Page 25 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
“Lovely?” There was a quirk to his lips at the choice of her words. “I do not believe I have heard him described so previously.”
“It is the best choice for such a child as you have. He resembles a cherub, and his manners were very polite.”
“Even when he strode off without permission.”
“Even then,” Clara grinned. “I have several nephews, and let me assure you that the Earl of Saunders is the most well-mannered boy I have met.”
“I only wish for the best for him. Anything that comes his way—”
“As any parent would.”
Woolwich’s grip tightened on her hand. “I must protect him from anything malicious. His mother’s reputation must not be allowed a blemish. But it is also myself who might cause him harm. When I have reacted out of irrational anger in the past…” he trailed off, suddenly recalling where they were, surrounded by dancing partners able to overhear his words. He grimaced and swirled her away.
“I assure you no one would ever dream of questioning his parentage.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Woolwich grimaced but nodded.
“You can tell merely by looking at him. He is the spitting image of you,” Clara said in a lighter tone. “No one would ever see his lordship and doubt he was anyone’s but yours.”
“I did not realise you dwelt that long on either Master Beau’s appearance or my own.”
Thankfully, at these words, the music drew to a close, so she did not have to formulate a response. Woolwich bowed to her, giving Clara a precious moment to hide the colour which had flamed beneath her freckles. He was right, blast him to hell. Clara resisted the temptation to dash away and hide in her secret corner, but instead, she bobbed a curtsy.
“Thank you for the honour,” Clara said. “I will reassure the other debutantes it was done merely as a courtesy to my brother-in-law and nothing more.”
Again, Woolwich looked perplexed. The tightening of his jaw flexed, and he shook his head at her. He offered her his arm and escorted her off the dance floor. Perhaps he had other obligations to friends and family, and he would need to leave her. Instead, he started to walk her through the ballroom, briefly exchanging nods with people he knew but not pausing long enough to introduce her to any of them. All the while, he did not release her hand. “Every time I attempt to be mildly pleasant to you, it has been taken the wrong way.”
“Your Grace,” Clara said. She was determined to force both of them back to the manners that ruled their society. If she clung to the formality, all those curious and eager thoughts that he was inspiring in her would die. At least, she hoped so. “I suspect any pleasantness that might be exchanged between the two of us would always be misinterpreted.”
She drew them to a halt, there were dozens of curious eyes watching the pair of them. Fluttering fans and the low-level buzz of talk, bright, feminine, and alive with curiosity. Presumably, they were speculating on what someone as illustrious as Woolwich was doing with someone as unimportant as Clara Blackman.
“Nothing will ever break that pattern?” Woolwich asked.
Clara released his arm. She was being a fool. It was too dangerous. Tears filled her eyes as she thought, for all her newfound confidence, she had been happier in her hideaway spot with her book—where there was no risk of such pain. Determined, she grinned brightly at him. Woolwich would never know what effect he had on her. “I do not think so, Your Grace. There is no hope here for either of us.” With that, she turned and left him.
CHAPTER13
For the next ten days, Woolwich made the most of his time with his son. It was far easier and more enjoyable than he expected. Whilst he did think of Annabelle in Beau’s presence, and he did wish for her to be present, it was not with the gut-wrenching guilt that had previously haunted him. His memories of Annabelle were so marred in regret and disappointment, but he was resolved that he should not allow this to affect Beau. Something had shifted within him. Having always been concerned and scared of what these changes might bring, now, Woolwich could only see the positives. All that fear had mottled through him for years, so he could barely function as a father, or as a son, or perhaps even as a man. He had accepted this as his due. But he was able to see now that his choices had also closed him down entirely to every difficult feeling. Now he could no longer see the logic of holding on to such emotions—it did not, nor would it, bring Annabelle back.
The sadness would not cease at her loss, but nonetheless, dragging the pain of it with him did no one any good. With that in mind, he sent his card to Heatherbroke with the intention of calling on the marquess at the man’s convenience. He doubted he would be able to forget the affair, but he did not wish to hold on to it any longer.
Bright sunshine burnt through his window, and Woolwich roused himself and dressed with care before heading towards the nursery and suggesting a walk to Beau. His ultimate aim was to pass by the Hurstbourne House and speak to Clara. Miss Blackman, he corrected himself. It was not wise to think of her so informally—what good would that do? He could never kiss her again, never be anything else to her but an acquaintance.
A dawning realisation was happening within him, that he wanted to tell Miss Blackman about these changes—for what purpose and the rationale of the action was beyond him. This comprehension of his felt almost like a springtime within him—bright, glorious flowers and leaves, all of it bubbling up to the surface, breaking through the hard shell within his body. He even felt warmer and more inclined to smile than he had previously. It defied logic and common sense entirely, but he wanted to share this change with someone. No, not someone, only her. There was nothing else for it, he would have to see Miss Blackman.
At night, thoughts of going further than a mere kiss festered inside him—waking him in the early hours of the morning, his body uncomfortable with images of what Clara might look like naked, how sweet she would taste, and picturing the blush that might creep lower across her form were she to ever know what he was envisioning.
“Good morning,” Woolwich said as he looked into his son’s bedroom. The chamber matched several of the guest rooms throughout his townhouse. Sharply presented in the most elegant of fashions, with silken, hand-painted wallpaper and dark wood furniture. This bedroom was decorated in handsome navy. But there was a significant difference: There were numerous books scattered across the floor, and Beau had put several copies on one cabinet, and even one inside his wardrobe and another on the bed. One of Beau’s nursemaids looked close to tears at the sight of the mess before her. She bobbed a hasty curtsy at the sight of Woolwich, clearly embarrassed at what havoc Beau had rendered.
“What are you doing?” Woolwich crouched down next to Beau and pulled the boy into a hug. It wasn’t the most natural action in the world, for someone who had been practising keeping his distance. But he singularly loved the feel of the boy in his arms. Soft and smelling of soap, Beau wriggled his nose up at him and giggled in response. He was now so much more at ease in Woolwich’s presence.
“Putting my books in order.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I did try—” the nursemaid said.
“Do not fret, Sorsby,” Woolwich said in what he hoped was a conciliatory voice. “I will deal with him. Go have some tea.”
The maid looked shocked at the suggestion, and Woolwich realised he might have overstepped the formalities he was meant to stick to. But it was difficult. Constantly being around Beau was teaching him to let go of a great many of the rules he’d held on to for far too long. The maid nodded and slipped from the room.
