He drew back slightly so he could absorb every detail of her in the early morning light. Her face had not changed, still as interesting and lovely as ever, accented now by a few faint lines that had not existed eight years before. Her breasts were fuller, rounded and womanly.
Her waist was narrow, and he could see her rib bones as she breathed in and out. She needed to eat more. Needed to look after herself. Undoubtedly, it was the strain she had been under in the last few months.
Reality returned, intruding upon their false idyll.
It settled into his stomach like a cold, dark weight. The threat against her remained, just as real and terrifying as ever. There were men who wanted to spill her blood. Faceless, nameless enemies who would slay her in the same coldhearted fashion they had assassinated the duke.
This was no dream after all.
“Why do you frown?” she asked softly, her fingers brushing over his furrowed brow.
He did not want to speak of the ugliness surrounding them, did not want to bring the darkness into their light. At least not for this moment. Not while he could keep it at bay. And so, he caught her fingers in his, brought them to his lips for a kiss. “I do not want to make you the cause of speculation or gossip. The servants will soon be about.”
She was silent for a beat. “Yes, of course. You are right. I must go. I daresay I have already tarried far too long as it is.”
She rolled away from him in one swift motion, rising from his bed. His eyes devoured her—the copper curls that hung past her arse, the petite legs, the trim ankles. All that mouthwatering expanse of creamy skin. Tarts, he decided. Cakes and tarts were what she needed. Some indulgence.
Did he detect a stiffening in her posture? She paced the chamber, looking for something. For her nightrail, he would guess. It was currently crumpled and wadded beneath his pillow. He retrieved it and rose from the bed as well, going to her, staying her with a gentle hand.
“Ara.”
She stopped. Looked over her shoulder, worrying the delectable fullness of her lower lip. “It is as you said. I need to go. Why do you delay me?”
Ever stubborn. “Ara, look at me,” he demanded softly.
She did at last, her expression guarded.
“You are all I care about,” he explained. “Your reputation. Your safety. Your happiness. You, Ara. I never stopped caring about you, not in all these years.”
She bit her lip again before answering, so quietly he could scarcely hear the words. “I never stopped caring about you either, Clay.”
She threw her nightrail over her head, and without bothering to free her bold locks from the constraint of the fabric, she turned and fled to the door joining their chambers. All he could do was watch her go, knowing she took his heart with her.
Chapter Twenty
What had she expected?
A proposal?
A declaration of love?
He had not offered tender words of undying devotion. Instead, he had offered nothing. No hope. Oh, he said he cared about her, that he had not stopped. But one cared about whether or not it may rain on a Tuesday when one was invited to a garden party that day. One cared about whether or not a pair of boots caused blisters. One cared about too much pepper in a dish and not enough salt.
Foolish, foolish Ara. You are older, wiser. You are not the naïve young girl who fell in love with him. What did you think you would accomplish by falling into his bed? And even if he does care for you, you are in mourning. You cannot marry now even if you would wish it.
Ara poked at her breakfast as if it were her enemy. She did not want to eat. Did not think she could possibly stomach a bite.
Her world was in disintegration.
She had risen from Clay’s bed that morning, alive with the realization that her entire life—and the ruin it now was—had been orchestrated by her father and mother. Embittered by the knowledge she had allowed herself to be so easily manipulated.
Dear God, she could not stop thinking about her father hiring some cutthroat to beat Clay and carve open his face. Could not stop thinking about the deliberate betrayal that had prompted either her mother or her father to read her journal without her permission and then use what they had read to keep her and Clay apart. To hurt them. A choked sound tore from her before she could contain it as she recalled Clay’s recollection of that day, the violence done him.
“Your Grace?”
Ara glanced up from the eggs she had been so liberally stabbing to find Clay’s mother watching her with a smile affixed to her lips. Looking as if she had asked Ara a question.
“Are you well, Your Grace?” his mother queried, polite concern underlying her mellifluous voice.
“Forgive me,” she said hastily. “I was… I am… Since the incident in London, I have not been myself. I fear I swallowed my eggs wrong.”
Lily raised a dark brow, looking very much like her son with her impenetrable countenance. “Oh? How odd. I do not believe you have taken a bite to eat, Duchess.”
Ara’s face heated as she realized Clay’s mother had been observing her far too closely during the course of their quiet breakfast. She wondered if her guilt showed in her expression. If Lily had any inkling what had occurred the evening before.
And that morning.
Her cheeks burned hotter still.
“My appetite has not been as rigorous as it ought to be given the tumult of the last few weeks,” she forced herself to say, donning a polite smile.
Lily studied her solemnly. “My dear, you must look after yourself, for the sake of that darling boy if no one else.”
Her heart warmed to think of her son, who had been soundly sleeping when she had checked on him before descending to breakfast. Clay’s cat had been curled up alongside Edward, and the picture the two of them presented had brought a rush of maudlin maternal tears to her eyes. She rather had a feeling the feline was no longer Clay’s at all.
“For these last few months, I have been all Edward has left,” she acknowledged before keeping herself from revealing more. Already, she had said too much, and she was not prepared to confess all to Lily. She did not yet know how the other woman would take the news, and Ara did not think herself capable of handling any more conflict and unrest.
Not now.
Not after everything she had been through.
She was still partially in shock from it all: the grief, danger, revelations, and change. She scarcely recognized her reflection in the glass. Somehow, she had not realized she had lost weight, but she could feel it now, in the way her dresses hung on her slight frame. In the way her corset could lace without any slack.
“But now you are here,” Lily intervened in that lovely, lilting voice of hers, her tone infinitely kind. “The two of you are not alone any longer, Your Grace.”
For now, Ara wanted to say, because Clay had not made her a single promise. She considered his mother, resplendent this morning in a bright emerald gown that set off her dark hair and eyes. She was lovely, and Ara could readily see how the Duke of Carlisle would have fallen in love with her. She had been nothing but welcoming, giving, and warm. Like the flamboyant dresses she wore, she possessed a signature brightness and warmth that drew others to her.
She wondered if Lily suspected Edward was Clay’s son. She had no notion of how close he was to his mother. But she could not quite suppress the suspicion that the woman offering her a compassionate smile across the breakfast table knew more than she alluded to. Perhaps it was a mother’s instinct.
Ara swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat at the elder woman’s empathy. “We are grateful indeed for your hospitality, Lily. I no longer felt safe at Burghly House after…the incident. Being here at Harlton Hall is a refreshing change of pace from the city.”
As she said the words, she realized just how deeply she meant them. Despite her inner turmoil over Clay and what the revelations of their past meant for them moving forward, she was calmer here. Her shoulders did not feel quite so tensed. She breathed easier. Harlton Hall
felt like a home. It was filled with Lily’s warmth and innate sense of style—each chamber decorated sumptuously without being overbearing—and the park was verdant and vibrant, and so very alive.
She felt as if she could belong here.
As if it could be her home.
But that was rather silly of her, wasn’t it? To develop a fondness for a collection of stones and wooden beams after a mere day? Especially when she did not know where she stood with Clay.
“This is not my home, Duchess,” his mother said, her smile turning wistful. “It is my son’s. Of course, he has not yet made it his home, but there is ample time yet for that. I do keep hoping that one day he will marry and provide me with a gentle and tenderhearted wife so that I may at last have a daughter as well. A grandson in Clay’s image would be a gift in equal measure.”
Dear God.
Clay’s mother knew. There was no question of it. She knew she ought not to be surprised, for she herself had seen the undeniable similarities between Clay and Edward. Her son was his father’s mirror, in miniature. But somehow, the knowledge that the generous, wonderful woman before her knew the truth of her sins took Ara’s breath.
She did not know what to say. Panic scrambled up her throat, for she was not ready for this. The assault she had almost faced had left her badly shaken, and her mind and body did not wish to absorb one more trauma.
Fortunately, Lily spared her the decision.
She directed another sincere smile Ara’s way. “Of course, a grandchild in Leo’s image would be equally as welcome. But Carlisle is decidedly different from Clay. He assures me he is in no position to settle down with a wife, regardless of how happy it would make me.”
Though Ara knew she should not be surprised, she was nevertheless taken aback by Lily referring to the Duke of Carlisle as her son. It was a unique situation, the topic a delicate one.
“Of course,” she said mildly, attempting to hide her discomfit by shoveling a forkful of eggs into her mouth and chewing. The dish had long since gone cold. Oeufs cocotte had never appealed to her. Less now that they had been too long untouched upon her plate. She stifled her moue of disgust and reluctantly lifted another bite of cold eggs to her lips.
“Our family is unconventional, I know,” Clay’s mother said then, seeming to read Ara’s thoughts yet again. She gave Ara a sad smile. “Pray forgive me if I make you uncomfortable but I do so wish Reggie could have met you, Duchess, and your son as well.”
Ara supposed that Reggie was Clay’s father, the former Duke of Carlisle. Edward’s grandfather. “We would have been pleased to know him, I am sure,” she said softly. For a brief moment, she considered confessing all to Lily.
But she thought better of it and forced another bite of cold eggs into her mouth instead.
In the bright morning light outside Harlton Hall, Clay feinted left, then struck Farleigh with a clean blow to the jaw.
Farleigh’s head snapped back, but he surprised Clay by recovering with speed and precision, delivering a blow of his own to Clay’s chin that rather stung. Damn it all to hell, either the man was getting better at sparring, or Clay was getting worse.
“You seem distracted today,” Farleigh taunted then, as if sensing the vein of Clay’s thoughts.
Distracted.
Hell yes, he was distracted.
“Distracted men are dead men,” he said neatly, sidestepping Farleigh’s next blow and landing another of his own.
Farleigh grunted. “Truer words were never spoken, sir.”
Clay swung again, but his opponent performed a neat block. Trying to oust Ara from his mind was futile. She was a part of him, like his scar, like his heart and lungs and blood. There would be no excising her now, if indeed he had ever been capable of such a thing.
No, he realized as he pivoted on his right foot and avoided another swing from Farleigh.
He had never been capable of cutting Ara from his thoughts or his heart. Even in her eight-year absence from his life, she had still been there. She had been the reason he had never found another who could own his heart. She had been the reason he had roamed. The reason he had accepted mission after mission, putting himself at risk, not having a care for whether he lived or died. She had been the reason he had never loved anyone else. The reason he had never wanted a wife or children of his own.
Because any wife he would have chosen would not have been her.
And any child he sired would not have been hers.
Because she had been the other half of him, always. And she still was now. Would be, forever.
She had been gone, and yet she had been the driving force. The reason behind his every decision.
A blinding pain tore through him as Farleigh’s fist connected with his eye socket.
“Sodding hell.” The epithet was torn from him. It was the second time he had allowed thoughts of Ara to distract him so thoroughly that Farleigh was able to sneak past his defenses and land a solid fist to his face.
“I beg your pardon, sir.” Farleigh sounded genuinely contrite. “I expected you to move.”
Damn it. He could not continue to go about being defeated by the men he led. It was a hell of a blow for morale for one thing and an even bigger blow to his already wounded pride for another. Here he stood, mooning over Ara so pathetically that Farleigh had planted him a facer.
His eye smarted, and he was certain it would change color on the morrow. Precisely what he needed when he was attempting to woo Ara. At least, that was what he intended to do. She had been far too eager to leave his chamber this morning, and he had been haunted by questions from the moment he had watched her hips swaying back over the threshold between their chambers just before she’d slammed the door.
“Sir?” Farleigh persisted, dragging Clay’s attention back to him and away from Ara, where it wanted to stray.
And linger.
“Aye?” He rubbed his eye, shooting his man a wry grin.
“I did not expect you to sustain the blow.”
That made two of them.
He had thought he was impervious to the forceful yet relatively unskilled fisticuffs of Farleigh. Then again, he had also fancied himself impervious to the Duchess of Burghly. The mother of his son. The only woman he had ever loved.
Ara.
It did not matter what he called her or how he thought of her, she was his every distraction. She was the reason… She was everything he wanted, everything he needed.
“Sir?”
He was mooning again, rubbing his throbbing eye socket and thinking of her. This simply would not do.
“Clayton?”
His mother’s voice hit him then, soft and familiar and deceptively sweet.
Sodding, bloody hell.
“Do not concern yourself, Farleigh,” he managed hastily. “Perhaps you have at long last managed to retain something I have taught you.”
Farleigh grinned. “Or perhaps you are distracted just as I thought.”
“Perhaps you would like me to feed you your teeth?” Clay gritted in a deceptively pleasant tone. The man was trusted and formidable, but by God, he was wearing on Clay’s patience something fierce.
“Clayton Ludlow,” his mother admonished, reaching his side in a blaze of swirling green skirts.
His mother certainly did have an affinity for bright colors. And intruding when she was least wanted. Not to mention being far too perceptive. She had been attempting to get him alone ever since his arrival at Harlton Hall, and he had been doing his damnedest to avoid it. She knew too much. Saw too much. And he had no wish to be dissected by her today.
Or any other day for that matter.
“You may return to your post, Farleigh,” he ordered his man before his mother made a complete fool out of him before his subordinate.
Farleigh wisely bowed out of the tête-à-tête, stalking away across the expanse of early spring lawn and leaving Clay alone to face his mother. He loved his mother. But he could not help but feel this interview would require so
me answers he was not entirely prepared to give. Some answers he was not prepared to face himself. For how was he to know where he stood with Ara?
His mother waited just until Farleigh was beyond earshot.
“When were you going to tell me I have a grandson?” she asked.
He clenched his jaw, wondering if Leo had been in her ear or if Edward’s paternity was so bloody apparent to everyone who looked upon the lad except for Clay. “Has my brother been writing to you?”
His mother shook her head with a slow, tender smile. “Leo has not written in at least a week, and I shall take him to task for it at the first possible opportunity.”
Her words caught him off guard. “He writes you regularly, then?”
“Oh yes.” Her smile changed, her voice tinged with undisguised fondness. “And visits whenever he can, unlike another son of mine.”
His ears went hot. Damn it, since when did the heartless Duke of Carlisle send letters and visit Mother? As they had grown to manhood together, he had been keenly aware that his mother—who possessed the heart and tolerance of an angel—treated Leo as if he were her own son. She considered him her son. Leo’s mother the duchess was a cold and uncaring sort of female, the kind who considered her child an inconvenience rather than an extension of herself to be cherished and loved. She had borne him for the sake of her marital duty.
But still, he had not realized Leo and Mother remained in such close contact.
“I would visit if he did not forever have me assigned to his missions,” he griped without heat, rubbing a hand over his scarred cheek.
“He could not have assigned you to a better mission than this one,” his mother said softly, touching his shirtsleeve, for he had stripped off his coat and his waistcoat.
He stiffened, not ready to examine his feelings for Ara any more than he was eager to recall that the danger facing her had not been vanquished. Word had come from London just that morning of a failed Fenian bomb attack on the Mansion House, the home of the Lord Mayor of the city. This hell was far from over, if indeed it would ever completely be eradicated.
Nobody's Duke (League of Dukes Book 1) Page 23
