“Sir, this is truly extraordinary.”
Clay found an empty main saloon. The library.
“I must ask you to leave at once,” the servant demanded.
He turned, towering over the fellow easily with his formidable size. “You can tell me where he is, or I can continue my search, chamber by chamber.”
The man huffed.
He didn’t have time for theatrics. He spun on his heel and resumed working his way through the chambers. Finally, he threw open a door to reveal the study. A thin-haired man was seated behind a large, ornate desk within. He had found his quarry at last.
“Lord Wickham.” He bowed formally. “I am Mr. Clayton Ludlow, and I request an audience with you.”
“I am sorry, my lord,” the butler intervened, sounding much aggrieved. “He would not listen to reason.”
“Of course he would not,” drawled the earl in a nasty tone, standing. “He comes from tainted stock and was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Why should he possess any breeding at all? You may go, Burton. I shall speak to Mr. Ludlow so he may be on his way once more.”
Clay waited for the butler to leave, closing the door softly behind him, before speaking. “My lord, I realize you did not wish to see me, but I must beg an audience of you.”
“You are damned right I did not wish to consort with the Duke of Carlisle’s bastard,” sneered the earl.
Bastard.
The word had followed him like an epithet all his life.
It was unchangeable, a part of him just the same as his bloody hands, and yet it rankled to hear it thrown at him now by Ara’s father, as if the word left a disgusting taste in his mouth.
He remained unflinching, however, determined to persevere. Determined he would do his utmost to win the woman he loved. “I am aware you have a quarrel with my father.”
“I do not quarrel.” The earl flashed a smile that resembled a snarl. Even his straight teeth appeared sharp, and though he was a small man—here was how Ara had inherited her tiny frame—he was nonetheless intimidating. “I loathe Carlisle, because he is a snake in the grass. He stole something from me once, and I shall never forgive him.”
“I am not my father, though I cannot fathom what he could have stolen from you,” he defended. “Nevertheless, I am my own man, and I come to you independent of him.”
“You truly do not know, do you?” Wickham asked, disbelief marking his tone.
What the devil? Was Ara’s father mad?
He shook his head slowly. “I am afraid I do not, my lord.”
“Your mother,” the earl elaborated, bitterness resonating in his words. “He stole your mother from me. I loved her, and he took her away. If you think I would ever give the misbegotten product of their unholy union the slightest courtesy, you are wrong, you insolent whelp.”
Shock permeated Clay. His mother had been a celebrated songstress in her youth, but he’d had no notion she was the reason for the feud between his father and the earl. Dread settled into his gut like a leaden weight, for whilst the likelihood of Wickham giving his blessing upon a union between Clay and Ara had been tenuous at best before, it now seemed impossible.
But he had not come to Kingswood Hall to walk away without trying. “My reason for seeking an audience with you today has nothing to do with grudges you hold against my mother and my father. Rather, it pertains to your daughter, Lady Araminta.”
Wickham stiffened. “I cannot conceive of a reason you would need to discuss Lady Araminta with me, Mr. Ludlow.”
“I wish to marry her, my lord,” he revealed, deciding to make the leap. The opportunity and his reception could not be worse. He had nothing to lose.
Except Ara.
And he would not—could not—lose her.
The earl’s expression hardened. “You cannot imagine, for even one moment, I would allow my lady daughter to wed a bastard.”
He was prepared to make his argument. He had spent the last sennight practicing. “Kingswood Hall borders an estate adjoining Brixton Manor that my father wishes to settle upon me. I also have a generous income per annum that I feel confident would enable Lady Araminta to a life of reasonable comfort.”
“You have not even been introduced to my daughter.” The earl’s gaze narrowed upon him. “Why would you wish to marry her? Undoubtedly, you are aware of her dowry. However, she is already all but promised to the Marquess of Dorset. Surely even one such as you can comprehend that a marquess and a bastard do not equate. Therefore, I could not countenance the mésalliance as you propose, even had I been so inclined, which I most assuredly am not.”
All but promised to the Marquess of Dorset?
This information gave him pause.
But it was something he would address with Ara later. In private. It was possible that her father bluffed. Or perhaps it was a match he wished for her to make. She had certainly not spoken of an imminent betrothal aside from their own.
“I beg you to reconsider, my lord,” he tried again. “While I may not be a peer of the realm, I would treat Lady Araminta with fairness, respect, and above all kindness.”
“As will Dorset,” Wickham snapped. “You have said your piece, which is more than I was initially willing to allow. Consider yourself fortunate and take your leave.”
There was an air of finality in his tone. In the moment.
Clay felt as if the air had been stolen from his lungs. The embittered man before him would never allow him to wed Ara. Part of him could not blame Wickham, for Lord knew if he had a daughter of his own, he would want her to marry a wealthy lord who could provide for her rather than a duke’s by-blow who had been scorned all his life.
Nothing he could do or say would change Wickham’s mind. There had to be another way.
He bowed, sickness swirling in his gut. “Thank you for your time, my lord.”
And then he stalked from the study and from Kingswood Hall altogether.
But he had not given up on Ara. Not yet. Somehow, by some means, she would be his wife.
Ara raced through the darkness and collided with a wall of chest.
Strong, familiar arms banded around her.
“Steady, Ara love,” Clay whispered.
She embraced him tightly, burying her face in his coat. It had been two days since she had seen him, and the intervening hours had been interminable. Finally, at last, here he was.
“I missed you so,” she murmured back, rising on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his corded neck. Here, the bristle of his whiskers pricked her lips, and she could open her mouth to taste the salty musk of him. His pulse pounded. She flicked her tongue over its steady throb.
He issued a low sound of need. “Minx. You must not or we shan’t make it to our destination.”
That simply would not do.
With great reluctance, she stopped her exploration of his skin and allowed him to take her hand and tug her into the copse of trees where his mount invariably waited. The moon was full and high, unnaturally bright overhead as they made their way to his horse. He slung his large body into the saddle first and then held down a hand, hoisting her with ease and settling her before him, between his powerful thighs.
The late August air was cool, but Clay’s body was a furnace of warmth, and she nestled against him, relishing the closeness they could share, however fleeting. He rode to the hunting cabin, an easy silence falling that was interrupted only by the steady plod of his horse’s hooves. Now and again, she caught a glimpse of the night sky through the boughs overhead, their twinkling lights like charmed beacons overhead.
She could ride with him like this forever, she thought wistfully. Like every other stolen moment with him, she wished it would never end. But the ride came to a halt, Clay slowing the mare to a trot before stopping her and dismounting.
He reached up for her next, helping her down and hauling her against him. For an indeterminate span of time, they simply held each other, breathing in and out, relishing the secret chance to be close. How she ache
d to be so free with him every day. To live her life with him, never leaving his side.
She shivered.
He rubbed her arms through her pelisse. “Are you cold, love? Come, let us go within. I’ll build a fire.”
She was not cold, not in the way he meant, but Ara did not wish to spoil the loveliness of their tryst with heavy thoughts. Instead, she allowed him to lead her inside the small, neatly kept cabin. An oil lamp flickered to life when he lit it, bathing the chamber in a golden glow. He drew her against him and kissed her sweetly before striding to the grate and crouching down to begin building a fire.
He was such a capable man, and it was one of the many traits she admired in him. He did not shy from performing tasks himself, unlike the lords who had courted her. He wore his industriousness with honor.
“I wish we did not have to meet in secret,” she said suddenly, hugging her arms about herself as she watched him.
For some time, he did not respond, the only sound between them the rustling of logs, followed by the gentle crackle of the kindling as the flame came to life.
“I went to see your father two days ago,” he said at last. His back was to her, his hands busy with working the flames higher.
“You did?” An instant burst of hope flared in her breast. “Why?”
“To ask for your hand in marriage,” he clipped.
There was something different in his tone, a lack of joy, that warned her to temper that hope with caution “And what did he say?”
“He said you are to wed the Marquess of Dorset.” He had yet to turn back toward her, and she could not see his expression, but she could well imagine what it contained.
Her heart gave a pang as she went to him, falling on her knees alongside him at the hearth. She did not care if her silk became crushed or otherwise befouled. All she cared about was him.
“Clay.” She touched his bicep, firm and powerful beneath his coat. “Will you not look at me?”
He took his time with the fire, waiting until it crackled merrily into the silence, radiating a warmth she scarcely felt, before he turned back to her. “Have you anything to say about it, Ara? Were you intending to go from my arms to another man’s bed?”
“Of course not,” she said softly. “I do not want to wed Dorset. The marquess has been pressing his suit, but I do not care for him at all. There is only one man I would have as my husband, and Dorset is not he.”
“The earl was adamant in his disapproval.” Clay cupped her face with a large, callused hand, his dark gaze searching hers. “I am beneath you, Ara. I have no right to be here with you now. No right to want you as I do.”
“How adamant was my father?” she asked, desperation making her mind whirl. There had to be some way she could make her father listen to reason. He was a harsh, stern man. But surely if she could convince him she was in love, he would relent. Surely she could force him to realize she and Clay were meant to be together.
That they were each other’s fate.
He ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, his countenance pained. “Extraordinarily so. Not only does his quarrel with my father still rankle him, but he has vowed he will not ever grant me your hand.”
“No,” she denied, launching herself at him without a thought. Though she was small, her momentum took him by surprise, and they toppled as one to the demi-lune rug laid before the hearth. His thighs splayed wide, and she settled between them, only the impediment of her skirts and his trousers in her way.
“His words, love. Would that I could change them.” He was somber.
She stared intently down into his ruggedly beautiful face, and her heart knew there was no other man for her. “I will change his mind, Clay. I will speak with him.”
“And tell him what, love?” A bitter laugh escaped his lips, but he caressed her hair reverently just the same. “That while we have never had a proper introduction, we have been meeting in secret and engaging in all manner of wickedness and we now wish to be properly wed?”
“It is not like that between us.” She frowned down at him. Yes, they had been wicked, though she would not regret a moment of the time she had spent in his arms. “I will tell him I love you, and I will not be happy unless I am your wife.”
“If only it were that easy, Ara mine.” His strokes slowed. “Apparently, your father and mine vied for my mother’s hand years ago. My father won, and yours will not forgive him for it. You see, I am not just a bastard but the bastard born to the woman he once loved. He loathes me, and he has assured me he will not give his consent.”
“Fortunately, I am of age.” Her tone was firm, her decision made. If her father would not approve of a match between she and Clay, they would simply do what they must. “I can marry whomever I wish.”
“Aye.” Clay’s fingers had found their way into her carefully wrought coif now, plucking pins and sending heavy curls falling around them like a curtain. “He could disown you. Refuse to speak to you. What would you do then, Ara? I hardly think you would be prepared to lead a simple life, possibly stripped from all friends and family. I will taint you. Ruin you far worse than I already have.”
“You could never ruin me,” she whispered before kissing him as she had been longing from the moment she had walked into his chest earlier. Their mouths clung as if this kiss was their last, but for her it was everything. It was the beginning. She opened for him, surrendering to his tongue, his gentle owning of her lips.
With a growl, he suddenly rolled, until her back was upon the carpet and he straddled her with his thick, muscular thighs. He broke their kiss, staring down at her with so much naked need she lost her breath.
“Then marry me, Ara. Come away with me,” he said. “Will you?”
She did not hesitate. “I love you, Clay, and I would go anywhere as long as I was with you.”
“Bloody hell,” he cursed, merging their lips for another long, heady kiss. It was fiery and raw, tender and sweet. “I do not want to wait any longer, Ara. I will need a day to obtain a license. Two days from now is not soon enough, but it will have to do. Meet me near the north road leading from Kingswood Hall the day after tomorrow. Pack what you can in a small valise. We shall figure out the rest.”
The hope she had ruthlessly tamped down sprang forth once more, filling her with buoyant, radiant light. “I will be there at dawn,” she vowed.
“Yes?” A boyish grin lit his features.
Her arms twined around his neck, guiding him back down to her. “Yes. I will be anywhere you are, whenever you wish me there. Now kiss me, Clay.”
Still smiling, his mouth found hers. Their lips fused. On a liquid sigh of want, she opened for him. His tongue plundered, and he tasted sweet, like sugar. If love had a flavor, it would be this, she thought, it would be him.
She had been sleeping before he came into her world. He woke her heart, her body. He had unleashed the despicable thing, and now it could not be contained. Through him, she learned the despicable thing had a name.
Desire.
They kissed and kissed. Kissed until she was breathless. Until the pulsing between her legs grew heavy and warm, until need for him transformed her. She knew what the sensations burning through her meant now. She needed him to touch her. They kissed until he rocked against her, and she felt the lengthy protrusion of him through her skirts, so close to where she wanted him most.
Though she had touched him, bare skin to bare skin, he had never made love to her fully. She knew it was what her body longed for, what made her restless and achy. It was what she had imagined so many nights, lying awake alone in her bed in the dark stillness. Wondering where he was. Wondering what it would be like to touch him whenever she chose. To take him inside her. To become his in every way.
“Ara.” Her name was a groan as he tore his mouth away at last, his breathing as ragged as hers. He cupped her face in his big hands, staring down into her eyes with his dark gaze, and there was a rawness she had never before seen in his expression.
An in
tensity. A tenderness.
He looked at her as if he loved her too. He had yet to say the words. Her heart was strong enough for both of them. Perhaps he was not yet sure how to define what he felt for her. She would wait. She had never been more certain of a decision in all her life.
“I never wanted to feel this way.” He shook his head. “Not for you, and not for anyone. But when you look at me as you do, when you touch me, when I breathe in your scent—bloody hell, even when you are nowhere near me—my chest aches.”
“Clay,” she whispered, her fingers working through his luxurious hair, writing tender patterns of love over his scalp. She could not stop touching him. She never wanted to stop. He was hers, this man. And she was his. “You do not need to explain. I feel the same.”
He dipped his head, ran his nose along hers in an unexpected caress, then kissed her tenderly once more before rising to look down at her again. His eyes glittered like the stars that watched over them in their midnight races to be together. “My mother told me love would be like a stream after days of pouring rain, that it would rise and overflow its banks, that something violent and magnificent would replace what had been there before. That one small stream can become a rushing river, transforming everything in its path.”
She stroked the back of his neck. “Your mother sounds like a wise woman.”
His thumb traced her cheek with such slow gentleness she could not look away. Did not even dare breathe for fear she would break the spell that had fallen upon them. “I never understood. Why would she choose to live with a man who could not marry her? Why did she accept less than she deserved? But now I know, Ara. Because she was in love, and I know she was right because I feel it too. I would give anything to be yours. I vow to you I will always love you, Ara. You will have my heart forever and the century next.”
“Oh Clay, my love.” She hauled his mouth back down to hers, and they kissed again. His lips found her neck, open and hungry, feasting on her. His breath was hot and moist, and it sent a fresh pang of need straight to her core.
Nobody's Duke (League of Dukes Book 1) Page 14
