Her destruction. His.
He was not the man for her. But his heart was stubborn, and it damn well refused to listen to his head. Here he was, hers for the taking even though he knew it was wrong.
“Clay,” she murmured when she saw him, opening her arms and running to meet him.
He caught her against him, burying his face in her sweetly fragrant locks as she pressed hers to his neck. Nothing smelled as lovely as Ara, warm and soft and sun-kissed, rose blossoms, woman, everything forbidden. Everything he had ever wanted and never dared to dream could be his. It had only been one day since she had kissed him, and it had felt as if a lifetime had passed.
How could he ever bear to let her go when it seemed as if she was the other half of him?
Something hard and small distracted him then, a sharp corner cutting into his thigh. What the devil? It seemed to be coming from her dress.
“What are you hiding in your skirts, Ara?” he could not resist asking.
“Oh!” Flushing and sending him a coy smile as she stepped back from his embrace, she reached into a hidden pocket in her gown and extracted a small, red leather volume. “This is for you, Clay.”
Warmth suffused him as he accepted the book. No lady of his acquaintance had ever given him a gift before. He looked down at the volume in his hands. “Poems.”
“These are not just any poems.” Her smile widened to reveal a slight dimple in her left cheek. “This book is from my favorite collection. There are two volumes. Now you will have the first volume, and I shall have the second. Two pieces that go together.”
His heart thumped as he opened the cover and read the inscription she had left for him. To Clay from Your Ara. When you are ready for Volume II, you know where to find it. Something trickled through him. His gut clenched. He looked up to find her watching him intently, her nose adorably scrunched as she awaited his verdict.
Bloody, bloody hell.
“Thank you. I have never received a more perfect gift.” He hauled her back into his arms, kissing her crown. “Ara. My sweet, foolish Ara. Why did you come back when I told you I am not the man for you?”
“Why did you?” she returned.
“Because I was hoping you would be here and I could not stay away, wondering if you were.” The confession was all but ripped from him. He did not want to reveal the depth of emotion he felt for her, but it was impossible to deny her when she was in his arms.
He would do anything—anything—to keep her there.
The realization sobered him. Terrified him.
“I am glad you could not,” she whispered. “I know our fathers have a bitter old grudge, but their enmity does not concern me. Will you come to Kingswood Hall and court me?”
Her question robbed him of the ability to speak for a moment. How could she possibly imagine her father would allow the bastard son of the Duke of Carlisle—a man he loathed—to court his youngest daughter? She was either incredibly bold or incredibly naïve.
With another kiss upon her crown because he could not help himself, he at last set her at arm’s length from him, gazing down into her upturned face. “Ara, I am a bastard. Your father would never permit me to call upon you, never mind court you. No father worth his salt would countenance such a match. It would be an insult to both him and you.”
He begged her to understand with his gaze. To make this easier for them rather than more difficult and painful. If their last goodbye had not stuck, then this one would have to. For both their sakes.
“My father is in London,” she said. “Mama said he had some important matters to attend to, but my lady’s maid told me he is seeing his kept woman in St. John’s Wood and that is why he has gone. A very lovely French actress, I am told, not much older than I am.”
He stared down at her, shocked by her words and her knowledge both. She spoke so calmly of her father’s infidelity, as if she spoke of the weather. An innocent girl should never know such ugly underbellies of life.
Of course, it was the natural order of things, and he knew it. His own mother was one such kept lady. But she loved his father with all her heart, and he returned that love. It was why Clay had been raised alongside his half brother Leo in a rather uncommon fashion. But neither that love nor the advantages his father had provided him could expunge the taint of his birth.
“You ought not to know of such things,” he said at last. “Your woman never should have gossiped to you in such malicious fashion.”
Ara shook her head, the stubborn expression he had come to know all too well in their fortnight of secret meetings coming over her face. “I am glad she did. I do not want to be kept ignorant of the truth. I wish to know all there is to know. About everything.”
She took a step toward him, her countenance changing once more. Her eyes darkened to unadulterated violet, and there was something glittering within their gorgeous depths, though he could not be sure precisely what. Unlike his brother the heir apparent, he did not have a great deal of experience with the opposite sex. Under his brother Leo’s tutelage, he had visited brothels in town. He had bedded women. But that had been simple, each party understanding what was expected.
He had never courted. Had never loved.
Good God.
He loved her.
It hit him, like a clap of thunder overhead—unexpected, a shock to his senses. Loud and angry and threatening and promising change. He loved Lady Araminta Winters.
Her hand was upon his chest now, splayed and open, directly above his hammering heart. “Everything, Clay. Will you teach me?”
Bloody fucking hell.
He swallowed, took her wrist in a gentle grip, but could not seem to make himself pry that hand away. For he liked her touch upon him far too much. “Ara, my love, I cannot teach you anything.”
“Please, Clay?” She looked up at him shyly, her pale face trusting and so damn lovely. “My heart belongs to you.” With her other hand, she caught his and guided it to her own breast.
He absorbed the steady, rapid thumps. So visceral. So powerful. Here was their common bond, and he had never felt closer to another person in his life than he did then, standing with his hand pressed over Ara’s heart and hers to his. How had he ever lived before her, this fierce little woman with the flaming hair and the freckle-dotted nose and the lush mouth that begged for his kiss? This woman who wanted him in spite of who and what he was?
“I cannot do what you ask,” he growled anyway, because he may be a bastard, but he was a gentleman. He had scruples, damn it, even if it was getting increasingly difficult to recall them. “I cannot court you, and I certainly cannot…teach you anything. You are an innocent, Ara, and that is precisely as it should be. One day, you shall go to your husband with your heart unburdened and your head held high, and you will be glad I did not take what you offered.”
Her stare did not waver from his. She inhaled deeply, and he felt the rise and fall as though it were a part of him. “The only husband I want to go to one day is you, Clay. I am in love with you.”
He forgot to breathe.
Her words were so beautiful, so glorious, so frightening, so wrong…and yet so very right. It was everything he wanted to hear. Everything he was afraid of. Just as she was everything he could not have.
He should tell her to go. Should tear away from her and flee, never turning back, never returning. He should leave her to the life she deserved, to the loveless match her father would arrange for her with some pale, pampered lord with soft hands and a born-in-the-purple lifestyle.
Instead, he kissed her. He did not mean to. No, his conscience insisted he leave her here, her innocence intact. But his body had decided on mutiny. Or perhaps it was his heart. Either way, he was not leaving her. He could not leave her.
The hand over her heart slid to cup her nape. The fingers gripping her wrist released her and found the sweet curve of her cheek instead. There was nothing gentle about his kiss, though he had intended it to be a slow and steady wooing. But the trouble with La
dy Araminta Winters was she was like fire, and whenever he was in proximity to her, he too caught flame.
Her mouth opened beneath his, and when his tongue met hers, she moaned. A rush of desire surged to his cock. With one tiny sound and the beginning of a kiss, his ballocks were drawn tight and he was sporting an erection to rival any of the trees in the forest. When her tongue rubbed tentatively against his, slipping into his mouth, he almost lost control.
With a hiss, he yanked his mouth from hers, his breath leaving him in harsh pants as he stared down at her. Her eyes were huge, pools of violet-blue he could easily drown in, her mouth slack, swollen from his kisses. Everything in him screamed to lay her down upon the soft blanket of the moss on the forest floor and take her.
But he could not. She was too precious to him. She was too perfect and good and innocent, and if there was one thing he would not do, by God, was ruin her.
“I will court you,” he bit out, curling his hands into fists to keep himself from hauling her back into his chest and kissing her into oblivion once more. “Tomorrow. If you are certain I will be welcome?”
She gave him the most glorious smile he had ever seen. “I have never been more certain of anything in all my life. Thank you, Clay. You will not regret it, I promise!”
He hoped to hell she was right, and he would not come to regret this day. More importantly, that he would not come to regret losing his heart to a woman he knew would almost certainly never be his. He tucked her book into his coat, settling it over his heart.
Chapter Seven
For the second time in as many days, Clay encountered the young duke cuddling his cat. This time, it was late evening, and Clay had been returning to his apartments after a long day of making certain there were no weaknesses at Burghly House that could be exploited by the villains determined to do harm to Ara. Just as before, he had not even been aware that the young lad was missing from the place where he was meant to be—sleeping soundly in his chamber at this time of night.
Clay stopped and stared at the sight of the lad sleeping on his bed alongside Sherman. Both dozed peacefully, and despite the intrusion in his personal space and his irritation with the governess who was charged with his welfare, warmth seeped into Clay’s heart once more.
Damn it all, he did not want to feel this weakness for Ara’s son, the tender feeling, as if the young duke could grow upon him much the same way his cat had: at first always underfoot and then beloved. He did not want to like the boy at all. The lad was a symbol—more than Burghly House, more than referring to Ara as Your Grace—of the world she had built without him. A world of liveried servants and a St. James’s Square address, of Worth gowns and balls and routs and fêtes. A world he, simple Clayton Ludlow, who had been raised as a duke’s son but who would forever be a mere duke’s bastard, could never have given her.
She would have been plain Mrs. Clayton Ludlow. Would she have borne him a son as well? For a moment, the odd notion struck him that if Ara had given him a son, he would have looked rather a great deal like the lad. Dark-haired and lanky as Clay had been until he had grown into his body. Awkward and quiet as Clay too had been. With a good heart. A tender heart.
Hell no, he thought again, he did not want to like the boy.
Indeed, he wanted to dislike him on account of who his sire was—the man who had taken Clay’s place. To say nothing of who the lad’s mother was—the woman who had heartlessly betrayed him.
But he could not stop the feeling as he gazed upon the innocently sleeping form, the boy’s gawky body curled into a ball as if to protect himself and the white and black cat he cuddled against an unseen menace. Sadly, the menace was real. More real than the lad could possibly know.
And neither a stripling nor a feline could diminish it. But that was a concern for another time. For the moment, the lad was safe, thank the Lord, and he had not been swept away by some unknown Fenian menace whilst Clay had been otherwise occupied. He remained as he was for another beat, watching Ara’s soundly sleeping son.
He found himself moving across his chamber, reaching for a spare coverlet and draping it over the boy, taking care to leave Sherman uncovered as the cat did not care for it. Neither the lad nor the feline stirred.
Satisfied of the lad’s comfort and safety, he went in search of his mother or governess, whichever he could find first.
He had not far to roam, for a whirlwind of raven skirts collided with him just outside his apartments. Instinctively, his hands settled upon her waist, steadying her as her palms flew to his chest.
The lad’s mother it was, then.
Bloody hell, the connection of their bodies, albeit innocent, was enough to rouse the old demons within him. He had not stopped wanting her, it seemed. His cockstand gave painful testimony to that fact, straining against his trousers after no more provocation than her waist beneath his grip and her hands upon his chest. But her waist was perfectly curved. And her lips were so lush and full, begging for a kiss. And she was so beautiful it hurt.
Wide, vibrant eyes settled upon his, sending a jolt through his veins. “Mr. Ludlow,” she said, her tone rife with starch. “You are far too familiar with my person, sir.”
She sounded like his mother offering him a scold.
His mother had not dared to berate him in at least fifteen years. This woman—this beautiful, feminine creature staring up at him—was an asp fashioned in a goddess’s mold.
The heat in his veins turned to ice. He set her away from him as if she were an inferno and he feared getting burned. Because that was precisely what she was to him. Ruination. Destruction. His only regret.
Collecting himself and willing his erection to abate, he allowed his hands to drop to his sides and fashioned his face an impassive mask. “Your Grace, by any chance, are you searching for your son?”
The last two words tasted bitter on his tongue, the reminder of what could have been. He forced it all from his mind. He was here to perform a duty. To keep the duchess and the young duke safe until the dangers of the Fenian menace had blown past like a thundercloud on a summer day. And he could only hope it would, sending him speedily on to his next assignment.
So he could forget the bewitching blue-violet of her eyes and the fire of her hair and pink softness of her lips.
“Edward,” she breathed as if it were a sacred word. “Of course I am looking for him! He was not in his bed when I went to bid him goodnight, and his governess has no inkling of where he can be. Have you found him? Is he…safe?”
Despite their history and the way he felt toward her, he hated that she had to think, even for a moment, something ill may have befallen her innocent son. That the actions of some faceless villain who thought he could solve his homeland’s problems by slaughtering innocents could impact this mother in her very home enraged him.
He stared down into her arresting face, calming his rage as he crafted a careful response. “Yes. He is sleeping within my chamber.”
She inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring, her wide lips tightening with disapproval. “Your chamber, Mr. Ludlow?”
He hated, bloody well hated, the way she spoke to him. As if he were no better than a servant. As if he were beneath her.
He swallowed. “Yes, Your Grace. As I just informed you, your son is safe and fast asleep within. I shall have him removed as it pleases you.”
“How did he come to be within your chamber, Mr. Ludlow?” Her voice was cold and scathing but it also held the note of command he had heard so many times before. The tone that said she spoke to an inferior who had no choice save to answer her query in the manner that pleased her.
“I cannot say, madam,” he gritted, detesting he must speak to her as if they were strangers. Detesting—worse still—the other troubling conclusion he had reached in his mind: that they had always been strangers. That he had never truly known her.
That everything between them had been feigned and false. Had she been rebelling against her strict papa? Had the notion of allowing a duke’s bast
ard to touch her appealed to some part of her?
He could not ask, and he would never know.
“Why would he be in your chamber, Mr. Ludlow?” she asked, poison lacing her voice. “And for how long has he been there?”
He suspected he knew what she was about, and he would be more than happy to return her volley with some of his own fire. “I have no inkling of why or how long your son has been within my chamber as he is fast asleep. Since my task here is ensuring your safety, I regret to say your son does not fall within my authority.”
“Your authority,” she repeated, her lip curling as if to suggest he had none.
“Indeed. My authority,” he echoed coldly. “Fenians murdered your husband in a park, madam, and that same faction of criminals has threatened you. My duty here is to keep you safe, not to maintain a reckoning of your ill-behaved offspring. That task falls to you and to the child’s nursemaids.”
She flinched as if he had struck her. “I am aware of your role here, Mr. Ludlow. But what I cannot comprehend is how my son was not in his bed tonight as he has been every night for the entirety of his life and somehow materialized within your chamber, of all the chambers in this house.”
His lips flattened. “I would never harm the lad, if that is what you suggest. My only sin is discovering him sleeping and curled up with my cat.”
An elegant burnished brow raised. “Your cat?”
He met her stare, unflinching. No amount of questions or raised brows would force him to love the creature any less. “I inherited it, you might say,” he offered vaguely, recalling his conversation with the lad in the garden.
The duchess frowned. “Its previous owner is dead and you have been forced to carry on with the thing?”
With the thing.
He smirked. “Indeed not. The cat’s previous owner gifted him to me. It was quite prescient of her now that I think upon it, for I had not realized just how endearing a feline can be until Her Grace gave me Sherman.”
Nobody's Duke (League of Dukes Book 1) Page 6