A Duchess by Midnight (8 page)

Determined to remain a bachelor for as long as it suited him Thorncroft had politely turned away every woman his mother had tried to force upon him. He’d also declined every invitation that found its way to his desk. Invitations to luncheons and balls and operas and picnics and even one to a pig race. Eventually he ordered Garfield to throw the bloody things out and had threatened to do the same to his mother – although mayhap not in so many words – if she persisted in trying to find him a wife he neither needed nor wanted.

Resolute in his conviction to remain alone, Thorncroft had even stopped traveling to London for the yearly Season and instead had thrown all of his attention and energy into a complete and total renovation of Longford Park.

After seven longs years his tireless efforts were finally coming to fruition. Though no one would know it outside of his family – for no one was invited past the enormous wrought iron gate that guarded the entrance – Longford Park was now one of the grandest estates in all of England.

And still he remained unsatisfied.

There was something always clawing inside of him, searching for a way out. Something dark and dangerous and ugly. He felt it the most at night when he laid motionless in bed, staring up at a ceiling that held no answers to the questions he still tortured himself with.

It was a numbness in his gut. A hollowness in his chest. An aching in his heart. And no matter how consumed he became with work or how many different ways he tried to distract himself the darkness remained, simmering just beneath the surface.

A part of him acknowledged that it had always been there, even before Katherine’s death. She had merely helped suppress it and now that she was gone the darkness was closer than ever before to being set free.

“What are you scheming now?” he asked his mother flatly.

“Scheming?” she said with a sniff. “As if I would ever do anything of the sort.”

“Scheming is
all
you do.” Crossing the drawing room Adam pushed open the double doors and stuck his head out, presumably looking for the blonde-haired maid he’d had his eye on for the past few weeks despite Thorncroft’s strict warning to leave his servants alone. “I know it and Andrew knows it so you might as well come out with it.”

“Fine.” The dowager duchess drew a sharp breath. Beneath the lace cap she always wore her silver brows snapped together over gray eyes turned shrewd and sharp. “I have given you seven years, Andrew. Seven years to mourn Katherine and your son. Seven years to put their deaths behind you and let the past be the past. Seven years to find a new wife and produce a new heir as is your duty as my firstborn son.”

A new wife… A new heir…

The words cut through Thorncroft like a knife. Gritting his teeth, he turned away from his mother and stalked to the window. Gossamer curtains offered a thinly veiled view of the front gardens where a myriad of roses bloomed, their curled faces turned towards the sun.

“You do not know what you are asking of me,” he bit out.

“I know exactly what I am asking of you for it is the same thing that was asked of me when my first husband died. Do you think I wanted to marry your father? No,” the dowager duchess said curtly before Thorncroft could growl a response. “I did not. But marry him I did, out of duty to myself and obligation to my family. Because that is what we do, Andrew. That is what the British aristocracy has always done. We meet our duties and our obligations, no matter how impossible they may seem. As a duke, your duties and obligations are greater than most. Some might look at your wealth and your grand houses and your titles as good things, and they certainly are, but nothing comes without a cost.”

The roses sharpened as Thorncroft’s gaze turned hard. He knew the bloody cost. He knew it better than anyone.

Not realizing his short nails were digging furrows into the windowsill until his mother gently laid her hand upon his, he relaxed every-so-slightly, forcing his lean body to uncoil before it snapped like a spring drawn too tight.

“It has been seven years Andrew,” the dowager duchess said softly. “You must let them go.”

“I am going for a ride.” Turning away from the window he snatched his jacket off the back of a chair and threw it over his shoulder. Adam reached out in a half-hearted attempt to stop him from leaving, but he merely shoved his brother’s arm aside before he stormed out of the room with all the brooding force of a tempest rolling out over the open sea.    

No one
liked
to clean chamber pots. But it was something that had to be done, and with everyone else in the household up to their elbows in lye soap Clara had had no choice but to volunteer for the task.

She hummed a silly tune as she dragged a rickety old wooden wagon piled high with chamber pots behind her. It bumped and jostled over the rough ground, groaning in complaint as the axles threatened to buckle beneath their heavy burden.

“Hush,” Clara muttered with a backwards glance at the wagon. “You have the easy part, don’t you? I am the one who has to wash them.” Keeping a firm grip on the metal handle she dragged the cart down a narrow, tree-lined path that ran alongside a shallow stream. Tiny song birds chirped at her as she walked past them, their inquisitive black eyes following her slow, steady progress with keen interest. Knowing precisely what they wanted Clara took a brief respite in the cool shade of an elm tree and dug deep into the pockets of her apron.

“Here you are,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a handful of breadcrumbs. Birds flew down in bright colorful flocks of blue and white and tan as she threw the bread across the path. One bold fellow, his wings dotted with dark spots, hopped right up to her feet and tilted his head back. Clara bit back a smile. “Greedy, aren’t you? Well here you go.” Kneeling down, she slowly extended her hand. To her surprise – and delight – the bird hopped right into her palm, his little nails tickling the calloused skin as he dipped his head and pecked at the stale crumbs.

When her pockets were empty Clara stood up and watched as one by one the birds dispersed, fluttering back into the bushes and up into the trees. Absently rubbing a knot of tension out of her shoulder – the chamber pots, though small, were deceptively heavy when piled all together – she continued down the path which was really no path at all, but rather an old overgrown trail forged by the hooves of cattle who used the stream to quench their thirst.

While it would have been far easier and quicker to clean out the chamber pots behind the house, Clara vastly preferred the privacy of the woods. There was something almost magical about the silence and the shade and the way the sun filtered down through the trees. She could be herself when she was out here, if only for a little while. And she could
breathe
. Not the short, stinted, wary breaths she took whenever her stepmother or stepsisters were near, but deep, all the way down into her gut breaths that she felt in the very depths of her soul.

Pushing a low-hanging branch out of the way she carefully dragged the cart down a short incline and kept it in place with tiny rocks wedged beneath the wheels. Gathering her long hair into a knot on top of her head, she tied her dress off above her knees, slid out of her shoes and stockings, and waded barefoot into the cool stream.

The water tickled her toes, making her giggle as she splashed around like a child. The chamber pots temporarily forgotten, she skimmed her fingers through the water, entranced by the tiny minnows that swam to the surface and chased after her hands. The stream was so clear she could see straight down to the bottom where dozens of pebbles gleamed like forgotten treasure.

Distracted by the beauty of the nature around her, Clara didn’t hear the pounding of approaching hoof steps. It was not until the birds fell uncharacteristically silent that she realized something was amiss. Her toes slipped on the smooth rocks as she whirled around and she fell sideways with a tiny shriek, arms wind milling madly as she tried to save herself from a dip in the stream. Water splashed up into her face and caught the front of her bodice, quickly soaking through to her skin. Blushing furiously when she glanced down and saw just how revealing her thin dress had become, Clara crossed her arms tightly over her chest before she turned – much more slowly this time – to face the horse and rider who had stolen into her quiet oasis.

Tilting her head back she looked up… and kept looking up for what seemed like a small eternity for the horse was no ordinary horse at all but a black, fire-breathing beast with an impossibly large head and the rider was no ordinary man but a dark knight with impossibly broad shoulders and an expression so foreboding she couldn’t help but take a cautious step back.

While Clara’s knowledge of men had grown over the past seven years, she’d never encountered one quite like this before. He was dressed like a gentleman in some of the finest clothes she had ever seen, yet his dark hair was so long and thick it brushed against the high collar of his fawn colored jacket and his jaw was concealed beneath a swarthy layer of stubble.

His nose was long and masculine. His mouth hard and thin. His cheekbones high and aristocratic. Despite the unkempt hair and scruff of beard he had the unmistakable look of a fancy highborn lord about him, complete with cold gray eyes that reminded her of the first day of winter when the winds blew in from the east and the flowers turned silver with frost.

“What do you want?” she asked, raising her voice so it carried clearly up the bank.

“You are trespassing on private lands,” he growled in reply.

Clara blinked. She’d been coming to this stream for as long as she could remember and never once had she encountered another living being that wasn’t covered in fur or feather. The hands around her ribcage loosened, allowing her to draw a deep breath while still keeping her damp chest modestly covered. “If I am trespassing it is completely by accident. I can assure you I mean no harm.”

His gaze boldly swept her from top to bottom and bottom to top, causing blood to pool in her cheeks, but if he saw anything he liked it did not show in his expression. Save the faint tightening of his bottom lip his countenance remained as stoic and unyielding as a brick wall. There was no emotion to be had. Nothing to reveal what he might be thinking or feeling.

For a young woman as expressive as Clara the lack of sentiment was nothing short of flabbergasting. She could not tell if the stranger wanted to kiss her… or strangle her where she stood.

Most likely the latter
, she decided when his mouth took a sharp downward curve.

“Your intentions are not my concern. Leave at once and take your” – his gaze flicked to the little old wagon before returning to her face – “chamber pots with you.”

He wanted her to leave? But she’d only just gotten here! Clara’s heart sank as she imagined dragging the dirty chamber pots all the way back to the manor before her spine stiffened with resolve. She had come here for a purpose and she would see that purpose through, intimidating stranger on a horse or no intimidating stranger on a horse. “I am afraid I cannot do that, sir. You see my stepmother is returning tomorrow and I must–”

“Do I look as though I care?” he interrupted coldly. “Because I do not. Now do as you’ve been told, collect your belongings, and
leave
.”

Were Clara a
real
maid – as the man so clearly thought she was – she would have no doubt tripped over her two feet in her haste to obey his curt order. But she wasn’t a servant, not really, and so she met his aggressive command with a command of her own.

“Stop bullying me.” Blue eyes flashing with temper, she forgot all about her damp bodice as her hands fell away from her breasts and clung to her slender hips instead. “It’s clear I am not hurting anything or anyone. Why, if you hadn’t chosen to ride down this particular path then you would not have even known I was here. That fault is yours, not mine, and I should not be punished for your foolhardy decisions. Anyone with a brain in their head could see this path was never intended to be traveled by a horse. It’s a miracle the poor thing hasn’t broken his leg.”

For a moment the stranger did not say a single word. For a moment he simply stared at her, his wolfish gaze impossible to decipher. Then his jaw hardened, and his eyes narrowed, and he dismounted from his horse just as Clara thought she probably should not have been so free with her speech, especially given that they were completely alone where no one would be able to hear her screams.

Tying his horse’s reins around the trunk of a small sapling, the gray-eyed stranger descended the steep embankment and stopped at the edge of the stream. “What is your name?”

Clara swallowed nervously, all of her bravado stripped away. Was it her imagination or did he appear even
larger
now that they were on level ground? He towered over her diminutive frame by at least half a foot, his broad shoulders, wide chest, and muscular thighs making her feel all of two inches tall.

“C-Clara Witherspoon.” She lifted her chin a notch. “And who are you?”

“Who I am is not your concern.” His tone was brusque and dismissive and so blatantly
rude
that Clara couldn’t help but frown. Maybe she was trespassing but that did not give him the right to speak to her in such a manner. He may not have known she was a lady when she was dressed as a maid, but her femininity could not have been in doubt, particularly given her exposed calves and the budding swell of her breasts.

“Are you rude to all women, or have I done something in particular to offend you?” A tendril of hair tumbled down into her eyes as she tossed back her head, awaiting his answer. She did not have to wait very long.

“Are you always this impertinent or do I have the grave misfortune of catching you in the midst of your monthlies?”

Clara’s mouth fell open. “You cannot speak of such a thing to me!”

The man lifted one ominous brow. “You are standing in the middle of
my
stream which is in the middle of
my
forest. I can say anything to you I damn well please, including get the hell out.”

The
nerve
! Even on her worst day Lady Irene never spoke in such an abusive manner. Then again, her stepmother much preferred to deliver her cruelty in small, subtle doses, letting it sink in like a poison you didn’t even know you were ingesting until it was too late.

“I am not leaving until I have cleaned the chamber pots,” she said stubbornly.

It was clear the stranger was not accustomed to being so openly defied. His jaw hardened as he glared at her, muscles bulging beneath the strain of teeth that were clenched too tight. Without a word he knelt down and pulled off one knee-high riding boot and then the other before unrolling his socks, exposing powerful calves covered in a fine layer of black hair.

“What – what are you doing?” Clara asked nervously. Her toes, numbed by the rushing water, curled in on themselves as he stood up and stepped into the stream. “Stop right there! I said
stop
!”

But he kept walking towards her, his strides slow and deliberate, his iron stare unblinking, as though he really were a wolf and she a tiny, defenseless rabbit he’d run to ground and was now ready to finish off with one snapping bite. “If you will not remove yourself than you leave me no choice but to remove you.”

“Do not touch me,” she warned. Ignoring her demand he kept advancing and did not stop until they were standing face to face, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. He was so tall she had to crane her neck back to meet his gaze. What she saw swirling into the depths of his gray eyes caused the tiny golden hairs on the nape of her neck to stand on edge. The stranger’s stare was no longer cold and inscrutable but filled with hot, acute awareness that sent a shiver of anticipation rippling down her spine. Her breath hitched in her throat as the most peculiar fluttering sensation began to spread inside of her belly, almost as though she’d swallowed a mouthful of butterflies.

“You’re quite beautiful.” There was no warmth in his voice when he spoke. He was not giving her a compliment, but rather making an observation. One he did not seem very pleased about, as though for some reason he found her beauty offensive.

When he lifted his hand towards her face Clara held perfectly still, bracing herself for the worst, but he only caught a silky tendril of hair that had tumbled down the side of her cheek and, with a gentleness that caught her completely off guard, tucked it behind her ear. “Beautiful,” he repeated, his voice little more than a husky growl.

Clara wet her dry lips with a tiny flick of her tongue, inadvertently drawing the stranger’s gaze down to her mouth. His eyebrows drew together over the bridge of his nose, giving him a fierce expression that she suddenly did not find all that unappealing.

Despite his rudeness and his blatant attempts at intimidation, there was a certain dark charm about him that pulled at something inside of Clara. Something buried deep down inside she hadn’t even known she possessed.

Lust.

It uncurled itself like a sinuous stream of smoke, winding and twisting its way from the apex of her thighs all the way up to the jutting peaks of her breasts. Caught unawares by the considerable power it yielded Clara felt herself go weak in the knees and she would have fallen had the stranger’s arms not shot out to catch her.

Water splashed between them, staining both of their clothes with tiny tear-shaped droplets as his hands closed around her upper arms, fingers splaying across the rough material of her poorly sewn sleeves. She could feel the heat emanating from his body. Could sense the emotion he was struggling to keep at bay with a firmly clenched jaw. Could smell the peppermint on his breath, the scent of it sharp and sweet and tempting.