“I – I do not know,” she confessed. “To learn more about you, I suppose.”
To find out why you loved her but you cannot love me.
Her heart gave a soft, painful lurch as the unspoken words caught in her throat. She didn’t really feel that way, did she? Just because Thorncroft hadn’t told her how he felt in so many words – or any words, for that matter – did not mean he felt nothing. She needed to be patient, that was all. And curb any jealousy she might have felt for a woman who had been dead for seven years.
Jealousy was a foreign concept to Clara. Before now she’d never had any reason to experience the green-tinted emotion and she found she did not like it. Not one little bit. But the undeniable fact remained that she was jealous. Or at least part of her was. Jealous of a woman who had known Thorncroft before he turned bitter and hard. Jealous of a woman who had known him far better – and more intimately – than she did. Jealous of a woman who would always, even death, hold a piece of his heart.
Blowing out a long, flustered breath she reached out and gently placed her hand on top of his. “Please don’t go. Not yet. Not in anger. I never should have asked you about her. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Andrew,” she repeated when he slowly turned around and looked down at her.
His gaze was shuttered, but she could hear the raw pain in his voice when he said, “I have not spoken about her since she passed. I have hardly even uttered her name.”
Clara squeezed his hand. “You can tell me her name if you like. Or not. The choice is entirely yours.”
“Katherine.” He drew a ragged breath and a shoved a hand through his hair, sweeping the inky locks off his forehead. “Her name was Katherine. We met at a ball. Our courtship was… easy. Simple. We both came from similar backgrounds and had similar expectations. When we were married it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. And when she was taken from me…” He closed his eyes. “When she was taken from me I thought my world had ended.” His eyes opened, clear and gray and staring not at her, but in to her, as though he could see a part of her soul. “Until I met you.”
“What – what did you say?” Clara whispered.
His smile was slow and sure and steady. “Did I stutter?”
“No, you did not stutter.” On a brilliant, ringing laugh that echoed across the pond Clara flung her arms around Thorncroft’s neck. Cupping her face between his large hands he kissed her tenderly, as though her lips were made of glass instead of flesh and blood and yearning.
“You make me happy, Clara.” His eyes closed as he rested his forehead against hers. “You make me happier than I have been in a very, very long time.”
“You make me happy as well.” She waited for him to say more and struggled to tamp down her disappointment when instead of confessing his undying love he merely kissed her brow before walking back over to the blanket to pack up their supplies.
“Is that everything?” she said, feigning a bright smile to cover the dull ache she felt in the pit of her stomach.
Give it time, she told herself. This is not a fairytale where the prince gallops in on a white horse and sweeps the princess off her feet. Andrew will tell you how he feels when he is ready, and not a second before. You’ve already seen what happens when you push him. This is not the time to be impulsive.
“Everything but the piece of bread you stashed away to feed to the ducks.” Thorncroft glanced meaningfully at her bulging pocket where she’d hidden the small burlap sack. “I will wait for you in the carriage.”
“I’ll only be a minute.”
“Do not forget your shoes and stockings!” he called after her as she dashed away.
The minute the ducks saw her approaching they swarmed the shore, their yellow beaks raised skyward. Their impatient quacking managed to charm a genuine smile out of Clara despite the heaviness in her heart. Grabbing the last remaining piece of bread out of the sack she quickly broke it off into smaller pieces and scattered them as far across the pond as she could manage, sending the ducks in a dozen different directions.
As he’d promised, Thorncroft was waiting for her in the phaeton. But as he helped her climb up and wrapped an arm around her shoulders Clara could not help but wonder how much longer she could continue to wait.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The next morning dawned cold and gray and windy. Thorncroft stopped by Clara’s room to wish her good morning before he set out to meet with his solicitor, a sweet little ritual he’d begun the day after she wandered uninvited into his study.
Although she knew it was wicked and sinful, Clara would have preferred Thorncroft never stop by her room… because she would rather be in his room instead. Yet despite his passionate kisses and sensual embraces he always stopped himself just shy of taking her womanhood. She did not know why he stopped. She did not want him to stop, but Thorncroft’s resolve to leave her a virgin seemed absolute.
He was rather curious, this man she’d fallen in love with. Curious and stubborn and impossibly sweet, like last night when he’d read her a book of sonnets while they’d been curled up together in the drawing room, her head tucked on his chest and her knees resting on his lap. During moments like those it was easy to imagine they really were living in a fairytale.
Except she did not know how this fairytale was going to end.
When a knock sounded softly on the door Clara bade whoever it was to enter. It still felt odd, playing lady of the manor. Odd and somehow false, even though as the daughter of a baron she should have been accustomed to be waited on. But old habits were hard to break, and after seven years of pretending to be a servant she found she was more comfortable in that role over any other.
“You’re awake!” Poppy bounced into the room, followed by a more subdued Emily. “Are you ready to get dressed?” Without waiting for an answer she went to the oversized armoire in the corner of the bedroom and pulled open both doors.
Filled to the brim with Clara’s new wardrobe the walking closet was a treasure-trove of morning dresses, evening gowns, elegant shawls in every imaginable color, jackets, and hats. There were more clothes than Clara could ever possibly hope to wear in a lifetime, not that she was complaining. It felt rather good to have the luxury of actually choosing what she wanted to wear instead of putting on the same old gray dress day after day.
“Do you want to wear the green muslin or the white?” Poppy asked, holding up two dresses which looked positively identical to Clara save for the color.
“You choose,” she said, and bit back a smile when Poppy squealed with delight and dove back into the armoire. Like a child with chocolates, she thought warmly.
It had taken Poppy no time at all to adjust to her new surroundings. From the beginning Clara had made it very clear that Poppy was Thorncroft’s guest, not his employee, but she’d insisted on taking over as Clara’s personal maid. Not wanting to lose Emily, of whom she’d grown quite fond, Clara had allowed them to share the duties of helping her dress and bathe and style her hair (even though she was quite capable of doing all of those things herself).
“Would you like a bath drawn?” Emily asked.
“Do you know how long Thorncroft will be gone this morning?”
The maid tapped a finger against her cheek. “I do not know for certain, but I believe Mr. Edwards said he was not expected back until afternoon tea.”
“Then a bath would be lovely.” Sliding off the mattress she grabbed her silk wrapper from off the bedpost and belted it loosely around her nightdress. Undone, her hair trailed all the way down to her waist in a tumble of tawny curls that badly needed to be detangled. “I can help you bring up the buckets.”
Emily frowned, as though Clara had personally insulted her. “You will do nothing of the sort.” And she left the room before Clara could argue any further, closing the door behind her with a quiet and purposeful click.
“I like her,” Poppy said as she popped back out of the armoire, her arms filled with an enormous concoction of a gown with a tulle underlay, rows of neatly tied silk r
ibbons, and bell sleeves. “She reminds me of a young Agnes, don’t you think? All stern and gruff and ‘yes my lady’ and ‘no my lady’.”
“A little bit, yes.” Clara dubiously eyed the dress her friend had selected. “Poppy, I will be the first to admit I do not know a morning gown from a promenade dress, but I am fairly certain that is a ball gown.”
The redhead looked down at the dress. “So?”
“So I am not going to a ball.”
“How do you know you’re not?”
Clara’s eyelashes fluttered in exasperation. “Because I just do.”
“A week ago you were on your way to meet your fiancée and now you’re being courted by a duke. Who knows on any given day what we are going to do or what we are capable of doing?”
It was, all things considered, quite a valid point.
“Be that as it may, I am not going to parade about the house in a ball gown. What about that pale orange muslin? The one with the white lace trim.”
Poppy’s mouth puckered. “But it doesn’t have any bows.”
“I know. That is why I like it.”
“Oh very well.” Yanking the dress off its hanger with a bit more force than needed Poppy draped it over the back of a chair and paired it with the necessary undergarments and accessories, including dainty walking slippers and a light wrap. “There.” Picking up her skirt she executed an exaggerated curtsy. “Does that meet your lofty requirements, your highness?”
The corners of Clara’s lips twitched. “It does.”
“Good.” Poppy slipped off her shoes and sprawled across her stomach on Clara’s bed, propping her chin in her hands and kicking her legs up behind her. “How long do you think we’ll be here?”
The innocent question caused an immediate tightening in Clara’s chest. It was the same thing she’d been asking herself, but hearing it from the mouth of another brought on an entirely new wave of apprehension.
“I am not sure,” she said carefully. Picking up an ivory toothed comb from her dresser she began to pick at the snarls in her hair.
Poppy’s head tilted to the side. “Haven’t you discussed it with the duke?”
“Not… precisely.”
“Then what do you talk about when you’re together?”
“Oh, different things.” Clara knew her answer was evasive, but what else could she say? That every time she attempted to bring up the future Thorncroft immediately changed the subject? That even though he’d kissed her senseless and brought her wave after wave of pleasure and held her hand enfolded in his as though he never wanted to let her go he had yet to speak a word about commitment?
“He is smitten with you, you know. All of the servants are talking about it. Well, not Emily. ‘It is not my job to spread gossip’,” Poppy said in a high-pitched voice. “No fun, that one.”
“It isn’t her job to spread gossip,” Clara pointed out.
Poppy waved her hand in the air. “Maybe not, but that never stops anyone else. Do you think he is going to ask you to marry him?”
“I am not sure if–”
“Because the only other alternative at this point is to make you his mistress, and you’re far too good for that.”
“What do you mean ‘the only other alternative’?”
“It is rather obvious, isn’t it?” When Clara slowly shook her head Poppy sighed and dropped her chin to the mattress. Peering up at her friend beneath a fringe of thick auburn lashes she said, “He has ruined you, Clara.”
Clara set the comb down on the dresser with a sharp click. “He hasn’t ruined me!”
Poppy lifted a brow. “He may not have taken your virginity, but you’ve been living under his roof without a relative or proper chaperone for nearly a week. It will be a forgone conclusion that you have been intimate with one another and you know what is said about a woman who is with a man out of wedlock.”
“A forgone conclusion by whom?” Clara argued. “His servants would never say anything. They are far too loyal.”
“Maybe so, but what about the doctor who came to see you? And the seamstress who made all of these dresses? And all of the people who saw you on your outing to the park yesterday?”
A dull flush crept up the nape of Clara’s neck. She knew Poppy was right. She knew she had behaved recklessly. But having never faced the sharp teeth of the ton before she had not thought to fear its bite. She had been isolated at Windmere. The only stories of gossip and scandal she heard came second-hand through the lips of her stepsisters. It never crossed her mind that she might turn into a source of gossip and scandal. Yet if Poppy could be believed – and she had no reason to doubt her friend, for she was far more worldly than Clara – that was precisely what she was in danger of becoming.
“What happens?” she asked.
“What happens to what?”
“Not what, who. What happens to the women who – who are seen with a man out of wedlock?”
Poppy considered her answer for a moment. “They are shunned,” she said finally. “By society and often by their families as well. I worked for a well-to-do family in Grosvenor Square once. One day their youngest daughter got it in her head she was in love with a rake and they ran away together. The father found her before they reached Gretna Green and dragged her back home, but it was already too late. She was with child.”
“So they let her marry the rake?” Clara said hopefully.
Poppy gave her an odd look. “No, they sent her away to live in the country with her spinster aunt and no one ever spoke of her again.”
“And the child?” Clara said, horrified that a family could be so cold-blooded and cruel.
“Given to an orphanage, I suppose.” Seeing Clara’s expression she quickly added, “Or maybe it was kept and raised by the girl and her aunt. I have no way of knowing. I was let go shortly after.”
“That is horrible,” Clara murmured.
“That is how high society works,” Poppy said matter-of-factly. “So you’d best find out what your duke intends to do with you.”
What were Thorncroft’s intentions? Clara bit her bottom lip, worrying it back and forth between her teeth as she contemplated what to do. Up until seven days ago she’d never given much thought about her future. She was a creature content to live in the moment; to take every day as it came and make the best of it. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined she would be in a situation like this one: in love with a man who may or may not (although she was quite certain he did) love her back. And not just any man, but a duke. A duke with a haunted past and a hard shield of armor that kept his feelings locked away deep, deep inside.
“Thorncroft would never let any harm come to me,” she said finally. Of this, at least, she was absolutely certain. Beneath his many layers of gruffness and surliness Thorncroft was an honorable man, and honorable men did not ruin innocent women. “And we have known each other for less than a fortnight. It would be presumptuous of him – and me – to jump to a conclusion of marriage after so short a time.”
“Have you forgotten you are engaged to someone else? Time is one thing you don’t have. Not when Lady Irene finds out where you are.”
Clara frowned. “I know that. But I… I can’t rush him, Poppy. He is like a wolf in that regard. Wary and suspicious of any kindness. I must earn his trust with understanding and patience.”
Rolling over onto her back, Poppy spoke directly to the ceiling. “That sounds like an awful lot of work to me. I hope he’s worth it.”
“He is,” Clara said confidently. “I know he is.”
Poppy’s warnings were still echoing in Clara’s ears when Thorncroft returned from his solicitor’s office. It was early evening, and the rain was coming down harder than ever before, pounding against the roof and lashing against the windows with such strength and tenacity she had to call his name three times before he turned his head and saw her standing in the doorway of the drawing room.
Shaking himself off like a large wet dog he handed his hat and greatcoat to
a footman before taking Clara’s arm and leading her down the hall and into the library. The very instant the door was closed he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
His lips were deliciously cool, a perfect foil to the heat of his tongue as it swept into her mouth. Burying her fingers into his damp locks she kissed him back with enthusiasm, eager to know the touch of his hands and the taste of his lips. They may have only been apart for six short hours, but time held no influence over their passion. For all the desperation in their eyes they might have been separated for six weeks, six months, six years. The length of time did not matter. It was irrelevant. As irrelevant as counting the number of waves lapping up against the shore. The only thing that mattered – the only thing of consequence – was that they were together again.
Scooping her up effortlessly against his chest Thorncroft carried her to the nearest sofa and laid her gently down on the cushions. Firelight bathed both of their faces in a soft glow as he nibbled his way down her neck and collarbone, tugging at the bodice of her gown as he went.
Soon Clara’s soft moans intermingled followed Thorncroft’s harsh sighs as they fondled one another, as eager to give pleasure as they were to receive it. She trailed her nails along the hard edges of his ribcage as he skimmed his hands up her thighs, causing her spine to arch and her vision to blur as his clever fingers found their way into her soft curls.
Eagerly she reached for the hardest part of his body. It was a marvel to Clara that something without bone or muscle or sinew could feel like marble in her hand. He pulsed against her palm as she stroked. Her movements were still a bit jerky and hesitant from inexperience, but she knew she pleased him by the way his jaw tightened and his breaths grew ragged.
Light bloomed inside of her as he brought her to the edge. A bright, brilliant light that rivaled the sun. She hovered on the precipice, knew he did the same when he groaned her name. Their hearts pounded. Their pulses throbbed. In that moment of quivering flesh and gasping breaths they were not two beings but one, forged together by pleasure and passion and something far greater than either one of them could ever hope to define.
A Duchess by Midnight Page 16
