CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Clara stared out the carriage window without blinking. She was afraid if she did - if she moved her face more than a fraction of an inch - she would start crying and once she started she would be unable to stop.
How could Thorncroft have turned her away so callously? It was as though he felt nothing for her at all. As if the past week they had spent together meant nothing. As if… as if he did not love her.
In her lap her hands clenched tightly together, knuckles turning white from the force she was exerting to keep herself from releasing her bewilderment and frustration and pain in a torrent of tears. She would not let go of her composure. At least not in front of Lady Irene.
She could feel her stepmother’s gaze. Studying her. Assessing her. Mocking her.
Anger filled the cracks in her broken heart, causing her head to turn and her chin to lift. With fire in her eyes and a growl in her voice she met Lady Irene’s cool, derisive stare.
“Why?” she asked. “Why did you do it?”
“Why did I do what, my dear?”
“Follow me to London. Track me down. Take me away from him.”
“Take you away from him?” Lady Irene clucked her tongue. “My dear, I did not take you away from anyone. He let you go. As for ‘tracking you down’ as you so dramatically put it, what else was I to do? You are my charge. My responsibility. I could hardly rest knowing you were out there somewhere, possibly in danger.”
Clara snorted in disbelief. “It is just us now, Lady Stepmother. No need to continue your act of pretending to care for me. If I had been beggaring myself on the streets you would not have lifted a finger to help me.”
“No,” Lady Irene conceded after a pause. “Probably not. But you weren’t beggaring yourself on the streets, were you? No. Not you,” she sneered. “Perfect, pretty little Clara went and found herself a duke. I must applaud your ingenuity, my dear. Not many women would have been able to pull off what you did. But you made one fatal mistake.”
“Falling in love is not a mistake.”
“Love,” Lady Irene said scornfully. “Always the romantic, aren’t you my dear? Even now after you’ve been cast aside like a bucket of dirty dishwater you still cling to your naive idealisms about love. Your mistake, I am afraid, was giving the milk away for free. Why would Thorncroft ever make you his wife when he already had you as his mistress?”
“I was not - no,” Clara said, gritting her teeth as she turned back towards the window. “I do not owe you an explanation. You would only twist it to suit your own wicked needs.”
“As you wish.” Lady Irene’s shoulders rose and fell in an elegant shrug. “We should be at Mr. Ingle’s house soon. He is very much looking forward to meeting you, Clara. I think you will have a great deal in common.”
Clara did not answer. She was thinking about Thorncroft again. About the way he had looked at her when she revealed she had a fiancé. The hate in his eyes… Did he truly think so little of her? She knew how bad it had all sounded - how bad Lady Irene had made it sound - but to not even give her a chance to explain… She squeezed her eyelids together. Maybe he hadn’t loved her after all. Maybe it had all been a game to him. A ruse. Something to use to pass the time while he was in London.
No.
She thought the word so fiercely she almost said it aloud.
No, she would not believe that. She had hurt Thorncroft and he had retaliated in kind, like a wounded bear striking out at the nearest object no matter what - or who - that object was. When his anger faded and reason returned he would realize he’d made a horrible mistake in casting her out and he would come for her.
Clara forced herself to take a deep, calming breath. Everything would be all right. Thorncroft loved her and he would come for her. She knew he would.
The only thing she had to do was wait.
He didn’t come.
Not on the second day. Not on the fifth. Not on the fourteenth.
For two long weeks Clara waited. And then she waited some more. Locked away in the attic she waited from dawn until dusk, never taking her eyes off Windmere’s long, winding driveway as she searched in vain for a trail of dust that would indicate an approaching rider.
But a rider never came.
On the twenty-first day of her imprisonment the door opened to reveal Lady Irene. Dressed in a high-necked gown of sapphire blue with her hair drawn tightly beneath a white lace cap and small pearls adorning each ear she reminded Clara of a swan.
Regal and vicious.
“What do you want?” she asked bitterly, not even bothering to rise from her bed.
Lady Irene lifted a brow. “In a mood this morning, are we?”
“You’ve kept me a prisoner in my own home for nearly a month!” Clara said incredulously. “What do you expect? My gratefulness?”
When she had refused in no uncertain terms to marry Mr. Ingle – a whippet thin man easily twice her age with beady black eyes and a serpent’s smile – her stepmother had had no choice but to bring her back to Windmere. She’d been locked away in the attic, a fitting punishment for such blatant disobedience. Or so Lady Irene had said, although Clara suspected her imprisonment stemmed from a different reason. Her stepmother did not want her to run away, for she knew that if given the chance Clara would find her way back to Thorncroft.
“You have never been grateful for anything a day in your life.”
Clara bit the inside of her cheek. “If you have come here to provoke me I kindly ask you to close the door. I am doing you no harm. I am causing you no trouble. Please leave me alone.”
“Leave you alone? I would like nothing better. I only came here to tell you that your punishment has ended. You are free to leave the attic and Windmere, if you so choose. If you do not, you may remain on as a member of the staff. We are desperately in need of a housemaid.”
Clara felt a familiar ache in her chest at the sly reminder that both Poppy and Agnes had been let go because of her refusal to wed Mr. Ingle. She felt absolutely horrible, especially since she had no way of knowing what had become of them. But when it had come down to it – when she’d been forced to stand before Mr. Ingle and accept him as her husband – she had been unable to speak the words that would bind them together forever before God, Queen, and Country. It had been both the bravest and the most selfish decision of her entire life.
She sat up a little straighter on her hard, uncomfortable mattress and swung her legs over the side. “Why are you releasing me now?” she asked suspiciously, for if there was one thing she knew about her stepmother it was that Lady Irene never did anything without a purpose.
“Why not now?” Lady Irene said innocently, which of course only served to deepen Clara’s mistrust that she was being released out of the goodness of her stepmother’s nonexistent heart. “I will be the first to admit I let my temper get the best of me when deciding your punishment. You are no longer a child, Clara, to be sent to your room on a whim. I do apologize, my dear, and hope you can forgive me.”
“What have you done?” Clara whispered, her brows pulling together over the slender bridge of her nose as she slowly stood up. Morning sunlight filtered through her hair, making the coppery strands gleam. “Has something happened to Poppy or Agnes?”
“Poppy or Agnes? Heavens, I haven’t thought about them in weeks. Nothing untoward has happened, so you needn’t look so suspicious. Is so hard to imagine I would do something simply out of the goodness of my heart?”
“Yes,” Clara said bluntly. “It is.”
“Well I never,” Lady Irene sighed even as her eyes took on a predatory gleam. “Although I must admit my reasons for ending your confinement are not purely benevolent. There is a ball, you see, and my darling Gabriella and Henrietta are both attending. They would dearly love your help in getting ready.”
Clara frowned. “What ball?”
“Oh dear, I forgot you wouldn’t have heard about it being up here all by your lonesome.” Lady Irene released a tittering laugh.
“The ball that His Grace the Duke of Thorncroft is hosting, of course.”
Even hearing his name was enough to send a dagger plunging straight into Clara’s chest. A ball? While she had been stuck in the attic, locked away day after day waiting for him to come rescue her, he had been planning a ball?
“Thorncroft is – is having a ball?” she asked, wondering if she had not somehow misunderstood.
“Yes he is. Tonight, in fact. And I haven’t even told you the best part!” Lady Irene clapped her hand in delight. “He has invited every eligible lady in England. Isn’t that exciting?”
Clara shook her head in confusion. “Why – why would he do that?”
“It is rather obvious, isn’t it? The duke is looking for a bride and at the end of the ball he will announce his betrothal.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Thorncroft was going to get married.
To someone else.
Clara would have thought her stepmother was steering her false, but there had been no deception in her gaze. There didn’t need to be, not when the truth cut deeper than a lie.
Pulling on a plain gray dress – she’d left her beautiful gowns in London – and scraping her hair back into a bun she followed Lady Irene down the stairs on legs made of wood. They went to Gabriella’s room first. As the eldest daughter she was also her mother’s favorite, and as such received the most attention. Already dressed in a white chemise and drawers she pointed to a flowing peach gown laid across her bed.
“Pick that up and bring it over here,” she ordered, a smirk curling her lips. “Isn’t it beautiful? It was a special order just for tonight. It makes my skin glow, don’t you think?”
Struggling beneath the weight of the gown and its various bows Clara brought it over to her stepsister and with the help of two other maids lifted it up and slid it down over Gabriella’s head. It was a lovely color, but the bows and the lace and the hand sewn pearls were overwhelming on Gabriella’s thin frame.
Not that Clara was about to tell her that.
“The dress is beautiful,” she said a monotone voice. “I am sure the duke will be very pleased.”
It helped to think of Thorncroft in those terms. Not as the man she’d fallen in love with, or the man who had so callously turned her out of his home, but as ‘the duke’. It almost made it feel as though she were talking about someone else. Someone she had never met. Someone she had never kissed. Someone she had never imagined spending the rest of her life with.
“How do you think I should do my hair?” Gabriella turned her head from side to side in front of the looking glass hanging above her bureau. “I was thinking curls. Tell me, stepsister, what does His Grace prefer?”
Clara met Gabriella’s sharply glittering eyes in the mirror. “Oh, I am sure anything you choose should suffice. He is not very picky.”
Her stepsister’s outraged gasp followed her into the hallway as she brushed past Lady Irene and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time in her haste to be away from her horrible family and their incessant cruelty.
She brushed at the tears running down her cheeks as she dashed around the side of the house and headed for the stables; the one place she could claim sanctuary for her stepsisters and stepmother would never dare risk dirtying their gowns. Not when they had a duke to impress.
Horses bobbed their heads over their stall doors as she stumbled down the freshly raked aisle, their ears swiveling to and fro. Letting herself into an empty stall she collapsed in the clean straw, drawing comfort from the familiar scents of horse and hay and leather.
She didn’t know how long she sat there in the middle of the stall. Long enough for the light streaming in through the barn door to fade away. Long enough for the air to grow noticeably cooler. Long enough for her tears to finally dry. From the front of the house she heard a carriage approach, followed by Henrietta and Gabriella’s excited squeals as they were whisked away to the ball. When the sound of wheels crunching in stone faded there was only the chirp of crickets and an occasional soft nicker as a horse shifted position and the soft ebb and flow of Clara’s own breathing.
Pushing her hands into the thick straw she struggled to her feet, dusted herself off, and forced herself to walk out of the barn with her chin held high. There was no use in crying. Her tears would not make her feel better, nor would they miraculously summon Thorncroft to her side. He had made his decision, and then made it again when left her imprisoned in her own home for four long weeks. What she could not understand was why.
Why had he believed her stepmother, a woman he’d never met before, over her? Why had he turned her away so easily? Why had he–
“There you are! Thank heavens. I thought I was going to have to tromp all over the place.”
Clara screamed. She couldn’t help herself. Slapping a hand over her pounding heart she squinted into the shadows. “Mrs. Periwinkle?” she said in disbelief as the seamstress stepped into a pool of moonlight. “What – what are you doing here?”
“The same could be said for you.” Mrs. Periwinkle made a tsking sound under her breath. “Why aren’t you at the ball?”
“At – at the ball?” Clara said dazedly. “Why would I be at the ball? Mrs. Periwinkle, where did you come from? How long have you been here? What are you doing here?”
“Never mind all that,” said the seamstress with an agitated wave of her hand. “The only question that matters is what are you doing here? The ball is about to start! And look at you, dressed in rags with your hair all a mess. Thank heavens I thought to bring reinforcements. Come along. They’re waiting for you at the house.”
Clara balked when Mrs. Periwinkle took hold of her arm. “Who is waiting for me at the house?”
The older woman blinked. “Why, Emily and that red-headed one. I can’t remember her name. She’s been chattering non-stop for the past two hours. Rather exhausting, if you ask me.”
“Poppy is here?” Clara’s eyes widened. “What is Poppy doing here? What is Emily doing here? Mrs. Periwinkle, please explain yourself!”
The seamstress sighed. “No need for such theatrics, my dear. I should think it is all rather clear, isn’t it? We are here to get you ready for the ball.”
“Are you sure about all this?” Following his brother from the drawing room to his private study, Adam leaned against one of the bookshelves and studied Thorncroft with a brooding frown.
Since his return to Longacre nearly a month ago there had been something… different about his brother. It wasn’t his demeanor – he was a cantankerous son of a bitch, but not any more so than usual – and he wasn’t his behavior – aside from throwing himself more heavily into his work he’d been acting the same as before he’d left for London – but something was amiss. Andrew was willing to bet his inheritance on it. “I know Mother is over the moon at the idea of you finding a new bride tonight, but have you really thought it all through?”
“I have,” Thorncroft said without looking up from his ledgers.
“Have you really?” Adam said doubtfully. “Because you seem rather blasé about the entire thing. Finding a wife is not like purchasing a new horse. A horse you can always resell, but a wife…” He shook his head. “I wife you’ll be stuck with forever.”
Shuffling a stack of papers to the side, Thorncroft finally lifted his head and met Adam’s gaze with a cold, emotionless stare that revealed absolutely nothing about what he was thinking or feeling. “Weren’t you the one who told me I needed to get married?”
“Well yes but–”
“And now you’re telling me I shouldn’t?”
“Well no but–”
“Make up your bloody mind. And get dressed. Guests will begin arriving in less than an hour.”
“Where do you think you are going?” Adam demanded with Thorncroft stood up and pulled on his jacket.
“Out for a ride.” Ignoring his brother’s sputtering protests Thorncroft walked out of his study and out of the house via a side door normally reserved for the staf
f. His horse, a handsome black gelding, was already tacked and waiting for him. After acknowledging the footman’s efforts with a brusque nod he mounted and turned the gelding towards the woods. One kick and they were galloping across the stone drive and into open fields.
Twilight bloomed on the horizon as the sun started to sink lower into a sky painted pink and red and yellow. Trying to outrun his own traitorous thoughts Thorncroft rode fast and a just a little recklessly. It wasn’t until he reached the stream that he realized where he was headed.
He dismounted and tied the reins around a low hanging branch. Without bothering to remove his boots he slid down the steep embankment and waded straight into the water, walking upwards against the current until he reached the exact spot where he and Clara first met.
Reaching into his pocket he drew out the letter that had arrived precisely eighteen days ago. A letter he’d kept on his person ever since, pulling it out to read at all hours of the day and night. The paper was worn thin and the ink was starting to fade, but even if it disappeared altogether he would be able to recite the words from memory.
Dear Duke of Thorncroft,
It is with the greatest pleasure and pride that I announce the marriage of my stepdaughter Clara to Mr. Robert Ingle, a man of unquestionable character and esteem. I would like to take this opportunity to once again thank you for you discretion and to apologize on Clara’s behalf for her deception. Please do not think poorly of her.
With the deepest respect,
Lady Irene Witherspoon
Married. Three days after she had left him she bloody well married another man. A man she’d been engaged to the entire time he had been fawning over her like a lovesick fool! How she must have laughed at him behind his back all the while she ensnared him deeper into her web of lies and deceit, charming him false with her brilliant smiles and her sensual kisses and her silly little way of looking at the world. Like a buffoon he’d played right into her trap, never guessing she was promised to another.
A Duchess by Midnight Page 18
