Page 4 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
“I somehow doubt that Lady Hurstbourne ever encouraged this sort of behaviour,” Woolwich said. His reference to Clara’s poised, elegant older sister, Isabel, did cause Clara a moment of annoyance. He was right. Isabel would never have entered a gentlemen’s club and certainly not on such a flimsy excuse as securing herself a pleasing match. No, Isabel was far too well-behaved for something as hair-brained as this. Besides, since she was already married to the Earl of Hurstbourne and about to give birth to the second of their children, she was unlikely to find herself in need of such a dire action.
Unable to help herself, possibly at the idea of her older sister dressed as a man whilst also heavily pregnant, Clara giggled at the picture playing out before her mind’s eye. It was the wrong thing to do because the latent fury which had briefly vanished from His Grace’s face returned as if the dratted man thought she was laughing at him.
“I fail to see anything humorous about your presence in this club. If I reveal to anyone that you were here, you would not even be able to pose as the ever-persistent bluestocking that you are. You would be ruined.”
“If I reveal to Heatherbroke your bet, he’ll kill you,” Clara said.
“He can try,” Woolwich said. “But I rather fancy my chances with a blade.”
“Then, if he doesn’t, perhaps I will shoot you myself.”
This seemed to bring a smirk to the duke’s face. “I assume since you are dressed as a lad, you now seem to think you are at liberty to issue duels.”
“Why not?” Clara asked. “I don’t like you. In fact, I doubt anyone in society does. You are widely regarded as an unpleasant, disagreeable man. I would be doing thetona favour.” For a moment, it was only very briefly, Clara thought she saw a flash of hurt, or sadness, dim the duke’s aristocratic face, but when she blinked, it was gone, replaced with Woolwich’s normal disdain.
“I did not realise the level of hatred I inspired in you. Especially since I have barely been aware of your presence for the last, what… five Seasons you have been out?”
It was a barb, a good one, Clara acknowledged as she straightened her shoulders, ready to continue their argument. She had, in fact, only had her first London Season three years ago, when her sister had been engaged to Lord Hurstbourne. But the duke’s pointed remark stung as he placed her squarely on the shelf. She knew his other comment was a lie, as they had been introduced and subsequently met a few times at various public and private events. They had never gone beyond passing acquaintances,as a man of his standing had no reason to dance or talk to a chatty, short, bookish redhead. His grey eyes always seemed to drift past her without pausing to see a thing.
“I am sure that may well be true,” Clara said, her tone overly sweet. “It does not surprise me that you would not notice someone beneath you. I rather wonder at you noticing anyone since, to your eyes, we are all beneath you. It is amazing that you do not frequently crash into your partners. Perhaps that is why you never dance, for risk of injury.”
Before he could snap back, there was a noise in the hallway.
“It is you, not I, whose reputation will be destroyed were anyone to see you like this. Why are you not more careful?” Woolwich asked quietly, stepping forward to shield her from view. He turned his head and looked towards the doorway, and Clara’s fury dimmed a little. It was horrifying to realise he might be right.
Her plan had seemed foolproof. She was to sneak into White’s with her brother and his friends and was so close to seeing some names of men who actually wished to marry first-hand. None of her plans had involved confronting or being discovered by Woolwich while dressed as a boy. She would never admit to the duke who stood before her the embarrassing reason for her entry to White’s—it would simply reinforce her fears that Woolwich believed women like her were conniving tricksters desperate for a spouse. Which might be true in this instance, but she would rather die than say so. He would be so smug.
“I wished to see the betting book,” Clara said. She realised that if she backed down, Woolwich might work out why she had sneaked into the club. He might be an evil blaggard, but he was not a stupid one. She would need to style it out. “There was a bet that I could.”
Woolwich sniffed, displeased with her answer. “Ladies do not place bets.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Clara replied. “I have heard Lady Verne and my sister discuss betting.” This was true. What was a falsehood was the idea that either of them would be silly enough to bet her going to White’s.
“I would not say a word against either the countess or Lady Verne, but I do not think either of them would have encouraged this—” Woolwich waved a dismissive hand at Clara’s garb. “Your actions are foolhardy at best, and worse—”
“Whereas your choices were hardly honourable.”
“But I am not going to be blamed for being in here, whereas you…”
Without a shred of doubt, Clara knew she would die of shame to voice the desperation that had driven her here. When Tom had teasingly made the joke last night about the book, Clara had come to a decision. It was wild and bold and completely unlike anything she had previously done. Rather like something one of the heroines from her novels would do, to take charge of their own lives, and prior to this confrontation in the library, it had been going well. All her brother’s friends had accepted her as a distant cousin of Tom’s, and Tom himself seemed to find it funny. Clara was tired of the same rules and events in society and had thought, if she wanted a different outcome from the Season, she needed to try a different approach.
A shrewd look passed over Woolwich’s face as he looked at her. “But you are interested in that book. The question is why.” He moved to one side and leant against the frame of the window as he considered her. “A certain amount of eagerness or stupidity must have been your motivator—now, do we say lust or money that drove you?”
“Society—people are not reduced to such narrow slights. Art, literature, culture, writing, music, religion, theology, politics…”
“I have my doubts that any of those wonders are contained in that book.”
“I don’t have to justify my actions to you.”
“I am your senior in years and society. I may have been able to help. Allow me the faint privilege of claiming to know a little more on the matter,” Woolwich said, contempt dripping from every word.
“I do not think you require any more privilege,” Clara said. “It is merely a shame that someone as fortunate as you cannot see the bright beauty that illuminates the world.”
“Live in this world a little longer, Miss Blackman, and you will see more of the world’s cruelty. The unpleasantness will eat away at any fresh hopes you might have, cutting you down until you would be happy to settle for—”
“I do not have to listen to this bile.” Clara tried to dart away from him. Her fury from earlier was less dimmed by his words than the growing reality of the danger she was in. Tom had promised not to leave her side. Being forced to hear Woolwich dissect her character and beliefs, to hear him mull over her with deliberate cruelty when she had no proper way of defending herself, was not practical—she needed to leave. She had thought him unpleasant from a distance, but now, the full reality of his bitterness was evident. The duke had no redeeming qualities.
Woolwich was surprisingly fast for a man of his height, and his hand lashed out and grabbed her, halting her departure from the alcove in which they stood. “I would not recommend stepping out of this room. Who knows who you might run into if you were to try to depart White’s the way you came in?”
