Page 42 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
“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.
CHAPTER21
As 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.”
