Your fault, whispered a voice inside her. It is your fault he does not know he has a son. You denied him the right.
Nay. He did not deserve the right. He had abandoned her. Had left her with no word, no warning, and no explanation. Had disappeared from her life as if she were of no import to him at all.
She could still recall the frowning servant at Brixton Manor, Carlisle’s country seat. Mr. Ludlow has gone abroad. I regret to say that he is not at home.
Even after he had humiliated her, she had chased after him. But he had been long gone. And then he had returned eight years later, a stranger who was more compelling than ever. More forbidding, more forbidden. Still, she wanted him. In the basest, most shameful part of her, she yearned for Clayton Ludlow in a way she had never longed for another man.
Perhaps it was because he was the only man who had ever touched her.
She had never lain with a man other than him. She could have, naturally. Should have, likely, for then she would not be currently cursed with this hungry pulse between her thighs. With this heat pooled in her belly. With this languorous ache in her breasts.
Freddie had given her his blessing. With Edward as his heir, he had decided that a spare would not be immediately required. Perhaps never. And he had been only too eager to continue his life as he had lived it prior to their marriage, spending all his time with Percy. “Take a lover,” he had urged her, squeezing her hands and giving her the beatific Freddie smile she loved best. “God knows I would, were I you.”
She had toyed with the notion, knowing Freddie, while beloved to her, would never be her match in a physical sense. Knowing he was right to urge her elsewhere. She had attended balls and soirees. Had kissed lords all too eager to take an experienced married woman to their bed. And she had denied each one. They had never been right. None of it had ever been right. Instead, she had devoted herself to being Edward’s mother and Freddie’s friend, two of the most fulfilling roles she had ever inhabited.
But somehow, so many years later, that wicked hunger was still alive, burning brightly inside her. It had not died or dimmed. If anything, it had grown higher and hotter, and the moment she had first seen him, those flames had threatened to burn her anew. With each time her path crossed his, the fire scorched more than the last.
“Your Grace?”
She blinked at her reflection in the mirror, realizing belatedly that her lady’s maid had been endeavoring to garner her attention for some time now, judging from the slight tinge of exasperation in her voice. “Yes, Marks?”
“How shall I dress your hair, if you please?”
“A Grecian braid shall suffice,” she answered absentmindedly.
She did not care how her hair was dressed. She did not care how she looked. She had no one to impress—especially not one grim, forbidding mountain of a man she had once known. Her husband was dead. She stared at herself, feeling as though she was trapped in a nightmare. Freddie, the one man in her life who had never disappointed or betrayed her, who had been steadfast and loyal and kind, was gone forever.
And Clay had returned.
Her hands clenched into fists, the crescents of her nails biting into her tender flesh. She must not think of him in such intimate terms. He was Mr. Ludlow to her now. A stranger tasked with her protection and nothing more.
Surely it was Freddie’s loss and the aching hole he left in her heart that made her strangely susceptible to her old feelings. Three months had passed since the day of his murder, and the horror of it all was as fresh today as it had been upon the day word reached her.
She had been taking tea.
Edward had been having lessons.
She would never forget the moment her life had forever altered. Her tea had slipped from her hand, spilling on her skirts, the delicate cup hitting a carved table leg and smashing. All she had been able to think about was how terrified Freddie must have been in the final breaths he had taken. The assassin had attacked him from behind. She had been thankful for that one small mercy. That Freddie had not seen the end coming to him.
“Take this handkerchief, Your Grace,” Marks interrupted her musings once more, offering her a monogrammed linen square.
She had not realized she was crying, but the return to the present made her aware her cheeks were wet. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the handkerchief and dabbing at her cheeks. It was one of Freddie’s, for she liked having these small pieces of him about, along with the mourning brooch she wore fastened above her heart that contained a lock of his hair.
“It is horrid, Your Grace, what happened to the duke. I do not know how you bear it. To think these vile murderers would wish ill of you.” Marks, not ordinarily an expressive woman, clicked her tongue with disgust, her countenance in the glass softening with sympathy. “They will find their justice at the hands of the Lord.”
“Let us hope their justice comes sooner than that,” she said quietly.
Thus far, the true culprits responsible for plotting and committing the act remained free. How she hated the faceless, nameless menace. Men who had used Freddie as a political sacrifice, spilling his blood without a thought for the man who had been a gentle and beloved husband and father. Without a thought for how very much he would be mourned and missed.
Marks put the finishing touches on her hair. “There, now. You are ready to take your breakfast.”
Breakfast. How had she forgotten Clay’s intention to ruin the solitude of her morning routine? It returned to her suddenly, along with the reminder of his silken voice, rife with effortless command.
I will speak with you in the morning, Your Grace. Over breakfast, just as you suggested.
She had not suggested. Nor did she wish to face him again, with her emotions too raw and near to the surface. Seeing him with Edward had affected her in a way she wished most heartily it had not.
“I think I shall take breakfast in my chamber this morning,” she said with a forced lightness even she could hear in her tone. “I have some correspondence I wish to read and make, and my head is aching. Would you be so kind as to have a tray sent up, Marks?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The lady’s maid offered a quick dip and then left the chamber, hastening to do as Ara had asked.
When she was alone, she exhaled slowly, relief removing a weight from her shoulders. She knew she could not avoid Clay forever. Not Clay, she corrected inwardly, yet again. But Mr. Ludlow. She could not avoid Mr. Ludlow each day, but she could certainly refuse to do his bidding this morning.
Indeed, perhaps the answer was to keep to her apartments as much as possible until the horrible criminals responsible for Freddie’s murder were imprisoned and the threat looming over her like a thundercloud would dissipate at last. She stood and wandered to the window, where the curtains had been tied back to reveal the gloom of a foggy London day over St. James’s Square. From her chamber, she could spy the familiar bronze statue of William III astride a horse even on days such as today, when the bleak gloom rendered seeing to the other side of the street a nearly impossible feat.
How was it possible her world was the same—the statue, the street below, the sounds of horses’ hooves and jangling tack, the yellow fog, the carpet beneath her feet, all of it the same—and yet Freddie was no longer in it? And how was it that the one man she had done her damnedest to forget had returned to her because of Freddie’s death?
She wanted to rail against the wrongness of it. The unfairness. Ara pressed her palm against the glass pane, absorbing its coolness. She took another deep breath, wishing she could somehow banish him from Burghly House. That she could rewrite history and undo time so she could save Freddie and never have to see Clay Ludlow again.
A sturdy tap sounded at her door. Likely Marks or another of the domestics, returning with her breakfast tray. “Enter,” she called without turning away from her perusal of the street.
She preferred country life to the city, but Freddie had made his home in town, and she had accompanied him. Why did she
remain here now? How she longed to return to Kingswood Hall with its sprawling forests and undulating hills. But she could not go back there, not ever again. She was not welcome in her family home, and even if she was, nothing remained for her there. When she had married Freddie, she had severed all ties with her family.
Thank heavens for Freddie. He had been her savior.
The door opened behind her and still she did not look as footsteps sounded.
“You may place the tray on my table and go,” she said.
But the footsteps came nearer to her instead of retreating. And they were heavy, not at all the light tread of Marks but the heavy, sure thump of a man. A flash of terror bolted through her. Good God, what if someone had somehow slipped inside Burghly House with the intention of doing her harm?
Heart hammering, Ara spun around, a scream in her throat as she launched herself at the unknown interloper. She collided with a wall of chest. Large hands spanned her waist in a tight grip. She clawed at the dark jacket and charcoal waistcoat, tears clouding her eyes as all the fears swirling inside her came to a head.
“Ara, calm yourself.”
The deep voice scarcely penetrated the haze of panic infiltrating her mind. She pummeled the chest with her fists, but it was hopeless, for the chest was muscled and broad. This man was immense and immovable. Solid as a mountain.
He was…
“Ara, it is me.” He caught her wrists in firm grips, yanking her against him so she toppled into him. And there was his scent, leather and musk. And there was his voice once more, which she should have recognized, rumbling against her breasts. “It is Clay, Ara. You are safe.”
She stared up at his familiar visage. The wide, angular jaw covered with dark whiskers, the slash of his nose, his dark, glittering eyes, and the mouth that was wide and full. That she had once loved to kiss.
Tears came. Her entire body shuddered. Great, wracking sobs emerged, and she could not control them. She had no power over her body’s response to the terror that had overtaken her.
“Ara, hush.” He cupped the back of her head, pressing her face to his chest. “I would never hurt you. You have nothing to fear from me.”
How wrong he was. He could hurt her. Had already done so more than anyone before or after him ever had. But the hurt he spoke of and the hurt he had dealt her were two different forms.
She attempted to stifle her humiliating sobs to little effect at first. The steady thrum of his heartbeat against her ear, reminding her of another time when she had listened to those beloved thuds. Slowly, the madness left her. She became aware of herself in stages. His hands, large and warm through the fabric of her morning gown, stroking her spine with steady, soothing calm. Her arms, somehow wrapped loosely around his lean waist. His mouth on her crown, his hot breath scalding.
“That’s it, love. Calm yourself.”
Love.
That lone word, emerging from him, pierced a tender part of her she had no longer believed existed. There had been a time when she had been his love. When she had loved him so fiercely it had swallowed her whole, and when she had believed in his love for her too. To hear him say it now, so effortlessly, as though the word carried with it no significance at all…
She jerked away from his hold, trying not to notice how right being back in his arms had felt. As natural as breathing. Shame licked through her as she thought of how much she had revealed. Until now, she had been so careful to hold tight the reins on her emotions with every interaction between them. To never allow him to see how very affected she was by everything around her. Losing Freddie. Clay’s reappearance in her life. Just everything.
“How dare you enter my chamber?” she demanded, dashing at the fresh tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You have no right to come here unannounced and uninvited, Mr. Ludlow.”
“Ara.” He moved toward her, a hand outstretched.
She stepped back, for she knew if he touched her one more time, she would be lost. “You will refer to me by my title whilst you are beneath this roof.”
He stilled, his expression hardening into the rigid lines she recognized all too well. “Forgive me for the lapse, Your Grace. It was not my intention to give you a fright. It was, however, my intention to speak with you this morning as I previously made abundantly clear.”
How was it he could suck all the air from her lungs with one biting look, one remonstrating sentence? She gritted her teeth. “I believe I made my intention clear to you, Mr. Ludlow. I do not wish to speak with you over breakfast. Nor do I wish to speak to you this afternoon, this evening, tomorrow, or any day thereafter. We have said all that needs to be spoken already. You are here to protect me. That does not require an audience with me.”
His lips thinned, and she noticed how well-defined his philtrum was, even with the shade of whiskers masking it. Once, she had kissed him there, unable to resist.
“You are correct that I am here to protect you, madam,” he agreed, his tone formal and cold and bloodless, much as he would speak to any stranger. “To enable me to perform the task assigned me, I do need to speak with you, however. Regardless of how displeasing you find such a condescension. More specifically, I wished to speak to you regarding the safety of your son, given he has exhibited an alarming tendency to wander and elude his governess.”
She stiffened. “The threat was made against me and not Edward.”
He shook his head slowly, his dark gaze unreadable. “That is immaterial. I am not as certain there is no danger for the young duke. While I am beneath this roof, it is my duty to see to the safety of him as well as you.”
The ominous note of warning in his tone settled into her belly like a leaden weight. It had been difficult enough these last few days, dealing with the fear of an unknown foe wishing to do her harm and take her from her son. But she had foolishly allowed the Duke of Carlisle’s words to reassure her Edward was safe. To think now he too could be in danger left her ill.
She swallowed the bile, hating to allow him to see her weakness for the second time since his invasion of her chamber, but unable to control her emotions. Edward was her son. He was all she had, that innocent, brave, beautiful little boy.
“Have you…” she wet her dry lips, struggling to find the words before continuing, “have you found evidence to suggest Edward is in peril as well?”
Her voice broke on the question. More vulnerability she did not wish to show him. But she had no pride when it came to her son. She would crawl on her hands and knees for him. Would beg. Plead. Walk through fires or broken glass. She would lay down her life to save his, and without a thought.
“I have not.” His gruff tone held a surprisingly tender undercurrent. “It is not my intention to make you fear, Your Grace, but I am greatly concerned the child’s governess is ineffective at her duty. For me to perform my task here properly, I need to know you and the lad are safe at all times. There cannot be a question of that. There can be no weakness, for if the enemy senses even the slightest opportunity, he will strike.”
She could not be certain if she believed he did not want to make her fear. Indeed, where Clayton Ludlow was concerned, she was not certain of anything. The mountain of a man who had stormed her chamber was nothing like the young man who had stolen her heart. He was scarred, savage and intense, arrogant and icy.
His jibe from the night before returned to her.
There is only one manner in which I would like to ride you, madam.
He had intended to shock her, she was sure. To use his vulgarity as a weapon against her. But then he had held her son so gently in his arms. Her son. His son. Their son.
Their son who could be in danger. Her baby boy. Her only light in the darkness of her days. If those murderous bastards harmed him…if they killed him…
Dear, sweet God. She tried to speak, but words would not emerge. Her mouth was dry, her hands clamped on her silk skirts so tightly her knuckles ached from the force. And yet she could not move. Could not speak as her past and her
present and her greatest fears collided in one ugly, vicious burst of emotion and pain.
“Ara?”
His worried voice seemed to reach her as if from the other end of a tunnel. Her vision swirled, sweat beading on her brow, a wave of nausea so intense she feared she would cast up her accounts roiling through her. She could not seem to catch her breath. Could not seem to remain standing. Her knees gave out, and she would have crumpled to the floor in a heap of skirts had not those large, strong arms caught her.
Caught her and held her. She gasped for breath, and it was him she breathed in. Only him, always him. The man she had once loved. The man who had abandoned her. The man who had broken her heart. The father of her son.
“Ara,” he said again, his lips over her ear. Grazing her. Branding her. “Ara, inhale slowly. Take your time. It is shock. It will pass.”
She wanted to obey his soothing voice. Wanted to listen, but her corset seemed to grow tighter with each breath she struggled to make, and darkness clouded her vision. She felt as if there were an invisible pair of hands on her throat, choking the life from her.
“Ara, speak to me. Say something.” He gave her a slight shake as if to snap her out of whatever had come over her.
But it did not work. She still could not catch her breath. Could not form a word. Her head seemed too heavy for her neck, and she lowered her forehead to his chest. This madness had seized her once before, on the day of Freddie’s murder. It would not leave until she succumbed to the darkness.
“Damn it to hell,” he growled against her ear, and then she was being scooped—effortlessly—into his arms, held to his broad chest as if she were a babe. He carried her across the chamber.
As she struggled for breath, she was dimly aware he had not taken her to her sitting room but to her bed. He folded his massive body onto it, still cradling her, whispering in her ear.
Nobody's Duke (League of Dukes Book 1) Page 8
