Page 26 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
Pulling Beau on his lap, Woolwich asked again, “What do you mean about putting them in order? They look remarkably messy to me?”
“Those are my best ones.” Beau pointed, “and those are the ones I haven’t read.”
An idea bloomed in Woolwich’s head of how much his son would love to see Hatchards. Its handsome façade held inside it a treasure trove of wondrous books that surely Beau would enjoy. Unable to help himself, Clara’s image popped into his mind. She, too, was likely to be a frequent visitor to the store. Could not the three of them go? Would that not kill two birds with one stone? Determined to go and now with a better reason for seeking out Miss Blackman, Woolwich smiled down at Beau. “If you help me order them on a shelf, I think we can go and find you another one to add to the collection.”
* * *
With Beau totteringalong next to him, and the nursemaid in his wake, Woolwich marched towards the Hurstbourne townhouse. Only glancing back at Sorsby did he realise he would have to say something in lieu of a real explanation.
“A brief call,” he said, waving towards the mansion. “It should not take me too long.” So saying, he swept up the steps and rapped on the door. The remembrance of etiquette flooded in upon him—it was the time of day calls were made, and it was entirely possible that Miss Blackman, nay the whole household, was out visiting friends and acquaintances. Worse perhaps, Miss Blackman was being lavished with flowers and gifts from Mr. Goudge. Envy wormed its way through Woolwich’s chest, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
Why hadn’t he thought to bring a posey?
Because, he told himself quickly, he wasn’t courting the blinking girl. And turning up with flowers would give her entirely the wrong idea.
Then why else was he standing outside her home with sweaty palms? That question Woolwich chose to ignore.
The door swung open, and there, in a simple, mused day dress, her hair damp and her face sweaty, stood Miss Blackman. There was a little stain of what looked like blood halfway down her dress. She had been crying, and she stared at him in wordless confusion.
He turned back and looked at Sorsby and his son. “Take him home,” he ordered. “Do not worry, Beau. I will return soon.” Unbidden, Woolwich stepped forward through the doorway. He wanted to know what had caused such distress in his courageous Clara. His hands came out and captured hers. Holding on to her tightly. To his surprise, she let him, allowing his strength to support and keep her upright. “Are you well? What has happened?” His questions peppered her as he stepped farther into the marble hallway and looked around them. It was empty, although from upstairs, there was noise and the sound of voices.
Miss Blackman made a strange noise halfway between a giggle and a snort, and then she started to cry. She wobbled where she stood, and to Woolwich’s confusion, she stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning all her weight against him. With an almighty sigh, Miss Blackman cried into his chest.
“What happened, Clara?” He asked, his voice low and close to her ear. This distress of hers was so unexplained. She was so vulnerable and clearly in need. It touched him to be required, to be relied upon—satisfying something deep inside him—that she might think of him in such a way.
Her small hands moved to cling to the front of his lapels as she eased herself back, her face contorted as she tried to master her emotions. Then she finally spoke. “My sister—”
Memories flooded in—Lady Hurstbourne was pregnant. Due any day now. One look at Clara’s wrought face caused Woolwich to hold on to her shoulders more tightly. His own wife had died in labour. Was there a more daunting task before any woman—let alone Clara, who was so sensitive, so attuned, so close to her sister?
“Oh.” She saw his face and clung to him more closely. “She is all right, she is fine—”
“And the infant?” Woolwich asked.
“Alive and well,” Clara said, great wet tears streaming down her face. There was nothing refined or elegant in her response, and Woolwich adored it. The sheer emotion, her willingness to express it, was a boon. It was madness, pure and simple, that anyone in thetonhad not already proposed to this woman. She was fire, passion, and life. “The baby… it’s all so per-perfect.” Clara interrupted his whirling thoughts, a tremendous smile on her wobbling lips as she gazed up into his face.
It was at that point, as Woolwich pulled Clara back into his arms, that the hallway suddenly filled with people, their voices and cries mingling together. From the lower floors, there emerged what appeared to be a rather intoxicated butler—he had been given leave to celebrate with the family servants. From the landing above them, appeared a sweaty-looking Hurstbourne, who gripped the banister tightly as he let out a whoop. Behind him appeared a doctor, who did not pause but proceeded down the stairs, making his way towards the door.
Hastily, Woolwich released Clara as she sprung away from him, guilty at the emotional intimacy and rule breaking—rather like naughty school children caught stealing cake.
As the doctor departed, Hurstbourne came down the stairs, everyone’s hand was shaken, and general hubbub ensued before the butler ushered the servants back down the stairs. Then it was just Hurstbourne, Clara, and himself standing awkwardly in the hallway, smiling away.
“You were a godsend,” Hurstbourne said to Clara before looking up the stairs. “I must go back to Isabel.”
“To both of them.” Clara smiled at her brother-in-law.
Hurstbourne grinned at both Woolwich and Clara with the pride of love bursting from him. “I think I might be the luckiest man in London, perhaps the whole world.”
From high above, in one of the upper rooms, there came a loud, hungry bellow from the lungs of the newborn baby. All three of them started. The shock of the noise smarted something at the back of Woolwich’s throat, or perhaps it was all the raw emotions on display before him. Hurstbourne grinned and ran back up the stairs before glancing over his shoulder at them. “Go, and do drink some of the champagne. We all should celebrate the arrival of my daughter.”
Then he was gone, up the rest of the stairs to his wife and new baby.
When Woolwich and Clara’s eyes met, there was true awkwardness, as if they had both seen something they shouldn’t. An act that was intimate and private, and yet they had witnessed it in all its disordered beauty.
“Come this way.” Clara turned and walked through one of the close-by doors, pushing it wide and revealing a cosy-looking sitting room, well decorated and, based on the bottle that Clara fetched, well stocked. She poured them both glasses, before moving with slow steps over to the sofa and sinking down. “I know it is not traditional for me to attend the birth, but the baby came sooner, and my mother wasn’t here… and well, Isabel was calling for me. I had to go.”
Her words were sore and needful, and Woolwich gulped down his glass of whisky, placed it on a nearby side table, and crossed to the sofa. He found he did not wish to sit next to her. That would be too close, too pressing, so instead, he sank to his knees in front of her and took Clara’s free hands in his own. “There is no place here today for any recriminations or speculations—the mother and child are well. That is what matters.”
With a tentative tightening of her fingers, Clara returned his gesture. “There are a great many things that you could use against me that would simply ruin me in front of theton.”
