Page 12 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
An abrupt movement behind her made Clara realise that she was not going to be alone for long, and with a sinking heart, she heard Woolwich’s footsteps closing in on her. Clearly, the blasted man wanted to finish whatever stinging retort he might have for her. Another blisteringly unpleasant observation that Clara thought she could do without. Looking around her, she spied the open doors that led outside. The shadowy, enclosed garden that was to the rear of the Vernes’ property. Visible through the half-open doorway Clara could see some tall blossom-heavy trees, a smallish bench, and beyond that the realms of the dark garden which she could hide in. Without another thought, she rushed outside, darting down the steps until she found herself with only the light from the townhouse to guide her way, and the faint burn of the stars far above her.
On any other evening, the romance of the springtime night might have struck her, but at that moment, Clara just wanted to avoid Woolwich. Her head swung around this way and that, and for one wild second. she contemplated climbing up into the tree and hiding there. Perhaps she could make friends with the birds and—
Her hand was already on one of the branches when a sharp cough called her back to herself.
“What in God’s name are you doing now?” Woolwich asked.
Turning, Clara dropped her skirts, hiding her ankles hastily from view. She resumed her place on the path as if she had been doing nothing out of the ordinary. “Why did you follow me out here?”
“How do you know I did not simply seek some peace and quiet away from the hustle and bustle of the party?”
“Then why wouldn’t you just leave?” Clara asked rudely. She realised, as she squared up to him, that he was absolutely right—she was being abrasive. Her mother and sister would be shocked and appalled by her attitude. Hastily, she reminded herself of the duke’s plans—Prudence was the dearest, sweetest lady who did not deserve any of the duke’s wrath. Righteous indignation flared back into Clara, and she strode nearer to the dratted man. He might be a great deal taller, older, richer, better connected—good-looking too, she had heard those girls over the years swoon over his stern, austere blondness, but it didn’t matter. A bully was a bully. Clara would not let herself be intimidated.
“What you fail to understand, Miss Blackman,” Woolwich sighed. He had regained his earlier hauteur as he looked down at her with the dismissive disregard of a man used to squashing someone like her beneath his well-made Hessian boots. “If you dream of getting in my way—”
“Of course I will. I will always try to stop such callous actions against someone who does not deserve such treatment,” Clara said. She was standing close to Woolwich now. Her hand slapped against his chest as she saw he did not intend to move out of her way. Distantly a strange thought whispered to her that if she were caught outside like this, alone with a man, her name and her chances of marriage would be dashed forever. Of course, no one would ever dream of pairing the two of them. A more ill-suited match could not be created in all of England.
“You would infuriate a saint,” Woolwich said. He caught her hand, or rather imprisoned it in a vice-like grip. Rooting her to him until Clara thought that nothing man-made would be able to shift her away. Despite the half light of the evening, the sheer intensity of Woolwich’s gaze bore into her. The glare of his features was all too clear for her to see.
“Well, we know you’re not that,” she snapped back.
What shocked her beyond anything, and what she would never have expected, was when the duke sighed, bent his head, seemingly beyond words or reason, and pulled her even closer so that she was right up against his body, his lips lowering and sealing them over her mouth, kissing her.
CHAPTER7
God, what was he doing? It was the first coherent thought that occurred to Woolwich after he pressed his mouth against Miss Blackman’s. It had started as an attempt, a desperate one, to silence her. Anything that would quiet the tormenting siren from continuing to rip pieces off him. But despite his expectation, everything changed as soon as their lips met. Their kiss was changing him. And worse, he was enjoying the transformation.
Clara Blackman was warm, a bubbling, tormenting hellcat, but one whose keenness was demonstrative from the way she clung to him.
The hard pressing demand of his lips against her mouth had softened, and they were kissing now with a curiosity rather than a punishment as she responded to his insistent plunder. Her hands, which had been latched to his shirtfront, had moved to encircle him and then lift up to his hair, digging into his scalp as she kept him close. Those soft, small hands of hers were surprisingly strong, but next to the ardour of her mouth, they faded in comparison. She was standing on her tiptoes in order to reach him, to continue the kiss with more enthusiasm than he had ever thought a lecturing bluestocking might possess.
The tragic thing was Woolwich realised he could not remember the last time a woman had kissed him. He’d tried to have a mistress after Annabelle’s death, but the act had left him shaking with distaste, so he had paid the lady off and confined himself to a single state.
But he didn’t want to dwell on that, not when there was such a feast before him.
He angled his tongue to nudge against the seam of Clara Blackman’s lips. To his delighted surprise, she parted her mouth, and with an eagerness, he delved in farther. His tongue stroked against hers. She tasted like forbidden fruits. Her own flavour and taste, ratafia, mingled with another scent, strawberries he fancied, filled his senses, and consumed him. A wild idea occurred to him of dipping or trailing cream over her and licking it off her quivering body.
He had moved, too, releasing her fingers to better mould her body to his. To lift his straining, shaking muscles into the comforting touch that was Clara Blackman. Those wide, delicious lips of hers were likewise shaking, but he sensed no reluctance. That wobble, he realised as she clung to him, was drawn from a similarly craving part of her—she wanted him too.
With her hands rooted in his hair, Woolwich had free rein to explore the tender swell of her bottom, the line of her clothed back, up to the exposed nape of her neck. In a luxuriant movement, he swept the dainty curve of her spine, enjoying how she responded to his touch.
The tempting shape of her frame, which he had noticed before, was even more luscious when cradled against his increasingly desirous body. She had an utterly feminine form—from her smaller stature to her bountiful breasts, it was not a combination that had tempted Woolwich previously, but now he could only marvel at his former ignorance at what he had been missing out on. Blood, lust, and power surged through him, a novel experience for him, almost like a candle being lit in a darkened room. Suddenly, he could see, and he was reminded of his former lustful feelings and wants.
Clara Blackman’s grip on his back, her hold which was keeping her tight against him, lessened as she adjusted herself, and with great reluctance, Woolwich knew that this experience, this kiss, would need to stop.
With a deft, quick movement, he pried Clara Blackman from him and set her down on the small, shallow bench just a few feet from them. Both of their breaths were laboured, and he turned away from her as a way of ensuring he did not pounce on her again.
He glared out across Verne’s garden, surveying the dark spread to make sure no one might have seen them in such a passionate embrace. The last thing either of them wanted was to find themselves trapped in a loveless marriage. Although, he thought wryly, based on that kiss, it would at least not be a passionless union.
Finally, he turned back to the bench, having judged that he had given her enough time to recover her composure. Clara Blackman had sunk onto the seat, her magnificent chest rising and falling rapidly. Her gown had been straightened from where his greedy hands had rumpled, stroked, and stolen in increasing curiosity. As he turned, he spotted Miss Blackman hastily lowering her fingers from where they had been touching her mouth. It was an oddly vulnerable and sweet movement, which faded as she lifted her eyes to his and glared back at him.
“How dare you?” Her voice throbbed with righteous anger and something else emotional hidden beneath the surface.
“Madam.” He found his harshest tone, of the kind that echoed unpleasantly of his tutors. And as he spoke, he knew he was going to sound remarkably like a prude. But he embraced puritanism as a protective shield from any emotional outburst which might tempt him. “If you insist on ruminating in this garden on your own, as you were, then your behaviour is hardly worthy of respect.”
Her lip curled at his blatant hypocrisy, and despite the darkness, Woolwich thought he saw a flash of vulnerability as Miss Blackman jumped to her feet.
“There is nothing in your behaviour, character, or bearing worthy of anything. If I ever have the misfortune of encountering you again, I hope it will be at your funeral.”
