Page 11 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
“No one in their right mind would ever believe you capable of seducing Lady Heatherbroke. You have no charm. Why would she look at you when she has such a dear husband, such darling children, and you are so utterly lacking in… in…” She wanted to say “appeal,” but despite her steely resolution to completely crush Woolwich, Clara was beginning to realise that the pair of them were drawing a few sceptical looks from the gathered guests. It would be preferable if he could release her hand, which was still held tightly in his large grip, but the bastard was holding on to her most firmly.
Leaning closer, so that only she could hear him, Woolwich said, “You speak as if you harbour a rather unfortunate infatuation with Heatherbroke. Do you think your friend would wish to know of that? I have my doubts, nor do I think you want the rest of this party to know what you were up to this morning. Now smile as if you find me very amusing, and I will escort you away.”
Reluctantly, Clara did as he said. It was galling to know he had the right of it, and if she were to cause a scene, it would be her, and only her, who would suffer the consequences of it. Woolwich was an untouchable amongst theton, the shining beacon who everyone regarded as unassailable because of his birth, his wealth, his presence. Yes, they might say he was severe and distant, but didn’t that just add to his hauteur? Clara had to be practical, especially after her attempt of being underhanded and trying to control the marriage mart to her satisfaction had rebounded on her so badly.
As they moved away, a new melody started. The remaining couples began the dance, a happy laugh escaping from Lady Silverton as she swayed to and fro with her husband. It made for a merry scene, in heavy contrast to the mood Clara was in.
“Just so that you know, I neither think of Heatherbroke in such a manner, nor any other married man.”
“Why else would you go to a gentlemen’s club? Perhaps you are conducting an affair, or you wish to? Has the confines of being a debutante started to itch?” There was a heat to his words and an odd gleam to his normally staid face, but he continued with vehemence. “Should I warn poor Mr. Goudge of what is in store for him if he were to continue with this pursuit? Is he merely a cover for something more sordid?” Woolwich swept a lazy gaze over Clara’s frame, and she became hugely aware of how different their bodies were. The impact of his words rang in her ears. With his tall and dominant body, unfairly made with the physique that followed classical Greek or Nordic models, he would have been better suited as an artist’s muse posing as a plundering Viking God than standing in a modern reception room. Next to her smaller stature and curves, they looked vastly different. She was not one of those women who ever berated herself for not following the fashions of being as slim as her friends or her sister. No, in fact, Clara rather liked her more generous bosom and how her negligee sat on her rounded hips. Her figure made her feel empowered more often than not, despite the fact it was not always appreciated. Woolwich’s hard grey eyes bored into her, his foreboding masculinity against her soft, swaying femininity. Perhaps this made Woolwich think she would budge, but it did not mean for a second that she would give an inch to this bully. It just meant she had to be cleverer than him. Just like so many other of her fictional heroines before her, when called upon, Clara decided she would have to outwit him.
Forcing a pleasant smile onto her face, Clara said, “At least my presence at these events is appreciated. I may have none of your social advantages, but at least my company is not dreaded amongst the Set. It may not be true amongst wider society, but here amongst friends, it is.” She cocked her eyebrow in a knowingly annoying manner, the way her siblings would find extremely irritating. “You may have every visible advantage, but look around this room. Your defects are seen. They are known. How do you think my brother-in-law would act if he knew what your treatment was of me? Do you want to go and tell Hurstbourne now? Of course, as soon as you do, you will have to admit that you have threatened me—a poor innocent lady with ruination. I may be banished back to the country, but what do you think Hurstbourne would do to you?”
She had called his bluff. There it was, and she saw that it stumped Woolwich. Before she could depart and return to the encouraging smiles of Mr. Goudge, she heard Woolwich sigh. It did not sound as defeated as she hoped it would, though. “Bold words.” Unbidden, he took hold of her unresisting arm and led her towards the drinks table to the side of the parlour. The noise of the pianoforte to the left of them muffled whatever they may say. He released her and passed her a glass of ratafia whilst taking some champagne for himself.
There was a temptation, Clara thought as she held the cut glass, filled to the brim with the swirling red drink, to toss it into the duke’s face. It would be wild; it would be dramatic—worthy as an action of one of her beloved gothic heroines. It would, of course, see her banished back to her family seat in Sussex with little hope of seeing anything beyond her mother’s sitting room for a good number of years. Would it be worth it? Perhaps for that look of shock on His Grace’s smug face. She could envision her future in years hence, seeing Isabel’s children, hearing them ask Clara why she was banished from all good society, and her answer being that she had thrown a glass of alcohol into a duke’s face. Undoubtedly those children would be scandalised, but in that future, Clara’s own did not look too promising.
“Are you listening to a word I am saying?” Woolwich had clearly been talking, and now he was staring at Clara as if she were extremely silly.
“No, I was busy wondering what it would be like to throw this drink in your face.”
For a second, she thought he would yell at her, perhaps even stomp off or simply go and find Hurstbourne and explain it all, but much to her surprise, Woolwich laughed. It was a bitter noise, a strange one as if he did not frequently allow himself the pleasure of humour. “I suppose I should respect you for your honesty.”
“And for not actually tossing it into your face. Despite ample provocation.”
“Do you always respond with so little thought to your actions?” Woolwich’s question took Clara by surprise, and she dwelt on it for a moment, giving it more thought than if it had been directed to her by Lady Heatherbroke or her sister.
“I have taken a fresh start this Season,” Clara said. “It is my third Season. Trying to be more traditional has not worked well for me.”
“I know.”
“There is no need for that tone.”
“What tone?”
“The one that says it is no wonder. A plump, red-haired chit like me—”
“That is not remotely what I was thinking. I have no doubt your lack of success in the marriage mart is entirely down to your abrasive personality and nothing to do with your appearance.”
“How unpleasant of you. As a gentleman, you should be ashamed of yourself.” Why, though her words were true, was she rather enjoying their back and forth, despite how rude he was?
“At least, that was my intention. I meant it as an insult. Besides, your love of books would put off many men who would prefer not to be outwitted by their wives,” Woolwich said. “If I was ever in an unfortunate enough position as to be forced to compliment you—”
“I would consider it highly unlikely for someone like you to offer compliments. It would mean you were capable of liking another person. Such actions are impossible for someone like you,” Clara snapped, shocked at how quickly her replies rushed to the fore. What was surprising to her was that he knew she loved novels. It should not have been touching to have this thrown back at her like it was an insult, but she was rather pleased about it. Never before had she experienced such a heady rush. It was similar to the time she had drunk too much champagne and felt the liquid courage seep through her. Likewise surprising was how ferociously verbose the duke was being, for someone famed for his grim-faced silence.
“Someone like me?”
“A disagreeable clout, one who could not buy dignity, in the same way as he could not buy kindness.” The words were out before she had really considered them. In a desperate way of filling up the chilly reception, she continued, “You would never be able to seduce my friend, for that would require a heart.”
The air between them changed, colour pulsed beneath Woolwich’s cheeks, and briefly, Clara wondered if he was capable of murdering her where she stood. Would her body be mangled in the middle of Verne’s drawing room and then used as a warning to other debutantes about the danger of standing up to the lofty duke? Woolwich opened his mouth, about to deliver some hideous rebuttal, but it was then that Hurstbourne meandered over to them. “You two seem very enraptured.” Hurstbourne was all ease. His blond, good looks seemed to have been mellowed by a pleasant evening, in sharp contrast to both Clara and the duke. “It is a shame that Mr. Goudge did not stay…” Hurstbourne trailed off.
“He has already gone?” Clara asked, having, in truth, forgotten all about the don. Which was a great disappointment because, as a potential spouse, she had deemed him suitable. The problem was that for all the sweetness evident within Mr. Goudge’s behaviour, it was dinted by the overwhelming hatred that Woolwich inspired in her.
“I think he was called away,” Hurstbourne waved towards the door, before looking back at Woolwich. “Are you going to Newbury this weekend?”
Bobbing a curtsy and muttering something about fetching some water, Clara darted away, fully intending to see if Mr. Goudge was still in the hallway. If he was, she was determined to invite him to one of the lectures she often went to. There was one scheduled on Euripides that she felt sure would be equally as interesting to her as it would be to him. On reaching the hallway, though, Clara found it deserted.
“Damn,” she muttered. Her distraction over Woolwich had cost her once again.
