Page 20 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
“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 theton. 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 thetonhurried 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 thetontowards 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 studiousdon, who would not mind her bookish ways and did not seek outton-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?
CHAPTER11
The 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.
