She watched him with ice in her eyes, her face a pained, ashen mask. “He is a boy. He cannot have a blade.”
Clay rose to his full height, never taking his gaze from her. “I shall teach him how to use it properly.”
“It is not your place to teach him anything,” she snapped, her tone biting. She held out her hand to the lad. “The knife, Edward. Give it to me.”
No, it was not his place. He had no claim upon her son. No claim upon her. He was the bastard she had once scorned and betrayed. He wondered if she felt any guilt, even the slightest hint, when she looked upon the handiwork of her father’s mercenary. Likely not, and the thought provoked the banked fires of his rage toward her into a freshly burning flame.
“But Mama,” the lad protested, dragging Clay from the depths of his thoughts.
Taking pity on the lad, Clay intervened once more. “It is not bad luck if the blade is held in trust for the warrior by the warrior’s mother, however,” he invented.
He had not much experience with children, but it had become apparent to him that they were eternally hopeful, their hearts filled with innocence and beliefs that had yet to be dashed. The day would come when that would happen. But it would not be today for the lad, damn it. He needed to believe in something. He needed to cling to his bloody hope, for it was all the boy had left.
Ara gave Clay a sour look. “The blade, Edward.”
“Very well, but only if you are certain, Mr. Ludlow, that a warrior’s mother can hold the blade for him without it causing misfortune?” the lad asked.
“Aye,” he said past a sudden thickness in his throat. “I am sure, lad.”
As if his blessing was enough, the lad acceded to his mother’s wishes and deposited the folded blade in her waiting palm. “Very well, Mama, but I shall want it back. Mr. Ludlow will show me how to use it, and I will be requiring it then.”
Her fingers closed over the blade with so much force her knuckles went white. “Thank you, Edward. You may return to Miss Argent now.”
“Yes, Mama, I shall.” He slanted another glance toward Clay. “Until our next lesson, Mr. Ludlow.”
Clay bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”
The lad offered a hasty bow in return and then took his leave of the chamber, closing the door quietly behind him. Silence descended for several heavy moments. Clay swung his attention back to the duchess. She stood within reach, not even an arm’s length away. Near enough to tempt him, even after everything she had done.
His eyes dipped to the ever-present mourning brooch on her bodice, and for the first time, he noted the color of the hair trapped behind the glass. Golden. The Duke of Burghly must have been as flaxen-haired as a wheat field. How odd the lad was so dark in contrast, possessing neither Ara’s flaming locks nor his father’s blond.
“You have no right to give my son anything,” Ara said then, dragging his gaze back to her face with her venom.
“I did not think the gift would be so poorly received,” he said drily, crossing his arms behind his back and taking a wrist in one hand.
It was not a gentlemanly pose, but it was necessary if he wished to refrain from doing something foolhardy like touching her. Or something ludicrous like taking her in his arms. Or something as bloody stupid as kissing her lush, pink lips and backing her up against a wall so he could ravish her mouth as the savage inside him longed to do.
“Blades are dangerous,” she argued. “He is only seven years old, Mr. Ludlow.”
Seven years old. Why had he never given a thought to the lad’s age before? Of course he was young, but not so young he could not be entrusted with a blade. Why, Clay himself had been similar in age when his father had first taken him on a hunt. Seven years was almost a lifetime. It was almost eight years, in fact, which was the last time Clay had seen the lad’s mother. Since he had kissed her. Held her. Lain with her.
Clay froze.
Holy God. His mind sprinted through facts, attempting to make sense of the ugly, jumbled mess that had only just begun to take shape.
Seven years old. Dark hair. Gangly limbs. Tall.
Clay had seen the pictures of the Duke of Burghly, and while he had not been able to discern how light the man’s hair had been, his facial structure was clear. The lad did not resemble Burghly in the slightest. Indeed, the lad resembled…sweet Jesus…he resembled…himself.
Seven years old.
Seven.
Years.
Old.
Why had it never occurred to him before this moment? Why had he never realized? Good God, all the signs were there. He had seen himself in the lad. How many times had he looked upon him and been reminded of himself as a youth? And not just that. They had bonded. They had connected.
The boy was his son. The duke. The lad. Bloody hell, the name Clay called him mattered not. Only one thing did. One truth he was beginning to think irrefutable: Ara’s son was his son.
The only time they had made love, he had lost control and spent inside her. It had been but the once, and he had not thought a babe would be likely. And then, after she had betrayed him, he had never thought of a babe at all. He had tried to think as little of Ara as possible.
But now… Now, his heart thumped madly in his chest as if he had run a great distance. Now, it seemed such a circumstance had not been as unlikely as he had believed. It seemed he had left behind a part of himself on that night, one he had never dreamed existed.
He struggled to calm himself, for he did not yet possess enough facts—enough ammunition—to serve him. “The lad is seven years old,” he repeated slowly, lingering on the number, his eyes burning into hers, looking for the slightest hint of a reaction.
Her nostrils flared. “Yes, Mr. Ludlow. My son is seven years of age, far too young to be entrusted with a dangerous blade he does not know how to wield.”
“When is his birthday?” he asked with deceptive calm.
“Why?” she asked, her full lips pursed into a thin line.
Damn it, he did not have the patience for her games.
“When?” he repeated through gritted teeth.
“I do not need to linger here and subject myself to your interrogation, Mr. Ludlow.” She pinned him with a glare, grasping her skirts in the hand that did not contain his knife and giving them an agitated twitch as she spun to present him with her back. “If you will excuse me, I have many important matters awaiting my attention, sir.”
No.
He was not allowing her to leave this chamber until he had answers. Until he knew, irrevocably, that what he already suspected was true.
No. Bloody. Way.
He followed her, seized her waist in his hands, and forced her to face him once more. She gasped, her head tipping back as he spun her more harshly than he would have needed to, her fingers finding purchase on his shoulders. Violent anger careened through him. If she had kept his son from him…if she had lied…for years…eight fucking years…and allowed the lad to believe another man was his father…
“Is there something you would like to tell me, Your Grace?” he asked, unable to keep the barely leashed violence from his tone.
She was so small in his hands, like a bird, so fine-boned and slim. He could crush her with such ease. He was a large man, he knew, and he was ever cognizant of his size, but she had driven him to the edge of reason. He would never hurt her, but if she feared him, so much the better.
Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. And yet, she said nothing.
Hungry for her words—nay, for her admission—he tightened his grip. “I repeat, madam, is there something you would like to tell me?”
Her eyes, flat and cold, met his. “There is nothing I want to tell you, sir.”
He shook his head. “No, my dear. I am afraid that simply will not suffice. Try again.”
She threw back her shoulders and tipped up her chin, the picture of elegant, wild defiance. It took him back to the mad days of their youth, just for a beat, until he banished the thought. He did not want to
recall the girl he had thought he’d known, for she had been a chimera, and he had already paid his penance for his stupidity long ago.
“Go to hell, Mr. Ludlow,” she said coldly.
His patience died. His reason disappeared. In that instant, he could do nothing but feel, and the anger and resentment and unadulterated fury rising in his chest would not be denied. He drove her backward. Mindless, spurred by need and anger and Lord knew what else, he gripped her waist and stalked forward, moving them as one. Moving until her back was against the wall.
He did not even bother with pretense. Instead, he sank his body into hers so that every part of him—all the sinews, all the angles and planes, all the hardness and steel, fitted itself against her malleable curves. Their lips were scandalously close, their breaths mingling. Hers emerged in harsh pants to match his.
“I have been in hell these last eight years.” The admission was torn from him. “You sent me there without a moment of remorse. But I will forgive you for all your sins against me save one. What I cannot forgive, Ara, is you keeping my son from me.”
“He is not your son,” she denied, an edge of desperation entering her voice. “I insist you release me at once and cease your manhandling of my person.”
She was lying. He could see it in the way her eyes refused to focus upon him. In the way she held herself. In her every protest. The rage beating inside him was palpable. So too the devastation. He had thought she had betrayed him before, but this—keeping his son from him for seven bloody years and raising him as another man’s child—this revelation flayed his skin from the bone. It was as if she had taken his blade and sunk it deep into his chest.
“You, madam, are a liar,” he bit out, rage coursing through his veins. It was so strong, so violent it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Or perhaps that was her breath, scented with tea and fear.
“And you are a bastard, Mr. Ludlow.” She maintained her poise, even as he crowded her against the wall, even as he sensed the anxiety roiling through her. “Now that we have traded insults, would you mind removing your person from mine so I may exit the chamber and distance myself from your insufferable presence?”
He slid his right hand from her waist up her bodice. Over black silk he coasted, absorbing her heat, the softness of the fabric, the boning of her corset, the fullness of her breast. He did not stop until he reached her heart, his hand splaying over it, her mourning brooch a cool reproach, providing slick contrast to the warmth radiating from her. Her heart pounded, steady and hard. No indeed, she was not as unaffected as she pretended.
“Aye, I am a bastard,” he said. “That was the trouble for you, wasn’t it, Duchess? You wanted me, but when you realized how hard life would be as the wife of a bastard, you found yourself a duke instead. Did the poor devil ever know the lad was not his, or did he believe you went to his bed an innocent?”
It would not have been the first time a lady of quality went to her husband’s bed carrying another man’s seed. The notion of Ara marrying Burghly and deceiving him into believing Clay’s son was his made him ill. As did the thought of her lying with him. She had gone to her marriage bed carrying his babe, and she had chosen to bear and raise that babe with another man.
Her brilliant eyes settled upon his at last, bright in her pale face. “Edward is Freddie’s son.”
“Freddie is dead,” he spat.
She flinched. “I am aware my husband is gone, Mr. Ludlow. If he were here, you would not be.”
No, he would not. He would be assigned to a different mission, somewhere else. He would be going about his days without knowing he had a son. A son who thought his father had died three months ago in a Dublin Park at the hands of assassins.
Damn it, he hated Burghly as much as he envied him, for the man had been a father to the lad for seven years. He had usurped Clay’s place in his son’s life. In Ara’s life. Because she had chosen the duke instead of Clay. The knowledge made her betrayal so much worse than he had supposed.
She had lied to him. Lied to their son. To hell with the scar on his face. It was a trifling matter compared to the loss of seven years with Edward. Seven years he could not regain and she should not have stolen from him. But to think, had he not come here to Burghly House on this assignment, he never would have discovered the truth. He never would have met his awkward, sensitive, big-hearted lad with the blue-violet eyes and frame that was too large for his body. Such a vital part of himself—as necessary as his damn heart—and he would not have known.
Because of her.
All because of one woman.
“You would have allowed the lad to think Burghly was his father for the rest of his days,” he observed with a coolness he did not feel. Inside, he was raging. He was every emotion he had ever felt multiplied by a thousand and then set on bloody fire.
“Because Burghly is his father,” she insisted, clinging to her lies. “I married Freddie shortly after you left for the Continent. It was a whirlwind courtship as we fell madly in love. You are mistaken in your assumptions, Mr. Ludlow.”
After her betrayal, he had needed to flee. With stitches yet in his cheek, he had gone as far and as fast as he could go. He had landed in France, then on to Italy and Prussia before settling back in Paris for an extended stay. He’d spent nearly six months as a wanderer, living life by the moment, some days drowning in his grief and others determined to purge Ara from his mind and heart however he could.
It had been a sinful time, most of it a blur as he looked back upon it. And all those lost months, as he had been trying to remove every remnant of her from his memory, his son had been growing in her womb while she had become another man’s wife. When he had returned to England and found his purpose in the Special League, his son had been a babe. Clay had been robbed of the opportunity to watch him grow. To hold him in his arms.
Her words struck him then. “How did you know I had gone to the Continent?”
“I went to Brixton Manor,” she said quietly. “I was informed of your departure.”
No one had ever spoken a word of her visit to him. He supposed they would not have. His father had been furious with him for dallying with the daughter of a man he loathed.
“Why did you go there?” he asked, though he knew he ought not. Her reasons no longer mattered. She had allowed another man to raise his son for seven years and had every intention of perpetuating that lie now.
“Because I was a fool.” Her tone was bitter. “I have long since grown weary of answering your questions, Mr. Ludlow. I have a great deal of correspondence awaiting my attention, so if you will excuse me?”
Did she truly believe, even for an instant, he had believed a word of her nonsensical denials? That he would allow her to scurry away so she could write letters when the most important question of his life went unanswered? Did she not think he had wits about him or eyes in his head? The truth did not need her voice, for it was in everything, and he could not believe he had not seen it sooner. Perhaps he had been too blinded by the task assigned him. Perhaps he had been too distracted by her. Whatever the case, he knew now, without her acknowledgment, the lad was his bloody son.
But he wanted to hear the truth from her. She owed it to him.
She moved to squeeze herself between him and the wall, attempting a side step so she could slink away. There was no way in hell she was going anywhere until she confirmed what he already knew. He blocked her, kicking out a booted foot, his long leg trapping her. Unfortunately, the movement also brought their bodies even closer together, until she was flush against him.
“I will not excuse you, madam,” he warned, his hand moving from her heart to her throat. His fingers curled lazily about her neck, his thumb dipping into the hollow where her pulse thrummed a frantic staccato. “Do not think for a moment you will be leaving this chamber until I have my answers.”
“I have already given you your answers,” she insisted, swallowing in a ripple against his thumb.
“No, my dear Duchess.” He shook
his head slowly. “You have given me falsehoods.”
Her lips parted. “Let me go or I shall scream.”
He almost laughed, but levity was not in him. Not when he felt so torn up inside he could scarcely gather his thoughts. “Scream away, madam. You will only send my men raining down upon us, and then we shall both have to explain why we are here against this wall.”
“Because you are holding me prisoner,” she gritted, lashing out at him for the first time by striking his chest with the heels of both hands.
For such a small thing, she had a surprising strength. But she was no match for his larger frame, just as he had never been any match for her cunning betrayal. “Nay, Duchess. We are here in this battle because you insist upon deceit. I will give you one last chance to be honest with me. Who is the father of your son?”
She stared over his shoulder. “My husband, Mr. Ludlow.”
Stubborn to the end. Did she think she could fool him? Or did she fancy he would relent and believe her lies? Was she that arrogant, or simply that desperate? He searched her face, seeking an answer and finding none. Here was the woman he had once loved, a woman, as it turned out, he had never truly known at all. Time had worn by, but she was as calculating and selfish as she had been all those years ago.
He stroked her throat slowly, moving from her pulse to her jaw, and then back down, once, twice, thrice. Again and again, for now that he was touching her—part caress, part threat, he could not seem to stop himself. She was pale and soft, her skin luxurious as velvet.
“Such vulnerability here,” he said lowly, the pent-up anger inside him wanting to alarm her. “You are completely at my mercy, Ara.”
He could not bring himself to refer to her by her title. Not now. Not with so much unspoken between them, the memories of everything they had shared and what they had been to each other pulsing in the air.
Her eyes flew back to his, wide and vibrant. Solemn. “I have always been at your mercy.”
There she was wrong, for in truth, it was the opposite. He was at her mercy, as ever. From the moment he had first seen her pale face and vibrant hair in the forest, he had been helpless to resist her. She had been like a sylph, wild and lovely and so very intriguing. He’d lost his heart to her. Believed in her, in their love.
Nobody's Duke (League of Dukes Book 1) Page 12
