Page 16 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
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.”
CHAPTER9
No 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.”
