Page 47 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
“Only if you want me to hate you,” Clara said. “Our marriage would become one of resentments if you did that. No, I will not consent—and unless you wish to act out some barbaric practise of throwing me over your shoulder—”
“It worked for Heatherbroke and your friend.”
“I am not Prudence.” Clara moved farther away from him, crossing to the door which she opened for him. “It was always your initial thought all those weeks ago in White’s to publicly humiliate me. I suppose you have your choice of what way you can do it now. No,” she raised her hand as he made to move forward and reassure her. “Do not touch me. Please leave.”
In what must have been a state of shock, as this was the only logical explanation that Woolwich could find, he walked out of Clara’s bedroom. Perhaps, he thought, he could sense that he would not be able to argue her around. As far as he had been concerned, it had been going well just moments ago—they were engaged, they had tupped, and she had seemed happy. Then her absurd, romantic notions had taken over, and the end result was she had acted like a mad thing, ranting and flinging the engagement ring to the other side of the chamber. Surely, she knew he would never air such rumours or seek to publicly ruin her—his threat had been exposure to the Set at most. Even in his head, this defence sounded weak.
Why anyone, any sane, rational creature, believed in or wanted romantic love was beyond him.
But he wanted Clara, and there was little logic or rationale to that.
With brisk but aimless steps, Woolwich made his way forward through the Hurstbourne townhouse, past the agog servants, and then into the streets of London with only the vaguest of ideas where he might be heading. His footfalls carried him away from the townhouse and through Green Park. The dying light of late spring blossomed in the afternoon, beautifully colourful and fresh as an apple, which of course did not match his bleak mood. No, his mind was completely preoccupied by what he could have said to alter her answer. Would she have wanted him to lie? After loving and losing Annabelle, the idea of being able to trust another with the battered remains of his heart was a joke. So, it was far better to give Clara something worthier than his love—an untrustworthy emotion anyway—she would be his duchess, his wife, and have his name, things of real tangible value.
Selecting, almost at random, a seat on a nearby bench beneath a tree, Woolwich sank down and waited for a new, calmer plan to come to him. But all he could see was the hurt he had caused her, playing again and again on Clara’s dear face as he pictured her, freezing as he realised how truly he had upset her. It did very little good to offer the cold comfort that the pain was unintentional.I warned you I was too damaged to ever love again, beat through him.
“Woolwich, what are you doing here?”
Twice in one day was simply too unlucky to be born. Glancing up, Woolwich found himself looking into the faces of the two people he least desired to see, the Marquess Heatherbroke and his wife, out for an afternoon stroll with neither of their children to act as a barrier or distraction. They were stopping, it seemed, for a prolonged interaction. The horror of having to make small talk dawned on him, but either way, short of bolting over the hedges or the bench he sat on, there was little to no choice but to make conversation with the couple.
Both of them were watching him with concerned looks as Woolwich realised how strange and out of place he must look, morosely sitting on his own on a bench.
“My lord and lady,” Woolwich began, already on his feet and hoping to make this talk as short as possible. “I wrote to you expressing my thanks for your brave actions in saving my son. It was a heroic and just thing to do. I know I should have made a more fulsome, heartfelt, appreciative show, but...”
“I am sure you would have done the same for either of our children,” Lady Heatherbroke said, her round blue eyes wide as if she could see far more than he wished to display.
“Please excuse me.” Woolwich dipped his head and made to leave, but Heatherbroke stretched out his hand and caught Woolwich’s arm.
“You.” Woolwich looked down into Heatherbroke’s face, the man who had betrayed him years ago but had also selflessly saved his son. Hatred and gratitude swilled together, mixed alongside the memory that Heatherbroke’s brother had been his dearest friend and poor George had died—the two of them could have been close, should have been, had Heatherbroke not tupped Annabelle. But instead, animosity burnt through him, alongside the knowledge that because of those furies, he was going to lose Clara too. “You have ruined my life. Have the goodness to at least allow me the liberty of solitude in a park.”
To Woolwich’s annoyance, Heatherbroke did not release him but instead frowned, his handsome features twisted as he looked back in confusion. “I thought to offer you congratulations on your engagement to Miss Blackman.”
“Your wishes on this are unwelcome and unnecessary, as she will not have me.” Woolwich shook off Heatherbroke’s restraining hand.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” An exasperated sigh came from Lady Heatherbroke, and she walked forward and around Woolwich to take his arm, preventing him from making the departure he had planned. She was slight, but she was staring at him with the fury he was used to eliciting in Clara. When did he start drawing such anger from women—for simply being unable to express feelings? “I was pleased to hear you would wed my friend. Heatherbroke could not see the logic, but to me, you would be an excellent match. A balance of passions,” she added when his curled lip did not shift. With a small smile, she looked a little wistful. “I was surprised, of course, since Clara had not mentioned it, but when I thought about it more, I saw the sense of it.”
“Unfortunately, that same sense cannot be said to be applicable to Miss Blackman. She will not have me, madam.” Why on earth the lady thought it appropriate to converse in such a manner was past his comprehension. Yet he could hardly shake her off as the lady might fall over. He looked up from her and caught Heatherbroke’s eyes, hoping that the marquess would aid him. But Heatherbroke shook his head, an amused and loving look on his smug face as he stared at his wife.
“We’ve all made mistakes.” Heatherbroke shifted closer to him, his tone lighter but his meaning sharp. “I, perhaps more than most, but it is how we rectify those errors that make us—that heal us and those around us.”
A wash of anger swept through him that Heatherbroke would dream of lecturing him. Of daring to advise him—yet in this sunlit, woody grove, it galled him to admit that between the two of them—Heatherbroke was the happier man.
“It won’t help me,” Woolwich replied, grateful that the lady had released him. Perhaps this humiliation could finally end, and the two of them would be on their blasted way. “It seems that no matter what I do, I have the ability to lose in whichever scenario I find myself in.”
He would have liked nothing more than to leave, but Lady Heatherbroke was blocking his progress. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a sceptical look. “What did you say to Miss Blackman?” Her voice lowered a fraction so that no one passing on the pathway twenty feet away from them would be able to hear their conversation. “I know she has these occasional wild ideas, but if you spoke to her of your care, of your love for her, then—”
Unbeknownst to her, Lady Heatherbroke had inadvertently honed in on the point which was rendering Clara and himself divided.
Unable to help himself, or rather, driven to a point of frustration, his restraint snapped. “I am unable to offer her such an arrangement. It is not within my power to give Miss Blackman that,” said Woolwich. “With me, however, she will be a duchess, one of the most important women in the country. If she cannot see the advantage of the union, I will not reduce myself to beg, nor do I seek my bride by abduction.”
“I see.” Lady Heatherbroke’s eyebrows went up. She ignored his allusion to her own romantic entanglements and marriage to Heatherbroke. “So, at no point did you tell Clara that you loved her? Or that you were capable of such a thing.” A ghost of a smile played along Lady Heatherbroke’s lips, and she moved over to her husband, taking his arm, and muttered in what was not a convincing whisper, “I thought he was supposed to be intelligent.”
Heatherbroke looked torn as if he wished to see the humour, but there was some sympathy on his face. Either way, he bit back his reply.
“What do you mean?” Woolwich asked her.
“Miss Blackman is a great romantic,” Lady Heatherbroke said. “She would not look twice at a man because of his title or wealth. She will not care a jot for your duchy.” Tugging lightly on her husband’s arm, Lady Heatherbroke clearly wished to depart. “Perhaps I was mistaken in thinking you would be suitable together. Forgive my impertinence. We should depart. We are due at the musicale.”
His fate lay in the balance, Woolwich realised as he looked at the young marchioness with her fetching teal bonnet and matching shawl. Soon the couple would go back amongst the swilling masses of theton. He could watch the pair of them leave and, in the process, lose Clara forever, and he discovered with a hideous, blinding comprehension that her loss from his life would destroy him. He had dragged his way onwards after Annabelle’s death, but knowing that Clara would be out there with her family, possibly finding a new love, caused his breath to catch at what would be lost from his life. If he felt that at the prospect of her not being in his life, what did that mean?
