Page 18 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
The dowager was pointing towards the jetty, and as quickly as he could, Woolwich turned and looked towards the lake. To his utter horror, time slowed as he watched Beau wobble on the decking as he placed his blue boat onto the water. Beau had the ribbon in one hand and was tugging it backwards and forwards in the shallows as the present settled in amongst the waves. The problem was Beau had approached with such gentle caution and without an adult that neither of Langley’s sons had seen him. The two boisterous twins were chasing each other back and forth on the jetty, one of them having abandoned the boat and decided to make for land where the child’s mother was waiting.
With a shout dying in his throat, Woolwich watched as one of Langley’s sons crashed into his boy, sending Beau headfirst into the water. It wasn’t deep for a grown man. It wasn’t cold nor was it a rough or windy day, but despite that, any child could drown in such an expanse. Anyone inexperienced or unlucky could drown so easily.
Woolwich set off at a run towards his struggling son. From behind him, he heard his mother’s cries, and he could see Miss Blackman trying to keep pace with his stride, but he left her in his wake. He needed to get to the water.
He could see others gathering on the bank, thetonshocked and appalled at what was happening. Everyone rushing towards the water’s edge, but no one doing a thing. Langley realised what was happening and abandoned his own children’s boat to hurry towards the spot where Beau had fallen in, but the earl was at the other end of the jetty. Closer than Woolwich but still too far away.
Bobbing miserably on the waves was the small blue boat that he had bought his son.
He wasn’t going to reach Beau in time. He was still fifty feet away, and Beau had not sunk beneath the water.
Someone dived into the water. Cutting and pushing through the jumble of people watching from the bank, Woolwich strode directly into the waves as he watched the swimming figure reach the point where his son had disappeared from view, then dive deeper in.
Woolwich had not made out who the man was. At first, he assumed it was Langley, but when he glanced at the jetty, he saw that the earl was holding on to his own sons tightly, clearly frightened one of his children might end up in the water. Whoever the man might be, Woolwich would give him his entire fortune if he could save Beau.
Terrified desperation beat through Woolwich, with the thought that Beau might emerge cold and blue, unresponsive to anything, and then slip away from him as easily as Annabelle had done.
Looking back to the rippling waves, the man emerged, his dark hair stuck to his face and obscuring his visage from view. In his arms, aloft, he held up Beau, ensuring the boy was out of the water.
Woolwich was now up to his chest in the lake, treading the waves to stay afloat as he drew closer to the man. “Let me,” Woolwich said as he reached out and grabbed his child. Snatching up his son and holding the boy to him desperately.
Beau spluttered, spat out some of the water, and started shaking. Vaguely, Woolwich could hear the boy mutter again and again, muted little apologies as he nestled into Woolwich’s chest.
“He’s all right. Just get him to land.” Woolwich turned and watched as Richard Cavendish, Marquess of Heatherbroke, pushed his dark hair from his face. A delighted chatter of happy shouts and cheers broke out along the bank to see all three of them emerging from the water unhurt.
With numb steps, Woolwich carried Beau out of the lake, the thought burning through him: the man he hated, the one he’d sworn revenge against, was the one who had just saved his son’s life.
CHAPTER10
Watching in horrified shock, Clara could see the young boy placed gently down on the bank. The flutteringtonwith their ornate bonnets and parasols backed off, giving Woolwich, Heatherbroke, and the little boy some space, perhaps fearing they would get some dirty water on their finery. With care, Woolwich rolled his son onto his front and slapped the boy’s back. Coughing and sputtering, Beau threw up his accounts.
Lady Heatherbroke, who had managed to find two thick blankets, which must have been pulled from the nearest belvedere or carriage, draped one of these over her husband and handed another to Woolwich. “You don’t want him getting cold.”
Clara, who had drawn close, looked between the three of them, desperate to know what she should do next.
Meeting Woolwich’s family had been a surprise. His haughty mother had been far friendlier than she expected, but it was the gentle, quiet, and intense little boy who had immediately grabbed her attention. From her two older sisters and from Lady Heatherbroke as well, Clara was used to looking after children, especially little boys. She’d helped build pirate hats, read stories until all involved had fallen asleep, swam in lakes during the summer, wiped noses, and held them when they’d cried over broken toys, mean rules, or nasty siblings.
The sheer beauty of the little boy before her melted her heart. Tiny Master Beau had watched his father, clearly yearning to greet and embrace the duke, but Woolwich had kept such a distance it was heartbreaking.
Guilt throbbed through her painfully every time she looked from the small boy recovering on the bank, to the drenched marquess, and then finally up to the dripping Woolwich. ‘Shall we see if the boat floats?’ She had suggested it to Beau, and with the childish enthusiasm of youth, he had rushed off to test his present out.
Woolwich did not seem to have so many reservations. He fixed Clara with a hard stare and then pulled off his soaking jacket, wrapping the blanket Lady Heatherbroke had fetched him around his shoulders.
“Go fetch my coach,” he said to Clara, his voice low and direct. “I want to take him to the doctors.”
Grateful for the task before her, Clara set off across the lawn. Behind her, Woolwich scooped the boy up and followed in her wake. All around her, there was a fuss, with people talking about the dreadful event. Distantly, she could see the dowager being fanned by Lady Lamont. She thought she saw the Vernes pausing, having been picnicking. Perhaps even Lady Verne called out, but she strode on. Find Woolwich’s carriage, then order it up. Her feet carried her towards where the horses and the barouches were situated, waving down a groom and asking for the duke’s carriage to be brought closer.
Woolwich handed her Beau to hold as he climbed into the vehicle, accepting the quiet child back into his arms when he was ready. “Will you inform my mother where I am going?”
Clara nodded. “Of course, I am—”
He cut her off. “Tell her to go to my residence when she can. Thank you.” His face was set, impassive and controlled, but for the briefest of moments, Clara saw an aching, scared man as desperate as she was to be reassured.
He had acted out of instinct, one which drove him to save his son. Most of the time, he tried his best to ignore Beau, perhaps because the child stirred in him feelings of guilt. How could someone be so frustratingly cruel and contradictorily kind? It beggared belief.
Despite it all, Clara nodded up at him, but he hardly noticed and was gone with the flick of his wrist.
The dampness of the boy, which had been briefly pressed against her body, had left a mark. Wetness was now moulding and shaping her gown to her front, so with far slower steps, Clara made her way back towards the dowager with the message. Hoping her meandering pace would dry her out.
