Page 15 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
Woolwich rolled to the other side and got to his feet whilst Clara righted her dress. She let courage infuse her. She could never let Woolwich know how he affected her. The man would be so arrogant. Or even more arrogant than he normally was. She would rather die than let him know that he was her first kiss. Or that she had enjoyed it far more than she would have ever imagined… and how much she’d pictured what else he might be able to do with his tongue.
“What are you doing?” Woolwich’s question cut into her thoughts. It seemed as if she was going to be on the receiving end of another tongue-lashing. And not the good kind. One of his hands shot out and pulled several leaves from her pelisse’s shoulder. It was clinging ivy. He dropped the greenery onto the ground. “Can you ever behave like a lady, or is it an utterly alien concept to you?”
“You were approaching my friend. I know what your intentions are towards her.”
With an angry movement, Woolwich snatched up Clara’s dropped bonnet and offered it to her with very little grace. Clara arched away from him, flinching, backing off, and promptly landing against the hedge behind her. The maze’s passage where they stood was narrow and did not give them much room to move around.
“Do you think that I would force a woman? That I would hurt you?” His question forced Clara to look up at him and see a flash of guilt mark his face. Before she could answer him, Woolwich bent his head down. “I owe you an apology for my actions last week. I should never have been so… that is… I apologise for kissing you. I contemplated writing a letter to you, but I realised that would…” he broke off, then abruptly shook his head. “But that would be inappropriate.”
With as much skill as she could manage, given there was no mirror to help her, Clara placed her bonnet back atop her head and tied the bows under her chin. She could feel her elegantly arranged curls, that her maid had helped her with this morning, unravelling, and one was even loose and hanging down over her shoulder. She wished she could grab it and stuff it back into her coiffure.
It was awkward to have the duke before her, seemingly dwelling on and considering his choice of words, almost creating the impression of regret. The trouble was he seemed sincerely apologetic, and that, in turn, made Clara acutely on edge. If anything, Clara rather missed the sharp back and forth of just a few minutes ago. At least with that exchange, she knew where they stood. With this reflectiveness on his part, the earnest consideration that creased his forehead, and the shadow that lingered in his eyes, she realised it was tempting to believe his apology, but the frowning, urbane duke was never going to be a good man. Nothing would ever be transformative enough to make Woolwich honourable. “The only thing inappropriate is your declaration towards Lady Heatherbroke’s ruin. I am simply stopping you. That, Your Grace, is why this all occurred.”
With defiant steps she set off away from the gap in the hedge, squeezing through the hole would simply spoil her already grubby gown. Far better to get some space and locate Heatherbroke, his wife, and Mr. Goudge as soon as possible. Once she had an escort, she would leave this blasted maze. “As soon as you withdraw that bet, the two of us need never interact again.” As she made this suggestion, a small flare of disappointment burnt within her. She would miss arguing with him.
Her interactions with Mr. Goudge, which she had always assumed she wanted, were actually rather dry and had none of the sparks that she enjoyed so much with Woolwich. But realities were very different from fiction. Her beloved novels had not prepared her at all for what she was experiencing with His Grace. So far, there had been no haunted manors, no locked-up wives, and no evil monks or nuns. For a moment, Clara’s mother’s advice about reading less sprang to her mind, but she dismissed it as nonsense—just because Woolwich was not a traditional villain did not mean he was redeemable. In fact, the very appeal of him made him even more dangerous.
“What you fail to understand,” Woolwich said, charging after her, closing the distance between them as they walked through the maze. There was such an edge to his voice that hinted at a deep-seated emotional heft that it caused her to stop in her tracks and look back at him. His hand came out, and he pulled his cravat away from his neck. “I will not allow anyone to harm my son.”
“I cannot see why your son would benefit from my friend being ruined.”
In exasperation, Woolwich swept his hat from his head and dragged his hand through his blond hair. The gesture should have made Clara nervous as his fury had earlier, but she realised in that moment she believed him. She had trusted Woolwich when he said he would never hurt her.
“Covington has a bet, which seeks to know what occurred years ago between my wife and Heatherbroke. Verne swears the man is nothing, but I cannot allow the speculation to ruin my son’s chances in society. I know all too well the damage one bad rumour can do.”
“You refer to Trawler and his bride?” Clara asked as that was the latest on-dit through theton.
“It is hardly restricted to them. You know how thebeau mondetreats whoever is unfortunate enough to attract their attention,” Woolwich said. “But bastardy is not a risk I will have dangled over my son’s head.”
That was interesting, Clara realised as she studied his grimacing, tense face. He was uncomfortable, all of his body on edge because of fear. Did part of him think that his late wife had strayed again and that the boy was not his? Did he fear if that rumour came out, his son would be considered a bastard regardless of the truth?
“Your solution is that Lady Heatherbroke should suffer for the mistake of others?” Clara lowered her voice, a sympathetic note entering her question. She might not be a mother herself, but she was an Aunt several times over, and that deep-rooted protectiveness could flare within her very quickly, so she could understand the desire to protect an innocent child.
Her soft query seemed to surprise Woolwich, and he sighed. “It is not ideal. I will agree to that. But she is a woman grown. My son is only four. He does not deserve any punishment.”
It surprised Clara that despite the idiocy of the duke and his conclusions, how much empathy for his desire to defend his child moved her. She would never have imagined a father talking about his son would touch her so—she was used to being around family men, nearly all the Oxford Set were now parents, and Clara spent time with them all. Perhaps it was because it was so out of character. Woolwich was an aloof, hard, and unmoving brute. Seeing him advocate for a tiny child was such a juxtaposition to her expectations of the man. Or rather, she was seeing the man rather than the brittle title he had always used as a shield.
Clara had told herself that she would be calmer, more sensible and that she would not let the man know about the utter turmoil he put her in. Especially now he had chosen to show her his sweeter side. “Surely,” she said, trying to sound rational, “a better plan could have been built and plotted out? Perhaps you could have simply spoken to Covington—”
“No.”
“Then Heatherbroke?”
“God, no. Never.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
“That man seduced my wife.”
“It is unfortunate, cruelly so—”
“Do not justify it,” he cut her off.
She forced herself to continue, “It was over eight years ago.”
“And therefore, it does not matter?”
“No, the betrayal of love is a tragedy. I, for one, would struggle to ever forgive it, and I am sorry you endured it,” Clara said and was surprised to feel real tears at the back of her eyes. She resisted the temptation to reach for his hand and offer a touch of consolation.
