Page 31 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
“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 He had his doubts his membership would be withdrawn for such an incident, although he might receive a rather scolding letter.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.
CHAPTER16
Having 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 thetonwould 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 theton,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?
