Page 9 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
Turning down a fresh street, the noise of the passing carriages forced Woolwich to stop on the pavement, glancing to his right and then left. The whirl of sweating horses and the brightly festooned bonnets that the women wore reminded Woolwich why he would have preferred to be far from the crowded city. The street was too busy for him to cross, so he continued along South Audley street in the vain hope of seeing a break in the traffic.
To his own surprise, his mind conjured up once more the image of Miss Clara Blackman. In his mind’s eye, her wide mouth seductively smiled up at him in a way she never had in life. It was deeply unnerving that such a thing should occur to him, especially in the middle of Town. Miss Blackman was not fashionable. She was not rich. She was a bluestocking with bookish tendencies and a defiant temperament. Despite attempting to clear his mind, the image that kept reoccurring in his head was the sight of Miss Blackman’s breasts beneath that masculine shirt. The flush in her cheeks as she challenged him. An angry twitch in her cheek as she’d thrown herself into the defence of her friend. Why were her physical attributes occurring to him? An uncomfortable awareness swept through his body at how much he’d enjoyed having her pressed against him when they’d snuck out of White’s.
What was strange, he realised as he strode along the street, occasionally nodding at a passing gentleman or lady he knew, was how society would not expect him to regard Miss Blackman in such a manner. He was used to following society’s rules. She might be the sister-in-law of an earl, but Miss Blackman was a tradesman’s daughter. Then there were her spinsterish tendencies, not to mention all that red hair and curves. None of it was deemed fashionable. It struck him suddenly quite how stupid fashion could be.
“Woolwich.” There was a sharp cry, and Woolwich realised he had been practically daydreaming about the dratted Miss Blackman. Forcing a polite look onto his face, he made a neat bow to the couple before him. Lord and Lady Verne. Visible on Verne’s normally calm face was the annoyance and disappointment from their earlier conversation, but none of it appeared on Lady Verne. She was smiling at him warmly.
“Did we not say we were one short for the party tonight?” Lady Verne was nothing if not direct. She stretched out her hands in greeting to Woolwich, and he kissed her knuckles.
Verne did not look happy. “I am quite sure His Grace has other plans.”
“Surely not? Well, if you do, it is no trouble, but I’ve asked him, and what is the harm in that?” Lady Verne said, her dark eyes sweeping over Woolwich questioningly. She was astute and immediately saw the tension that lay between the two of them. “You need not fear since most of the younger people in the family are still in Cornwall. It will be a simple, quiet affair of perhaps around a dozen people or so. A little wine, cards, and perhaps some music. Only a few newly arrived friends will be attending.”
For some reason, an instinctive knowledge swept through Woolwich that the Hurstbournes, and therefore Miss Blackman, would be in attendance. It would be the sort of event he normally avoided like the plague, but in this instance, it would be a surprising way of teasing Miss Blackman. And if Lady Heatherbroke was there, it would be the best time to begin his pursuit of her. He supposed the task of flirting with the young married beauty would not be considered an unpleasant task to most single men’s eyes. Although it had a rather unsavoury element to it that rankled within him, he would have to ignore it. No, he needed to be cool and calculating and rise above any such considerations, with the single goal of ensuring his son’s name was safe. He would not necessarily actually have to tup Lady Heatherbroke, provided everyone believed that he had. The attempt was the important thing as it was the thing that would cause the outcry.
“I would be delighted to attend,” Woolwich said in response to Lady Verne.
For a brief second, a look of surprise danced over Verne’s normally serene face, but it was his wife who responded with a happy chuckle. “Excellent. We will begin at seven. We look forward to seeing you there.”
“Then I will see you presently,” Woolwich bowed once more to Lady Verne and. seeing a brief gap between the carriages and horses, strode away before Verne could say a thing. He was certain that all too soon, his plan would be discussed amongst the Set, but what mattered was that the rumour itself would spread, and his child would be safe. If his plan involved a few handfuls of spirited arguments with Miss Blackman, so much the better.
* * *
On enteringthe Verne’s townhouse that evening, Woolwich was pleased to see he was one of the last guests to arrive. Coming late to a party was much the best method, he reasoned, and gave everyone the singular anticipatory sensation of waiting for him, as well as reducing the actual social interactions he had to endure. Years ago, Woolwich liked the occasional party, but the key to his enjoyment was having a person—his person—to rely on. That reliance had withered and died with Annabelle, like so many other things he had clung to.
The scene, a small evening party, was laid out before him in the handsome, south-facing drawing room. The parlour was decorated in the latest fashion, of royal blue and cream, long curtained windows allowed in the dusk light, and as Lady Verne had promised him, there were around ten people of his acquaintance dotted throughout the room, and possibly a few others who he did not know at all. Neither of the Heatherbrokes were in attendance, however.
Stepping forward, Woolwich greeted Lady Verne and noticed a slight change in her demeanour from earlier. There was some stiffness around Lady Verne’s mouth as she ushered him into the room. Presumably, Verne had told her of Woolwich’s bet, and she did not approve.
In the corner of the room, huddled over sheet music, were Mr. and Mrs. Trawler. Sitting on the plush sofa were Lady Hurstbourne and her husband. They were talking with interest to Lady Verne’s publishing friends. Lady Verne was obviously keen to rejoin them and their lively debate.
Woolwich was about to cross the room to the last remaining couple in the parlour, Lord and Lady Silverton, but that was when his eyes were drawn to the other corner of the room.
Unbidden, his gaze was pulled to the secluded little pairing, two people pouring over a book. He had no control but to narrow his eyes on Miss Blackman and her male companion. She was dressed in a girlish, pansy-blue gown that hugged her generous figure. The colour made her fiery hair appear even brighter. Out of her brother’s clothes, she was reborn. Strange, of course, he had seen Miss Blackman previously at various events over the years, but he had never appreciated her before, probably because he had never allowed himself to notice any woman. Physically. But now he did, and it rushed in on him, uncomfortable and overwhelming. He could see her in sheer, incredible detail—the brightness to her round, blue eyes, the softness to her face, the roundness of her chin. She could have sat for a Ruben’s painting and been a sublime muse. The ribbon wound through her burnished red hair that perfectly matched her eyes. She looked lovely. Where had that idea come from? How come he was staring at her décolletage? Perhaps, he thought spitefully, it was the stark contrast at seeing Miss Blackman in a dress.
On closer inspection, he could see that Miss Blackman was talking happily to a dark-haired, slight man with a neat moustache. Their heads were bent far too close together. Surely, that was not considered good manners for a debutante. Where was her concern for her reputation? Then again, if the Hurstbournes were not perturbed, Woolwich could hardly proceed to lecture her.
It was a disappointing truth that he would probably be perceived as a stuffy puritan by most of theton.
Despite himself, Woolwich found that he was moving forward to interrupt Miss Blackman and this unknown man’s interlude. It was awkward as the two of them slowly lifted their eyes from their book to look up at him.
“Miss Blackman.” Woolwich dipped his head in greeting. He had never sought her out before, and it struck him now he was closer to her, how expressive her features were.
Her nose was a delicate button that wriggled when he arrived, and beneath that, her lips drew tight as she looked him up and down. She did not care for him, Woolwich reminded himself. The fact she was attractive did not matter a jot. He would not let it be important to him. There was a rose blush to her rounded cheeks as if a burning life was bounding through her, animating her features and causing Woolwich to be aware of himself in a way he was not entirely comfortable with.
An uncomfortable tightness gripped the air between them. Awkward and unwelcome, but if he was going to pursue his aims, if he was going to protect his dead wife’s reputation and defend his son, he would need to dispose of the woman before him and make sure she did not get underfoot.
“Your Grace,” she said, pushing her chair back as she stood. Her greeting was brief. The words uttered were quick and hard. It was obvious that she wished to dismiss him.
Pivoting, Woolwich glanced over to the man beside her. “Introduce me to your friend.” It was less of a request and more of a demand on his part. He was on edge, forcing down his annoyance. She brought this out in him. What was the solution? Exile her forever? Humiliate her in front of her sister and the earl, as well as the rest of theton? It was rather galling to realise he desired neither of these. If he were to beat Miss Blackman, a better answer had to be found.
Hastily she muttered, “This is Mister Tarquin Goudge, and this is His Grace, the Duke of Woolwich. Mr. Goudge is adonat Oxford.”
The younger man, who had a slighter frame than Woolwich and the sort of floppy brown hair that needed to be looped behind his ears, glanced between them curiously. Woolwich supposed the younger man was around Miss Blackman’s age and had a pleasant enough face. Mr. Goudge nodded with an excitable little start as he bowed his greeting. The movements reminded Woolwich of a puppy. Perhaps this unlucky swain was the one Miss Blackman had decided to pursue, in which case it should have been Woolwich’s sincere delight to end this unfortunate courtship because no man deserved to be shackled to such a virago. Let that be a lesson to her for crossing him.
Miss Blackman sighed, shooting a dirty look at Woolwich and then lifting the book she held in her gloved hands with all the artfulness of a fine lady. That grated Woolwich too since he knew what she had been up to this very morning, and it felt like she was lying. “Mr. Goudge and I were discussingLe Morte d’Arthurand whether students should be made to study it in the original language or if the translation loses anything.”
Woolwich looked at Mr. Goudge, who was nodding sagely as he weighed the issue. The tilt of his head gave him a ponderous air. “It is a difficult point indeed, and one where I find myself torn. With my students—does one settle for ease of understanding or true knowledge of what the author meant.”
