Page 33 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
Snorting at Woolwich’s turn of phrase, Clara interrupted. “And you do not? Of all the men living, aside from the King and his family, you are one of the luckiest men in England.”
“That is how it seems. But the truth,” Woolwich stepped closer, “is far darker.”
He would be within reach if Clara were to stretch out her hands towards him. The absurd idea was shoved roughly from her mind. “I have my doubts as to that. I have read every horror available. Or if I haven’t,” she saw he meant to question this, “I will certainly make it my mission to, and there isn’t anything half as bad as what you might have gone through as what’s in those pages—”
To her surprise, Woolwich snapped and snatched her hands to him, pulling her against his chest. Clara wanted to gasp, but it died as she looked up into his face. His expression was wretched.
“There is no recovery, no answer for what my wife and Heatherbroke did to me.”
“Because you love the duchess still?” Clara found her voice. There was an earnestness, a desperation to the man that made her want to reach up on her toes and pull him even closer.
“No.” He was shaking his head, only stilling it when Clara freed her hand and cupped his cheek. “No, because I think they destroyed any chance I have of hope, and I do not think I could inflict myself on one such as you. I would not wish it on Beau, but he has no choice. You, though, do. You belong with someone worthier than me. A man who might be able to find and give happiness where I cannot.”
They were inches apart. All the anger she had felt at the beginning of Woolwich’s speech had seeped out of Clara, leaving her close to tears. He truly believed such things. Believed himself unworthy and incapable of giving or receiving love. He did not even think he could hope for such things.
His intention was to save her, the fool, but he believed it wholeheartedly. Even if it meant confining her to a marriage with a man who, at best, she was indifferent to.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Woolwich, who had been looking down at her eyes, shifted his gaze to her mouth. The tension in the room changed and went from sympathetic and understanding to something far more complicated. A pull, almost like a cord between them, felt as if it were levering Clara towards him—answered only if they were to kiss.
From behind the closed door, there came the noise of footsteps, and Clara released her hold of Woolwich, stepping back and finding her seat in time for the door to swing open. There stood the smiling Mr. Goudge. His grin faded as he looked from Clara to the duke. There were no noticeable marks on his face, but Clara doubted that anyone would get away with delivering such a blow to Woolwich without receiving retribution.
“Excuse me, Miss Blackman, very good of you to pass on my regards to the countess,” the duke said. He bowed to her most formally, with none of the heat or desire of just a few moments ago. Woolwich then walked straight past Mr. Goudge without acknowledging his presence. Thankfully, the shorter man hastily jumped to one side so Woolwich could continue.
An uncomfortable stretch of moments lapsed as Mr. Goudge walked over towards her, a rather ugly bunch of daisies in his hand. He handed them to her, and as she took the new posies, she sank farther into her seat. Mr. Goudge then took a seat across from her. The roses lay on the floor between them.
Mr. Goudge glanced at her, clearly ill at ease, before he leant forward and said, “I’m glad to know he was only here to pass on his congratulations on the new child. I would hate to think I had any err… competition for your attention, or should I say affection, my dear Miss Blackman. I came here today as I most earnestly wished to see you.”
It was then that Miss Blackman realised she was likely to receive her first proposal. The tragic thing was she had no desire to say yes to the man before her, but instead, all her thoughts, desires, and feelings had departed with the man who had run from the chamber without a backwards glance.
CHAPTER17
Aweek later, Woolwich looked down at the invitation his mother was holding out to him. There was a slightly quizzical expression on her face as she reminded him of his promise. He knew all too well if he continued to plead ignorance of the upcoming Hurstbourne May Ball, the dowager’s mien would rapidly shift to annoyance.
“Of course, I will take you,” Woolwich said.
His mother smiled graciously and lowered the invite back to the little sideboard next to her.
He returned to looking out of the window. She had requested his presence this morning, but was it only about the upcoming party? Perhaps, he reasoned, or rather hoped, Miss Blackman would not be in attendance. Mayhap, she could have sprained her ankle. Caught a chill? Just vanished from society forever. Any of these would be welcome. Anything would answer so long as he did not have to see her. It was not very likely since the blasted invite was her own brother-in-law’s affair and since it was the house in which she was staying. One of the events of the Season, so the rags had claimed.
His mother was speaking, “With Lady Lamont’s removal to Sussex—”
“Eh?” Woolwich raised his eyes up as he’d barely registered Lady Lamont’s presence in the household, her sudden departure had likewise gone unnoticed. He had been too preoccupied with bonding with his son. At least that was the excuse he was going to give for causing his distraction. The truth might be more complicated than that and involve the spirited curves of a redhead who currently seemed to haunt his waking and sleeping moments.
“Yes,” his mother continued. “Gertrude left on Wednesday. There was an invitation from the Silverton’s to stay with them at their estate in Sussex for the summer. She does not strike me as a gel much suited to the Season, but I will try for her dear mother’s sake next year, I suppose.” Here his mother paused as she frowned at him. “Honestly, Jasper, it is amazing you do not lose your head, the lack of attention you pay to things around you.”
At least, Woolwich thought, he had observed why Lady Lamont would be so eager to journey down to Sussex because Silverton Hall was precisely where Miss Grace Walsh would be staying. His mother had missed such a blatant love affair. Still, perhaps, he would make this point clearer to her in the future, but it had no relevance to the upcoming Ball.
“Why would you wish to go?” he asked. “Without Lady Lamont to chaperone—”
“A lady may have no other interest than marrying off a chit?” The dowager was shaking her head. “After the death of your dear father, I have occupied myself with a great many worthy and important—” She saw his face and got to her feet, walking across towards him, clearly bent on giving him some much-needed motherly advice. “Sometimes you do amaze me with your pronouncements and your baseless, poor opinions on the female sex.”
“You can hardly blame me for my own prejudices when you witnessed first-hand what harm Annabelle caused.”
“Silly girl,” his mother added. “Whilst the union was not perfect, I do not think it wise to forever hold on to such dislike. If not for her sake, not even for yours, but for little Beau’s.”
“I do not hate her anymore. I do not think I ever did. I have arranged to speak to Heatherbroke when he can spare the time, but… it is not merely her who makes me believe that all women seek out marriage. Since Annabelle’s passing, there has not been a Season when some silly chit has made a fool of herself chasing after—”
“You?” His mother laughed and stepped back. “Most men would appreciate being so sought after.”
