A Duchess by Midnight (15 page)

After a minute or two – time seemed so fluid when she was with him that it was difficult to keep track of how much of it had passed – Thorncroft cleared his throat and slid his hand away.

“What did the doctor say?” Picking up his fork, he speared a small piece of meat and chewed in silence while he awaited Clara’s answer.

“He said I was perfectly fine.” Her gaze slid down to her plate. She had come in to the dining room with a ravenous appetite but since taking her seat she had barely touched a thing. “Although he did mention that head wounds are unpredictable and it would be best if I avoided certain activities for a few days.”

“Such as?”

Her mouth curved in a wry grin. “Walking, riding, and bumpy carriages.”

“That does not sound as though you are perfectly fine to me.” He glanced up at her temple where the bump on her head was still visible. The swelling had gone down, but there was still an ugly bruise that had already gone from black to blue and was now turning yellow. “You can remain here for as long as you need to recover. I have a full staff who will be able to take care of your every need. Unless you have somewhere else to be?”

“I have nowhere to be,” Clara said quickly.
Too
quickly she realized when Thorncroft’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. She did not want to lie to him outright, but neither did she want to tell him the truth: that the only reason she’d come to London was to meet with her fiancé, a man whose face she would not have been able to pick out of a crowd. She feared if he knew she was promised to someone else he would send her away and any chance they might have had at exploring their feelings for one another would disappear.   

“Then where were you going when your carriage ran off the road?”

“To London,” she said honestly. “To… to visit a friend. But if I write her a letter explaining what happened I am sure she will understand.”

“And your traveling companion? Won’t she be looking for you?”

Drats. She had completely forgotten about Poppy. What would happen when Poppy returned to Windmere without her? For surely that was what she would do. Then Lady Irene would immediately know something had gone wrong with her precious plan to be rid of her stepdaughter once and for all. She might even come to London herself. Clara’s eyes closed at the thought. If Lady Irene showed up on Thorncroft’s doorstep… she really did not know
what
she would do.

“I will have her found and brought here,” said Thorncroft, neatly plucking the problem right out of her hands without even knowing it.

Clara’s eyes popped open. “You can do that?”

Looking just a bit smug he said, “I am a duke. I can do whatever I want. It should not be hard to find her, if she hasn’t been found already.”

Well in that case…

“Thank you.” It felt as though an invisible weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Suddenly she felt so giddy she nearly laughed, and disguised her surge of euphoria with a quick bite of roasted duck.

For the first time in seven years she was free! Free of Lady Irene. Free of Henrietta and Gabriella. Free of their sideways glares and their constant criticisms. Free of her duties as a maid. Free of feeling as though she did not belong in the house where she’d been born and raised.

“You seem… pleased,” Thorncroft remarked as he pushed his plate to the side and sat back in his chair, arms stretching above his head before settling at the nape of his neck. A vague smile toyed with one corner of his mouth, lifting it ever-so-slightly as though her happiness brought him happiness as well.

“I am,” Clara admitted. “How could I not be? I began the day sitting in a ditch and now I am ending it sitting at a duke’s table.”

“Indeed you are,” he murmured. A rare glimpse of naked desire flashed across his face as his gaze dropped to her mouth, but before Clara could do more than simply absorb – and delight – in the fact that he still wanted her despite his indifference at the beginning of dinner he had stood up and stepped back, putting the width of the table between them. “I have things of a personal nature to attend to. Were you pleased with the maid who drew you your bath?”

“Very much so,” said Clara, biting back a sigh of disappointment. What would it take for Thorncroft to actually
act
on his feelings? Having already kissed him twice she was impatient to do it again. Her cheeks warmed as she imagined him making good on his words to strip off her clothing and bend her over the table. Who knew a formal dining room would be a suitable environment for such things? Although she supposed a table was not so very different from a bed. A bit harder, perhaps. And then there were the forks to worry about.

“Good. She will be your personal attendant during your stay. Is there anything else you require?”

Clara bit her lip. She hated to ask for things, but if Thorncroft was offering… “Another dress? I fear this one is a bit large and my traveling habit was ruined beyond repair. I do not need anything fancy,” she said hurriedly. “I would be more than happy to wear a hand-me-down from one of the maids. In fact I would even prefer–”

“No,” he said shortly. “Your skin should not be touched by anything but the finest silks and softest muslins. I will arrange for a seamstress to come tomorrow morning. She will measure and attire you in half a dozen dresses to start. Along with the necessary undergarments, shawls, and hats.”

“You do not have to do that,” Clara protested even as a tiny part of her thrilled at the idea of an entirely new wardrobe; something she’d not had since she was a girl of twelve. “It really is not necessary.”

“You’re right. I do not
have
to do anything. But I want to.” His smoldering gray eyes drank her in, causing her toes to curl inside of her sturdy half boots as his voice turned husky and deep. “You are a beautiful woman, Clara. You should wear beautiful things.”

Well when he put it
that
way…

“Thank you,” she said simply, fighting back another blush.

“You’re welcome.” For a moment it looked as though he was going to say something else, but with a shake of his head he left the dining room via a side door Clara hadn’t even noticed, once again leaving her to stare after him in perplexed silence.

She is not
yours.

Thorncroft made himself repeat the words again and again until they became a silent mantra in his head as he slowly and steadily drank his way through a bottle of elderberry wine. Usually the dark red wine was only served at parties around Christmas time, but Thorncroft liked the taste of it so much that he kept a small batch of it stocked in all of his residences year round. It had a sweet taste that was not overpowering and enough bitter notes to appease the part of him that wanted to dive straight into a decanter of brandy.

In the past two years he had managed to lessen – albeit not give up completely – his consumption of alcohol after he realized he was becoming too dependent on the damned stuff. The days and weeks that followed his decision to cut back on his intake of spirits had been pure hell, but he’d accepted the splitting headaches and night sweats as his due. Now he drank less than a glass or two per day.

Except for tonight.

Tonight he was drinking to forget, and any man worth his salt knew that if you were drinking to forget there was no limit to the amount of alcohol you needed to imbibe which was why he was on his fourth – fifth? – glass.

But even though his vision had started to blur and his balance had become shaky he could not seem to rid his mind of Clara. Not the sight of her. Not the scent. Not the taste. If anything the bloody wine was making his desire for her
increase
until he was stumbling around his private study with a raging cock-stand.

She is not yours.

No, she wasn’t bloody his.

But he wanted her to be.

It was as though he’d been walking through his life in a fog, not living so much as merely existing. And then Clara had appeared and the fog had lifted and he was seeing the sunshine for the first time in seven long years.

She made him feel again. For too long he had shut himself off from everything he had once taken for granted.

Laughter.

Happiness.

Love.

He didn’t love Clara. Not yet. At least not in the way he’d loved Katherine. With Katherine love had come out of a mutual respect and understanding of one another. They had, quite literally, been born to be husband and wife. He had been the wealthy duke. She the pedigreed lady. One glance across a crowded ballroom and he’d known she was destined to be his bride.

With Clara it was different. With Clara it was not so much a soft, gentle acknowledgement but rather an unexpected blow straight to the gut. She had caught him off guard in the stream… and she’d been keeping him off guard ever since. He never knew what she was going to say or what she was going to do. And devil take him if that wasn’t one of the things he liked most about her.

In all his time spent in ballrooms and playhouses and fancy luncheons he had never encountered another woman quite like her. Katherine had been quiet and shy and unfailingly polite. The quintessential lady of the manor, and he had loved her for it.

Clara, on the other hand, was outspoken and impulsive and brazen. Some – no doubt most – would see those qualities as flaws rather than attributes. But to Thorncroft they were what set her apart and made her unique. They were what made Clara… well,
Clara
.

Throwing back his head, he drained what was left of the wine in his glass and walked over to his desk to pour himself another drink.

The seamstress arrived
after mid-morning tea. Short and round and grandmotherly, she had gray hair tucked up in a neat bun and twinkling blue eyes. Her name, she promptly informed Clara, was Mrs. Periwinkle, and she had four children, all grown, eight grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren who were still in nappies.

Despite her age, Mrs. Periwinkle was energetic and spritely. Her enthusiasm for clothes – and life in general – was contagious and soon both Clara and Emily were giggling along with her as she wrapped Clara in measuring tape and pinned samples of fabric to her white nightdress.

“…and then she says to me, if you can believe it, ‘But Mrs. Periwinkle, I cannot wear
that
color.
That
color will make my nose look big’.”

“And what did you say?” Clara prompted when the seamstress bent down to take another measurement.

Speaking around a mouthful of pins she said, “I told her that her nose was big regardless and the color of her dress had absolutely nothing to do with it.”

“You did not,” Emily gasped.

“I most certainly did.” Heaving herself up with a little
huff
of breath Mrs. Periwinkle grinned at both of the girls in turn. “Suffice it to say I was not invited back to that particular household again. Not that I minded. Three daughters, each one vainer than the last. You’re not vain, are you my dear?” This pointed question was asked of Clara who blinked and gave it all of the due consideration it deserved.

“I do not think so,” she said after a thoughtful pause. “Although I believe part of being vain is not thinking oneself is vain. So I suppose it is really impossible to tell.”

“Precisely!” Looking quite pleased, Mrs. Periwinkle began to gather up her supplies. “Emily, be a dear and take these boxes down to my coach, won’t you?”

“Of course,” the maid said at once. Hurrying forward she picked up the boxes off the floor – though large, they were not very heavy – and carried them out the door.

“There,” Mrs. Periwinkle said with one last critical glance at Clara that carried all the way from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “That should do it. The two morning gowns I brought with me will fit you nicely, just as I thought. The color is not perfect, but at least they will give you something suitable to wear until my girls can complete your wardrobe.”

“I cannot thank you enough.” Wincing ever-so-slightly as she stepped down off the stool she’d been balancing on for the better part of two hours Clara took both of Mrs. Periwinkle’s hands and squeezed them tight. “I know you must be very busy and to have taken so much time out of your day–”

“Think nothing of it.” Lines stretched out from the corners of the seamstress’s eyes as she smiled. “His Grace is an old family friend which means any friend of his is a friend of mine. You are a stunning young woman, Miss Clara. And I should know, given that I see my fair share of debutantes every season. Yet I have never seen you. Why is that?”

“I have never been to London before.”

“That I believe, for a face such as yours surely would have set the entire
ton
back on its heels and had tongues wagging for months afterwards. But why? And do not tell me it is because you are a maid.” Slipping her hands free she waved them both in the air. “You may have His Grace fooled, but I know aristocratic cheekbones when I see them.”

Clara touched the side of her face. “I am not trying to fool anyone.”

“But you haven’t told him who you are, have you? Who you
truly
are.”

“Well no,” she admitted, “but only because there is not much to tell.”

“His Grace sent a footman to my door before dawn this morning to deliver a note. A note that demanded my presence without delay. Do you know the last time His Grace sent such a note?” Mrs. Periwinkle asked, her blue eyes taking on a crafty gleam.

“No,” Clara said with a shake of her head. “I am afraid I do not.”

“I remember quite clearly. It was the day after his wedding. Interesting, is it not? Well I had best be on my way,” she said before Clara could reply. “These dresses are not going to sew themselves. It was lovely to meet you, my dear. Simply lovely. You’ve a glow about you. I sensed it from the first moment I walked through the door. If there is anything Thorncroft needs to guide him back onto the right path it is a bit of light.” Puckering her lips she kissed Clara’s right cheek and then her left. “Look for packages to begin arriving by the end of the week. Have a blessed day, dear.”

And then she was gone, leaving a trail of flowery perfume in her wake.

When Emily returned
she helped Clara into one of the morning gowns Mrs. Periwinkle had left behind. Soft and flowing, it fit Clara’s svelte silhouette like a dream and all but floated when she walked; a wispy blue cloud lowered straight from the heavens. Delicate white lace fell past Clara’s elbows, leaving her forearms and wrists bare. Matching lace framed her décolletage, revealing a modest hint of her ivory bosom.

“You look like an angel,” Emily declared as she stepped away from the dressing mirror. Suddenly her eyes narrowed. “But it is missing one thing… Wait just a moment!” Scurrying out of the room she returned less than five minutes later with a single white rose. Selecting a long hairpin off the dresser she slid the rose into place above Clara’s right ear and wove the short stem into her curls. “Perfect,” she said with a beaming smile. “Absolutely perfect.”

“I – I do not even recognize myself.” Eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar, Clara couldn’t help but stare in stunned awe at her reflection. Gone was the frizzy haired maid with dirt on her nose and grass stains on her knees. In her place stood a young lady with an elegant coiffure that showed off the sleek line of her neck, a roses and cream complexion, and a gown that spilled over every line and curve of her body like water rushing down over rocks.

She looked… she looked just like her mother, and she blinked back tears as she wondered what her father would say if he could see her now.

“Are you unhappy?” Emily said uncertainly as a single tear made its way down Clara’s cheek.

“No,” she sniffled, dashing the tear away with her back of her hand. “Quite the opposite. I am very, very happy. Even though I know it is silly to make such a fuss over clothes.”

“I don’t think it is silly at all. You look just like a princess.”

A fairy princess
, Nora thought, echoing Thorncroft’s own words. What would he think when he saw her? Would he hide his reaction behind an expressionless facade? Or would he actually betray what he was feeling with a gruff nod of acknowledgement or – heaven forbid – a smile?

Suddenly she could not wait to find out.

“Is Thorncroft in his study?” she asked.

A shadow flickered across Emily’s face. “I… I am not sure,” she said evasively.

“Then is he in the parlor? Or perhaps the music room?” Eager to speak with him Clara picked up her skirts and rushed out the door. Emily followed quickly in her wake, struggling to keep up as Clara dashed down the stairs two at a time.

“Wait!” the maid called, a frantic edge sharpening her tone. “His Grace is – is not receiving visitors at this time.”

Clara stopped short outside of the large mahogany door that marked Thorncroft’s private study. “But I am not a visitor,” she pointed out reasonably. “I am a house guest. And it is well past noon. Are you trying to say he is not awake?”

“N-no. I would not say that. Necessarily,” she added under her breath.

“Then I will simply knock.” Clara raised her hand to do just that, but before she could rap her knuckles against the polished wood Emily grabbed her wrist.

Looking just as shocked by her behavior as Clara, she quickly said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. His Grace… His Grace is not himself in the mornings.”

“It isn’t the morning,” Clara scoffed. “It is nearly half past one in the afternoon.” She knew – courtesy of her lazy stepsisters – that the nobility were accustomed to sleeping in well past breakfast, but this was taking things a tad too far. Besides, if Thorncroft
were
still asleep why wouldn’t he be in his bedroom? “If he is working I will not interfere. I merely want to speak with him for a moment. Please step aside, Emily. I promise I won’t bother him for more than minute.”

Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘good luck’ the maid released Clara’s wrist and dashed away down the hall, scurrying for cover like a mouse disappearing into its hole. A quick glance around revealed that all of the other servants had disappeared as well. No one – not even the butler – was in sight.

How odd
, Clara thought to herself before she knocked on the door. When she didn’t receive an answer she opened it a few inches and called out Thorncroft’s name. When she didn’t receive a reply she opened it a few more inches and slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind her.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. The sweet scent of wine invaded her nostrils immediately, causing her nose to wrinkle. The second thing she noticed was the large mountain of man sprawled head down on a beige chaise lounge in the far corner of the room. His back rose and fell in time with the loud snores reverberating across the study. He was naked from the waist up, revealing a muscular back and shoulders. 

All of the curtains were tightly closed, giving the room a dark, claustrophobic feel despite the floor to ceiling bookshelves, large desk, and separate seating area complete with an oval table and four deeply cushioned leather chairs. Careful to avoid bumping into anything, Clara navigated her way past the various wine glasses and articles of clothing – it seemed like the only thing Thorncroft had kept on his body was his pants – to the nearest window. Grasping the thick brocade curtains by their scalloped edges she threw them open with gusto, letting in a flood of shimmering yellow light that abruptly roused Thorncroft from his slumber.