Page 35 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
“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.
CHAPTER18
Blast 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.
