A Duchess by Midnight (18 page)

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.

Lifting her head she found his mouth in a kiss born of mindless desperation as they stepped out over the edge… and together plunged down into the depths of mindless oblivion.

When Clara’s heart beat finally slowed to a dull roar she lifted herself up on one elbow and smiled down at Thorncroft. Adoration glowed in her eyes as she gently tucked a dark curl behind his ear, her hand lingering on the hard edge of his jaw before slipping down to splay across his naked chest.

“How was your day?” she whispered.

“Better now that I am with you.”

It was exactly the answer she needed to hear. With a soft, contented sigh she tucked herself in against his side, fitting herself into the hard planes and flat angles of his body like a little bird burrowing down into its nest. He stroked her hair, lightly pulling out any pins his fingers encountered until her hair spilled down over her shoulder in loose waves of liquid fire.

“You smell like rain,” she noted, tiny nostrils flaring ever-so-slightly as she inhaled his earthy scent.

He nuzzled the nape of her neck. “And you smell like strawberries.”

“Strawberries?” Rather amused that he thought she smelled like a fruit Clara tilted her head until she met his gaze. She loved him the most when he was like this, she decided. When his guard was down and his eyes were soft and he held nothing back from her.

“Yes.” His lips skimmed her temple. “Strawberries. It was the first thing I noticed about you. Well,” he amended, “
one
of the first things.”

“What else did you notice?” she asked eagerly, charmed by this rare glance into his gentler side.

“Your hair.” Lifting a curl he rubbed it between his fingers before draping it along the curve of her breast. “It’s like sunrise captured in a glass bottle.”

“What else?” she whispered.

“Your spirit. I noticed your spirit. Anyone else I encountered trespassing on my land would have scampered away with their tail between their legs, but you stood before me like a fairy queen, your chin lifted and your eyes snapping blue fire.” His husky laughter warmed the side of her face. “I knew then you were different and I was right. I’ve never met anyone else like you, Clara.”

She held her breath.
Now,
she thought as her heart did a quick, joyous flip inside of her chest.
Now he is going to tell me he loves me. Now he is going to ask me to be his for all of eternity.

“Have you eaten dinner?”

“Have I – have I eaten dinner?” she repeated as her heart sank like a stone. “No. Not yet.”

“Good because I am starving and I would rather eat in your pleasant company than dine alone. Do you need help with your dress?”

“No I… I can manage.” Pushing herself into a sitting position she scooted to the far edge of the sofa and proceeded to put herself back together while Thorncroft did the same. Once they were both presentable he offered his hand. If he noticed the slight tremble of her fingers he did not mention it. Side by side they left the library, one of them with the vague hint of a sated smile and the other blinking back tears.

Fourteen days.
It had been fourteen days since Thorncroft rescued Clara from the overturned carriage and he was still no closer to knowing anything about her.

Oh, he knew the sound of her laughter. The scent of her hair. The taste of her lips. He knew she loved nature and horses and ducks. He knew she craved the sunshine like a sailor craved the sea and on rainy days she was always just a little bit sad. He knew her eyes lit up whenever he entered the room. And he knew there was something she was not telling him.

Yet every time he asked about her past, about where she came from and who she was, she always gave him the same evasive answer.

‘
No one
’, she would say, much to his ever-growing frustration.
‘I am no one important
’.

Thorncroft also knew he could not keep her hidden away forever. He had already stayed in London twice as long as he should have. Andrew would soon grow bored and come find him. And then how would he explain Clara? She wasn’t his mistress, not in the technical sense of the word. Nor was she his betrothed… even though he wanted her to be.

In the short time they’d spent together he had nearly asked for her hand half a dozen times. But he always stopped himself just shy of speaking the question that would eventually make them husband and wife, for how could he take a wife who was hiding something from him?

Clara would have liked him to believe she’d appeared out of thin air; a maid of no consequence from a household who did not miss her. But Thorncroft knew differently. If Clara was really a servant he would eat his bloody hat. She may not have always acted like a lady, but there was blue blood in her. He was certain of it. What he wasn’t certain of was why she would pretend otherwise.

Was she running from someone? From something? If she was, didn’t she know he would protect her? With his own life, if it came down to it. He may not have spoken the words out loud, but he knew what he felt in his heart. What he felt in his soul. Clara was meant for him just as he was meant for her. Somehow, someway he’d been given the miracle of two loves in one lifetime.

It was not a miracle he intended to waste.

To hell with her past
, he thought as he made his way across a crowded street and turned left towards home, the contracts he had signed at his solicitor’s office safely tucked under one arm. Maybe instead of dwelling on what he didn’t know he needed to focus on what he did.

He loved Clara. He was
in love
with Clara. Truth be told, some part of him had been in love with her from the very first moment they met.

And it was bloody well time he told her so.

Clara glanced at
the long-case clock in the corner of the parlor for what felt like the hundredth time as she waited impatiently for Thorncroft to return from his solicitor’s office. For the past two hours she had been pacing a hole in the carpet, trying to expel some of the energy that had been coursing through her veins from the moment she woke up.

Today was the day. She’d felt it in her bones even before she opened her eyes. It was the day she would finally admit her feelings to Thorncroft. The day she would ask him to do the same. The day she found out precisely where she stood.

She was ready. She had practiced what she wanted to say a thousand times over. Now she just needed him to come home already! Another sharp glance at the clock revealed the hour to be half past five. Any minute now and the door would open and Thorncroft would step through it. Any minute now and her heart would be forever lifted… or crushed into a thousand pieces. Any minute now and–

Wait. Were those footsteps?

Picking up her skirts Clara dashed out of the parlor and into the foyer, brushing past a short, ruddy-faced footman. “I’ll get the door!” she called over her shoulder before she skidded to a breathless halt, grabbed the heavy brass knob, and pulled it towards her.

“Haven’t we done well for ourselves?” Greedy pleasure lit Lady Irene’s face as she walked past Clara and into the foyer, her gaze sweeping from the vaulted ceiling to the imported white marble edged with real gold. To Clara the foyer - like the rest of the house - was hard and cold, but she knew it was exactly to her stepmother’s tastes. After all, it was precisely how she’d redecorated Windmere.

“What are you doing here?” Despite the shock of seeing her stepmother on the other side of the door instead of Thorncroft Clara’s voice was level and even. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had always known her fairytale would come to an end.

She just never expected it to end so soon.

“What am
I
doing here?” Wandering over to a mahogany end table Lady Irene absently picked up a miniature vase. Afternoon sunlight reflected off the sterling silver finish, sending prisms of light dancing across the far wall as she turned it over in her gloved hands. “The same could be asked of you, my dear. When Leo returned and told me where you were I admit I did not believe him at first. But then I received word from my sister that she had gone to Bath early, and naturally I grew quite concerned with where you were staying. I feared the worst. Any good mother would.” She set the vase back down. “I see now my fears were unfounded. You know, I always suspected you would make an excellent whore. The blood will tell, after all. I just never suspected your aim would be quite as high as this.”

Clara expelled a short, outraged breath. To have her frustrating, sweet, complicated relationship with Thorncroft summarized in such a blunt and ugly way made her angry. To have her mother dragged into the fray made her furious. “You have no idea what you are talking about!”

“Don’t I?” Lady Irene’s skirts swirled gracefully around her ankles as she turned from the table and regarded Clara with a knowing smirk. “I cannot blame you, my dear. Any woman of your station would have done exactly the same thing. But the fun, as they say, has come to an end I am afraid. I have already spoken to Mr. Ingle. He has still agreed to take you, even knowing that you aren’t as shiny and new as you used to be. Quite gallant of him, don’t you agree?”

“You cannot be serious!” Clara gasped. “I am not an - an apple to be purchased and I will not be marrying anyone unless it is someone of
my
choosing!”

“My, my,” Lady Irene murmured. “How daring you’ve become. It won’t last, you know. His infatuation with you. You are a pretty thing, and like all men of power the duke likes pretty things. But your varnish will eventually wear thin and when it does he will cast you aside. Oh no,” she said with a quick, airy laugh when she saw the defiance in Clara’s expression. “Did you think otherwise? Did you actually think he would
marry
you? You did!” She clapped her hands together as her laughter echoed throughout the foyer. “How adorably naïve.”

Clara felt her throat tighten. She may have been naïve about a great many things, but this was not one of them. Thorncroft loved her. She knew he did. He loved her and he
would
marry her. Whatever demons haunted him they would defeat together. Whatever doubts he still had she would gently lay aside. He was for her and she was for him and nothing –
nothing
– would come between them. She would not allow it.

“You should leave now.”

“Leave?” One thin eyebrow arched towards the sharp brim of Lady Irene’s hat. “That is not very hospitable of you, my dear. A woman aspiring to be a duchess should have much better manners.”

Clara’s shoes clicked smartly on the marble tile as she marched across the foyer and went to open the door. Before she could grasp the brass handle, however, the door unexpectedly swung inward.

“Clara.” The warmness in Thorncroft’s eyes upon seeing her quickly dimmed as his gaze shifted to Lady Irene. A cold, impersonal smile slid into place as he regarded Clara’s stepmother with a faintly quizzical expression. “I did not realize you had a guest. A pleasure to meet you, my lady. I am-”

“Your Grace,” Lady Irene all but purred as she lowered herself into a deep, respectful curtsy. “I am well aware with who you are. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I am Lady Witherspoon. I see you are already…
acquainted
with my stepdaughter, Clara.”

Neither Clara nor Thorncroft missed Lady Irene’s emphasis on the word acquainted. His gaze sharpened as he looked at Clara, silently asking for an explanation, but she kept her lips firmly pressed together and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head. She would explain everything. But she wouldn’t do it in front of Lady Irene.

“Your stepdaughter?” Thorncroft said. “I was under the impression both of Clara’s parents were dead.”

“They are,” Clara said flatly.

“Clara’s birth mother died when she was but a babe,” Lady Irene interceded smoothly, “but I have raised Clara since she was a young girl. Tragically her father was taken from me soon after we married. I am certain you can appreciate how hard it has been to raise the daughter of the man I once loved, Your Grace. To look at her lovely face every day and see my poor, deceased husband...” Her dramatic sigh would have made any actress proud. “But I like to think it has only brought us closer. I do not think of Clara as my stepdaughter, you see. To me she is as much my daughter as my own flesh and blood, which is why I was understandably distressed to learn that she has been staying here...alone...with you.”

Thorncroft’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you implying, my lady?”

“Implying?” Lady Irene’s lashes fluttered in feigned dismay. “Why, I would never be so bold as to imply anything, Your Grace. I am merely concerned that Clara has been living beneath the same roof as an unmarried bachelor without a proper chaperone. Of course I know you are a man above reproach who would never compromise the reputation of a young innocent, but I fear other people may not view this...situation...in the same light. Gossip,” she said sadly. “It is such an ugly thing, is it not?”

Clara could not hold her tongue any longer. “Do not listen to her,” she snapped with a searing glare at her stepmother. “She does nothing but spin lies and twist her words to suit her own narrative.”

“Then she is not your stepmother?”

“No she is, but–”

Thorncroft’s jaw hardened. “You told me you were an orphan.”

“Oh,” Lady Irene said softly. “Oh Clara, how could you say such a thing? You know I love you as I love my own daughters.”

“You haven’t loved me a day in your life!” Clara cried. “I doubt you even know the meaning of the word. Thorncroft, please send her away. Once you do I can explain everything. I promise.”

His gaze shuttered, Thorncroft looked first at Clara and then at Lady Irene. “Perhaps it is best if you returned at a later time.”

“I will go.” Tears glinted in her eyes. She started to walk towards the door, only to stop and look back over her shoulder. “But first I must deliver a message. It is the only reason I came. Well, that and to see how Clara was faring of course.”

“Of course,” Clara bit out. She slid an uneasy glance at Thorncroft, hoping he wasn’t being fooled by her stepmother’s act, but his inscrutable expression was impossible to read. How she wanted to go to him! To take his hand and nuzzle his jaw and have him look at her as he had yesterday when they were alone and Lady Irene was but a distant worry.

“By all means,” he said with a clipped nod. “Deliver your message.”

Lady Irene looked at Clara and for a second, a second so quick that if Clara had blinked she would have missed it, triumph glowed in the depths of her cold, soulless gaze. “Mr. Ingle wanted me to tell you that he will still honor your engagement, my dear, no matter what gossip arises from this little… situation you have found yourself in. I know he is not a duke and will not be able to support the extravagant lifestyle you have always desired, but he loves you my dear. Surely that must count for something.”

“She’s lying,” Clara said frantically when Thorncroft’s entire body stiffened. “Andrew, she–”

“Are you engaged to someone else? The question is a simple yes or no,” he said flatly when Clara’s mouth opened and closed. “Are. You. Engaged. To. Someone. Else?”

Everything was happening so quickly! Clara’s head spun from the speed of it all. She’d known her stepmother was manipulative, but until this moment she had not understood the lengths to which Lady Irene would go to get what she wanted. Thorncroft would just have to listen to her. She would
make
him listen to her. Hurrying to his side she took his hand between both of hers and gave his tense fingers a hard squeeze while she looked up into his stony gray eyes, silently pleading with him to believe her. To have faith in her. To trust that what they had between them was stronger than any lie Lady Irene could possibly tell.

“Yes,” she began, for she only wanted to tell him the truth. “But I never–”

“Get out,” he said softly, so softly that Clara thought she’d misunderstood.

“Andrew?” she whispered uncertainly.

“I said
get out
.” Shaking free of her grasp he stalked past Lady Irene and opened the door himself, letting in a gust of warm summer. “Now,” he snapped when Clara stood frozen in place, unable to believe what was happening.