Page 43 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
“Why the hell couldn’t you just have a normal courtship?” Hurstbourne snapped. He ran his hands over his face and yawned, “If either of your sons come within an inch of my daughter—”
Leaning forward with an easy winning smile in place, Heatherbroke put a restraining hand on Hurstbourne’s arm. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“I don’t see what the problem is.” Woolwich cut off whatever Heatherbroke was about to say. “I have proposed. We can go and arrange a special license as soon as you give me permission. If you prefer, we can wed this week or next or have a grand society affair.” He wanted to add that he would even settle for a dash to Gretna, as Heatherbroke had done, but it felt unnecessary, and he was sure he would be unable to say it without a derogatory dig slipping in there.
“That would be straightforward,” Hurstbourne said. “But she won’t have you.”
The air in the room of White’s suddenly felt decidedly hot despite it actually being a relatively mild May day. There may as well have been coals around Woolwich for the flame of heat and frustration that washed through him. Pride wounded, he acknowledged as both Heatherbroke smirked and Hurstbourne sat there watching him, but there was another emotion at play within him, one he was not sure he even wanted to accept himself. Was he hurt by her continued rejection of him?
“I did not force myself on her,” Woolwich said in a low voice. Their night together was a passionate and mutual one, and any implication of that not being the case filled him with horror.
“She does not claim that,” Hurstbourne replied, which, whilst a comfort, provided no rationale for Clara’s refusal. Did she not care for her own good name? She had not struck him as a fool, headstrong and argumentative delightfully so, but stupid, no. Could she not see the risk?
“Then I fail to see…” Woolwich said. “Is this out of some misguided loyalty to Goudge?”
“He has been settled up with. So, no, I do not believe Miss Blackman felt any particular discomfort or sadness at the ending of their engagement. Course, it was bloody difficult and will not look right, but that would not matter if she agreed to wedding you.”
“Then I cannot understand what the problem is,” Woolwich said. “I would be happy to go to the archbishop myself. My father and he went to school together, so he regards me with a great deal of fondness. It should not be a problem.”
“I do not think you are grasping that she is refusing you,” Hurstbourne said, a touch of annoyance edging its way into his voice.
“Did you actually ask her? As in getting down on one knee with a ring and flowers?” Heatherbroke asked, “Or simply inform her that she would be your duchess?”
Woolwich shifted in his seat. The idea of being lectured by one such as Heatherbroke was immensely annoying. Nor the implication that he was demanding, which was perhaps a level one, but still, it did not sit right with him.
“As it currently stands,” Hurstbourne leant forward, “she declares that unless she finds herself needing to wed you, she won’t.” The earl glanced left and right, his voice low so that no one nearby was close enough to catch their talk as the implication of his statement rang through Woolwich. Unless she was pregnant, Clara would not wed him. A slightly wicked idea of trying to get her with child as quickly as possible occurred to him. Some people, after all, only needed one attempt, and he would be more than willing to try multiple times.
Hurstbourne was still talking, but Woolwich was only paying the pair of them the slightest of attention. “I would recommend you try to develop half a brain and court the girl. Miss Blackman is a very sweet, well-intentioned chit, so I cannot see why she would be so willing to defy convention.”
That shows how much you know her, Woolwich thought wryly. His Clara sweet? She was spirited and defiant, and part of him was not surprised she was refusing this next move of his. There was something uniquely spirited about her which explained, he saw it now, why she was rejecting him.
On Hurstbourne went, discussing Woolwich’s attempted courtship whilst Woolwich tried to think of what the next best course of action was.
“…A more traditional offer. That is clearly what she wants.”
“Right, right.” Woolwich said. A particularly graphic image danced its way through his mind of Clara in his bedroom, dressed only in her shift and stockings, and how he would slowly, deliberately, and with the utmost care remove those things. Slowly, tortuously so. He still hadn’t seen her fully naked nor properly explored every delicious, curving inch of her, as much as he would like to. The heat had returned to him now, but in a way that was thrilling, and suddenly the idea of making his way across to Hurstbourne’s townhouse seemed like an excellent idea. Surely, repeatedly seducing—reducing Clara to a wanton who was desperate for him and then getting her with child was a solid enough plan, albeit not really what he would ideally be doing. But if Clara refused to see sense, what choice did he have? It was a little ruthless and not the gentlemanly way of doing things. Still, it couldn’t be helped. It was not as if he had any intention of abandoning her. It was purely out of a good instinct that motivated him.
Once he made love to her again, Clara would have no choice but to admit that they were a fine match. Besides, he would gift her the ring in his pocket, and surely, she would find that pleasing. He imagined slipping it on her finger as she lay in his arms, content, sleepy, and satisfied. He would do as Hurstbourne suggested and make a small speech clearing away any concerns she might have—be it settlements, where they would live, or her allowance.
“I shall leave at once and call on her immediately,” Woolwich said. He stretched his legs. It was time he was off, having been scolded for long enough. If nothing else, whilst he could probably stay and resolve matters with Heatherbroke since the marquess was here, surely Clara took priority, and getting the proposal settled was of the utmost importance. Besides, if he was honest, he wanted and needed to see her again, kiss her lush mouth, and feel Clara’s form pressed against his again.
“You’ll likely find the household in an uproar. My mother-in-law has arrived to help with the process of packing everything. I only just escaped alive.” For the first time, Hurstbourne sounded jovial, pleased, it seemed, that the matter was settled. “But in the end, my wife insisted I make my way here to see you and resolve this.”
To this information, Woolwich nodded. For his plan to work out, if he needed to make his way past his future mother-in-law and Lady Hurstbourne, so be it. Although presumably, they would be busy with the packing and the moving of children. In his mind, he drew out the layout of Hurstbourne townhouse, knowing the locations of the downstairs he knew well indeed. The upstairs rooms, where Clara’s chamber would be—that would be harder to find.
Getting to his feet, Woolwich nodded at the pair of them. “Good day to you both. I will go directly there.”
“Will you stop and get flowers for her?” Heatherbroke asked. “What one is her favourite?”
“If you ever come near my soon-to-be wife in anything other than cordial politeness, this time, I will murder you.” Woolwich looked directly into Heatherbroke’s face. “In terms of flowers”—he sighed—“I think that is the sort of thing that I will ascertain when I am wed to her,” Woolwich said as he turned and made his way towards the door. He tried his best to ignore the noise of disappointment he heard from Hurstbourne or the slight chuckle from the marquess, clearly amused by him.
It was typical, because of his awkward and abrupt manner, that his luck with women was not worthy of note, but they did not know how much Clara’s acceptance meant nor how hard he would work to win her over. He had the ring. He had the undeniable logic of their marriage and the scandalous risk if she said no. And if that failed, well, there was the seduction. Perhaps the seduction was a conclusion anyway, he thought as a faint smile curved his lips.
The journey to the Hurstbourne townhouse in the bright May sunshine took him less than twenty minutes, cutting through the busyTownas he practised again and again what he might say. On arriving, Woolwich found the house in disarray, as boxes and belongings were being loaded into one large carriage.
“Where’s the lady of the house?” Woolwich collared a distracted-looking maid.
“Oh, my lord.” The girl looked this way, and that, a hat box and a small bag balanced in her hands. “My lady left for Sussex with the family.”
