Page 29 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
It was a direct hit. A painful one based on how he reacted. Woolwich’s eyes blazed, his perceptive concern fled, and he got to his feet. “Madam. I will leave you.”
“Good,” Clara snapped when it was the last thing she wanted to say, but damn him, why shouldn’t she have her pride too? Surely, he was a fool, but would he be so quick to say “I will never marry” whilst still holding his lover in his arms? It was the first time she had felt and known such things. “I think it for the best if we agree such an occurrence should never happen again.”
“No, indeed,” Woolwich said. “I cannot imagine a moment when I would allow that to reoccur.” He bowed to her with an abrupt inclination of his head, a distinct muscle in his jaw twitching.
“Nor me.” She followed him towards the door, both pulled by his presence and wanting to furiously argue with him. Clara was determined to have the last word and to inflict yet more damage if she could. The nerve of the man somehow implying that, were she willing, he would be able to take advantage of her again. “I should never wish someone such as yourself on my body again. I will be engaged to Mr. Goudge and then—”
This statement stopped Woolwich, his hand on the door handle. “Then I can only wish the man luck.” His eyes swept over her in a dismissive move, and he left the room.
“Damn you,” Clara said. The burning rage was bubbling up in her, and she started to pace. Normally with such emotions, when she felt as raw and fragile as this, she would turn to her beloved books, but she doubted the wisdom of that. Perhaps her other guides had been her sister or her friend. But she could hardly run up the stairs to Isabel, who had just only given birth. Nor explaining any of this to Lady Heatherbroke, who had all the reason in the world to loathe Woolwich, would not be sensible.
Clara’s pacing brought her to the window, and she watched Woolwich departing down the street. The man moved with the ease of his aristocratic heritage, with the self-assurance he presented to the world, where his vulnerability was never let out. The perfect façade of a duke, yet it was the qualities beneath the title that held such appeal to her. When he allowed his true self to be seen, it was a glorious, beautiful thing, and Clara was certain she had just crushed her chance of ever seeing such preciousness again.
A knock sounded, and she looked over her shoulder to see Hurstbourne enter the room. He looked bone weary, but he smiled at Clara. “There you are. Isabel has had a nap, and she is now asking for you.”
Crossing the room, Clara followed him through the hallway and up the stairs, allowing her brother-in-law’s words and happiness to surround her without taking any of the substance in.
“So, you agree?”
“Uhm…” Clara had been focusing on the feel of Woolwich’s lips, how soft the taste and press had been but how hard it had felt when she’d levered herself up against him. The contrast, the divine contrast. How did Woolwich reasonably think she would forget such a thing in her life? It was imprinted on her mind and would haunt her dreams she had no doubt. “What did you say?”
“Perhaps,” Hurstbourne was looking at her with a touch of worry, his hand coming out to steady her. “You should have a rest too.”
“No, go on. I just missed what you said.”
“Since my wife will not be able to attend the May Ball that we had planned for next week, I hoped you would consent to be the hostess. I think Isabel mentioned it previously, we had thought to ask Mrs. Trawler, but given her standing within theton, perhaps that is not wise. I do not wish to put you on the spot—”
Clara was already nodding. She knew that Hurstbourne’s sister was not always the most welcome in high society. If there was anything in her power she could do to aid the earl and Isabel, Clara would do so.
“Excellent,” Hurstbourne said. “I know from Mr. Goudge’s attentions to you recently that perhaps we won’t just have the announcement of the birth to share. It will be nice to have an engagement to celebrate as well.” He carried on towards his wife’s room. This passing comment left Clara with the realisation that her throwaway remark to Woolwich might suddenly see her entrapped into a marriage she had no desire to enter into. Did she have enough courage to defy everything and refuse an offer of a comfortable marriage when Woolwich gave her nothing else to hope for?
CHAPTER15
It wasn’t until he had found himself in front of White’s that Woolwich fully digested what he’d done. All his good intentions of taking his son for a walk, of being a pleasant companion to Miss Blackman, of thanking her like a gentleman, had evaporated into thin air. Part of him could not regret it, for he had wanted her past reason or sense. There were cruel but justifiable words for someone of his ilk, someone who had taken advantage of an innocent woman like Clara Blackman: Cad as a descriptor sprung to mind, although he assumed there would be worse available words some would choose. Hurstbourne would certainly wish to call Woolwich far worse.
A servant, dressed in a handsome livery, bowed Woolwich inside the building, and despite it being only eleven in the morning, Woolwich wanted nothing more than a strong drink. The alcohol would burn through him and take away the gasping, desiring memories of Clara’s curves. Her needful body wanting him. Her voice in his ear begging him for more. It was too easy to recall the feel of her beneath him, to remember the dark flash of passion in her blue-green eyes and the play of curiosity awakened on her deliciously wide mouth. Alcohol was the only answer that he could think of that might help cure him of the memory.
He ceased his steps towards the upstairs library, pausing halfway up as he remembered thatthatroom was exactly where he’d found Clara in her disguise. That would be hallowed ground.
Curse her, Woolwich muttered under his breath. There would be more and more locations across London he would need to avoid because of her. He would have to return to the hallway, to one of the larger, more boisterous rooms, and endure the talk of larger groups of noblemen who would have clustered there. As with everything Clara put her mind, or hell, even her body to, there was such zeal. It was not surprising she took to love making with enthusiasm.
Perhaps it was naïve of him, he thought as he walked back down the stairs and into the lower, busier rooms of White’s, but shouldn’t there be joy, fun, and delight in sexual congress? The idea she might give any of that to Mr. Goudge caused a physical reaction in Woolwich, one which affected his vision—so he even conjured up the blasteddonin front of him.
Only when his sight cleared did he realise that Mr. Goudge was there, talking to several gentlemen that Woolwich did not know, and a few of them he did vaguely. Nothing more than nodding acquaintances.
Determined not to be invited over, Woolwich ordered a drink from one of the servants and grabbed a newspaper before making his way to an empty window seat. When he sat down, he realised that he could hear their conversation all too well. So, his choices were as follows: listen to their inane chatter or think about her.
Clara Blackman. Her name ran through him. A gift. An affliction. Either word could be used to describe her—was she a blighted sweetmeat or an adorable plague… Either way, he should have resisted her. He was old enough to know better, to be the wiser head in the room. But there had been such a trembling honesty and need about her, which had proved irresistible in the moment. At least he had not entirely lost his honour by loosening his breeches, pushing up the remainder of her dress, and taking her virginity on the sofa. He could picture the angle of her neck as he plundered her body, the slope of her breasts as they would move with him inside her. How she would gasp, and how her nails would dig into his shoulders. The fulfilling urge to feel yet more of her soft curves beyond the shape of her breast, the desire to see her stomach, her rounded shoulder, and delightful bottom.
The image of him making love to Clara played tantalisingly through his mind—and how much he wanted to turn on his heel and march back to Hurstbourne townhouse and commit the act a dozen times, in every imaginable position possible until Clara was left crying out his name again and again. Until neither of them could think of another argument to pick with one another. As long as he lived, he would be able to hear that catch in Clara’s voice as she called out his name. The devastating thing was, Woolwich knew far too well that whatever he imagined, it would not be a patch on the reality of slipping into Clara’s body.
With a rasp of breath, Woolwich rubbed at his face with a roughness he was sure would make his skin red. Desperate to purge the images from his mind.
But like all good society girls, even one as bright and clever as Clara Blackman, wanted matrimony. The golden exchange of rings. The high society wedding. The beautiful, lace wedding dress, and a church filled with bright-eyed guests. Having fallen into that parson’s mousetrap before, he could hardly allow himself to do so again. The betrayal of Annabelle was a warning: Woolwich would never allow himself to be put in such a situation again. For himself, her treachery had created a bitterness that was in his soul like rot. No one would be allowed to slip beneath the surface and entrap him again.
It did not matter that, in every single way, Clara and Annabelle were as different as two women you were ever likely to meet. Woolwich would not be a fool for love.
“It is true that at some point or another, one must take up the great burden.” The voice speaking was loud, cutting through Woolwich’s thoughts and disturbing his memories of Clara.
