paper. “It’s a map.”
 The wheels in Margot’s head were moving slower than she liked, but
she managed to take the paper. “What is it? What’s it a map of?”
“The wealth of my family. The Ashmoreton Diamonds, they aren’t a
rumour. They’re real.”
Margot looked down at the map, but she could barely take it. None of
the sites or markings made any sense to her through her swimming eyes.
“Go after him,” Ashmore grabbed her free hand, “He’s been hunting me
for months. That’s why I sent for you. Bastard has stolen the other half of
the map.”
Unevenly moving, Margot made it to the open doorway. She edged
forward enough to see the attacker slipping from the duke’s garden and over
the wall into the noisy, bohemian household that belonged to Langley. He
made his way into the earl’s house.
Ashmore was on the carpet when Hathaway entered and hurried to his
side. There was blood pouring from the duke’s lips, he was ashen, but the
duke ordered Margot on. “Go after my killer, girl. It is the only way to get
the map back.”
His voice echoing in her ears, unthinkingly, Margot followed after the
attacker. Tears, blood, and fury beating through her as she scrambled over
the wall and into the next-door garden, up the similarly designed steps and
into what in Ashmore’s house was his study. But the room laid out before
her was certainly not ever going to be used for anything studious.
A sprawling mass of bodies, male and female forms, were draped over
every surface. Cluttering up sofas and chairs, and even one balanced on a
desk. Their limbs straining and pumping into one another with a ferocity
that shocked Margot. They were copulating in angles and locations she,
raised as a vicar’s daughter, would never have imagined. She might have
been naïve, but she knew all too well what these people were doing—they
were fornicating. En masse, clearly pleased and titillated by the sight of
each other.
Deep, rich colour stained against her cheeks, but Margot desperately
eyed the couples, trying to see where Ashmore’s assailant had vanished too.
But they were all wearing masks, a strange attempt to hide themselves when
they were all so very naked.
Margot’s gaze ran into a man who stood stock still amongst the others, a
charming blonde pulling on his arm—but he was staring at Margot, his face
agog. He was at least partly dressed in a long white shirt, hiding his nether
regions but revealing toned, muscular thighs and long chiselled legs. The
sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up to the elbow revealing forearms that
made Margot’s breath catch. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, it
dawned on Margot that this man, this half-clothed Adonis, was the most
beautiful person she’d ever seen.
Then the door shifted ajar behind him, and she saw the intruder. He was
clothed, blood on him still. He was escaping. She raised her poker over her
head and pointed at the door. “Murderer!”

Daughters of Disgrace: The Rake can be pre-ordered here.

 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ava Bond has been a fan of regency romances since discovering Georgette Heyer on her grandma’s
bookshelf–especially Faro’s Daughter, Regency Buck and Devil’s Cub.
She studied Literature at university and has been writing since her early twenties. Ava lives in
Scotland with her husband and small cat, Gwendolen.

www.avabond.co.uk
 A L S O B Y AV A B O N D

THE OXFORD SET

The Debutante’s Duke (prequel)
The Marquess’s Adventurous Miss
The Lord’s Scandalous Mistress
The Spy’s Elusive Wife
The Viscount’s Reluctant Bride
The Rogue’s Brazen Lady
The Duke’s Rebellious Love

DAUGHTERS OF DISGRACE
The Vicar (Prequel)
The Rake
The Duke