Nobody's Duke (League of Dukes Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  “This is the last mission I would have ever hoped to serve.” The hoarse admission was torn from him. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing for clarity. Wishing for answers and reassurance where none could be had.

  “You still love her, don’t you?”

  It had begun the moment he had first seen her again in the drawing room of Burghly House, and last night, it had culminated in a crashing crescendo.

  His Ara.

  The feisty flame-haired sylph with the blue-violet eyes and the full pink lips he could never kiss enough. The first woman who had ever looked upon him and seen him as a man, nothing less. The only woman who had ever owned his heart. It had always been hers. Would forever be in her keeping.

  Lies and betrayals had taken them from each other.

  But the time had come to grasp what was theirs.

  He swallowed and met his mother’s knowing gaze. “Aye.”

  “My darling son.” His mother’s expression turned anguished. She had ever worn her heart on her sleeve. Neither the years nor the loss of his father had changed her. “Perhaps you ought to move past those old hurts. She loves you too. It’s plain as day on her countenance. More to the point, I do not believe she had anything to do with her father’s actions. When I spoke to her yesterday at dinner, she revealed she has not spoken with her father in years. She appeared to have no inkling what had happened to you.”

  He sighed heavily, feeling every one of his one-and-thirty years. “She did not. We…had a discussion yesterday, and we both made some realizations that were rather damning. Her parents acted on their own to prevent her from marrying me. She came to meet me that day as we had planned, but I was already gone. She waited for hours.”

  Bloody hell, the notion of Ara waiting for him, spending hours alone, thinking he had jilted her—that he cared so little for her he had not even bothered to appear—still made him long to tear her father limb from limb. The man had cost them eight years.

  “Oh, Clayton.” His mother pressed a hand over her mouth. “From the moment I met her, I knew she could not have been capable of such a thing. She is a tenderhearted woman, and she is a good mother to your son.”

  Your son.

  The words still rattled him.

  But they felt right. They felt good.

  He nodded, and the warmth of the sun—unprecedented after so much spring chill and fog and damp—left him feeling flushed. Or mayhap that was merely thoughts of Ara.

  “She is that,” he agreed, pausing, striving to find his words. Ordinarily, he was not a man given to sentiment, but this was different. This was Ara and their son, and everything he had ever wanted within his grasp. It rocked him to the core. “Damn it, Mother, I do not know what the hell to do about her.”

  His mother’s lips pursed and she treated him to a raised brow and the stern expression he recalled from his wayward youth. “First, you need to curtail that language of yours. You ought to be ashamed, Clayton. Second, marry her.”

  The proclamation did not alarm him. Rather, it imbued him with a vast, swelling tide of hope. But he didn’t wish to unburden his every intention to his mother. Not yet. “She is newly widowed, mother.”

  “Months have passed, have they not?”

  For all that his mother detested profanity, she remained a rebel in other ways.

  Four months had gone by since Burghly’s murder. He had counted more than once, and it had never increased on any occasion.

  “Not enough. Moreover, we scarcely know each other. The lad does not even know I am his father yet.”

  “Have you told the Duchess how you feel?” his mother asked next, knowing him all too well.

  “No,” he bit out. For he scarcely knew how he felt himself. Indeed, he had spent the better part of the morning engaged in bouts of fisticuffs so that he could distract himself from all such thoughts.

  “Do you not think you ought to, Clayton?” His mother bestowed an arch look upon him, the sort that could only come from a mother who always thought she knew better than her offspring. He knew it well.

  “No,” he denied, feeling stubborn as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I do not. I do, however, think you ought to muddle in Leo’s life a bit. He requires a mother’s guidance far more than I do.”

  “Fear not.” His mother winked. “When the time comes for your brother, I shall guide him in every way possible. Until then, I have a grandson I dearly wish to know and a future daughter who must be wooed. Kisses would be quite estimable, I think. But nothing more, Clayton. Do be on your best behavior. I shall be watching—do not think I won’t. Take her for a drive. Bring her flowers. Sing to her. Your voice is so deep and lovely, and I just know she will love to hear it. Too much time has been taken from you already, and you must do this right.”

  He sighed. Mother had always possessed a flair for the dramatic, God love her. “This is not a love sonnet, Mother. I do not have the liberty to court her. She is only here at Harlton Hall because she is in danger, and though I may harbor feelings for her, she does not necessarily feel the same.”

  There was no question that she wanted him. Their bodies had found their old rhythm with ease, sparking up a blazing inferno from a small flame. But beyond the base need between them and a handful of allusions to tender sentiments, she had given him nothing to suggest his courtship of her would be welcome.

  And he was…

  Well, bloody hell.

  He had spent so many years fearing no one and nothing—thanks to his immense size and his intensive training with the League—but he found himself terrified. Afraid to offer her his bruised and battered heart, his scarred face, his simple last name, the tumbledown estate he was rebuilding much as he had rebuilt his life. Afraid she did not love him in return. That she had merely been overcome by a rush of old feelings that had never quite dissipated.

  That she would tell him no.

  His mother gave him a searching look. “She cannot deny you if you do not ask her. But neither can she say yes.”

  Why did his mother seem to possess the capacity to read his mind? He grunted, aware he was being a beast, but too overwhelmed to continue the conversation any further. “If you have finished admonishing me and ordering me to court the Duchess of Burghly, I will take my leave. I must see to my men.”

  Without bothering to wait for her reply, he turned to flee. Bloody hell, he was a man fully grown, and he was retreating from his own mother. It was a hell of a day.

  “Clayton,” she called after him in her most authoritative tone.

  Blast. No one called him that but his mother. He spun on his heel, facing her once more. “Yes, madam?”

  She smiled. “Be happy. You deserve it. The three of you are a family, and you belong together. Don’t tarry. Life is too short, too precarious. Far too precious.”

  Damn it, those words hit him, poking beneath his armor to find the most vulnerable parts of him. Because she was right. Every bit of it. But he didn’t know what to do next or how to find his happiness after so many years living without it. All he knew was that he wanted Ara as his wife. He wanted the life together they had been denied.

  He nodded jerkily and offered her a half bow, all he could manage. “That it is, Mother. Life is entirely too abbreviated. I can only assure you that I will do as I must, when I must. I will be a part of the lad’s life going forward. I will have him know I am his father when the time is right. As for the lad’s mother, that remains to be seen. Good day, Mother, I really must attend to my men now.”

  “Of course, my son. One more thing: be brave.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ara stalked through Harlton Hall, determined to find Clay. Already, she had checked the fledgling library—not yet brimming with books but an excellent beginning. She had examined his study, which looked as if it had never even been entered by him. She had searched in antechambers and the main saloon and everywhere she could fathom he might be hiding.

  She could only reach one conclusion.

  I
t was possible—likely, in fact—that he was avoiding her. She had spent the afternoon with Edward and Clay’s cat Sherman since Edward’s new governess, Miss Palliser, had yet to arrive from London. In the uproar before their abrupt departure from Burghly House, Ara had discovered Miss Argent kept a bottle of gin in her apartments, and that the woman had been sleeping during each of Edward’s romps from the schoolroom, suffering the ill-effects of imbibing too much the night before. She had dismissed Miss Argent immediately, but there had not been time for the woman’s replacement to accompany them on the journey to Oxfordshire.

  The afternoon alone with her son had been a much-needed reminder that life could be normal for them. That it would once again return to normal for them one day, God willing. It had also proven to her that the time for telling Edward the truth was long overdue.

  He needed to know Clay was his father.

  When she had exhausted every last corner of Harlton Hall in search of Clay, she found herself outside. Alone. The sun was bright and high in the sky. The air was so quiet, sweetly perfumed with freshly budding fauna, and altogether distinct from London’s familiar busy sounds and lack of fresh air. Being outside was invigorating. She stretched her arms wide, threw her head back, and tilted her face to receive the sun.

  And then she realized she was not alone at all.

  Two of Clay’s men stood sentinel nearby.

  Her brief moment of freedom was effectively dashed. But perhaps she could locate her quarry at last. She straightened into a semblance of what a proper duchess ought to look like, dropping her arms to her sides and otherwise composing herself.

  “Excuse me, sirs,” she addressed them. “Where might I find Mr. Ludlow? I have an urgent matter I must discuss with him.”

  Two pairs of eyes shot to her. A dark-haired man with a build similar to Clay’s—though not as large—spoke first. “He is in the copse of trees on the eastern side of the manor house, Your Grace.”

  Ah, Clay was in the trees.

  How fitting.

  How utterly perfect.

  It was where they had first met, after all, beneath the leafy boughs a lifetime ago.

  She cleared her throat. “I shall go and search for him there. Thank you, kind sirs.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t allow that, Your Grace,” one of the men said hesitantly.

  She raised a brow, giving him her most frigid expression, daring him to deny her free will. “Oh?”

  The man swallowed. “Well, perhaps we can as long as you remain within eyesight.”

  “Just so,” she agreed, flicking her skirts and descending the front steps. “I will be safe with Mr. Ludlow. You need not fear on my account.”

  At least, that was what she hoped.

  But her legs were already moving, carrying her to Clay, her heart thumping with the knowledge she was about to lay her heart bare at his feet. And pray he didn’t crush it beneath his heel. The walk from the steps of Harlton Hall, across the gravel drive and a well-manicured swath of lawn, felt as if it were endless. Until she reached the forest and found him standing there, a tall, hulking, beloved figure, and it felt as if the journey to his side had taken no time at all.

  He saw her at once, just as he had so long ago, his keen senses alert. He wore no hat and neither coat nor waistcoat, the ends of his longer-than-fashionable hair brushing his shoulders. In the cool shade of the forest, his white shirt was like a beacon stretched over his broad chest. He looked fierce and uncontainable.

  As wild and necessary as the vegetation serving as his backdrop.

  “Ara.”

  He opened his arms to her, and she caught her skirts in both her hands, running until she reached him and threw herself into his chest. His embrace was sudden and strong, keeping her pressed tight to him. He kissed the top of her head, for she was not wearing a hat either. The warmth of his mouth infused her with a fresh throb of longing. She was glad she had wandered to him. And she did not care if his men could see her embracing him. All she cared about was being in his arms.

  He felt like home. His scent filled her—leather, musk, soap, and man. She wrapped her arms around his lean waist, holding him for a moment, savoring the freedom to touch him as she wanted. Savoring him. Savoring life and the possibility for the future.

  Mayhap, just mayhap if she dared.

  She needed to dare.

  “What are you doing out here, Clay?” she asked. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  “Taking the air. Walking. Thinking. What are you doing out here, my dear?” he asked, the sweet, low rumble of his voice sending a shiver through her. “You ought not to be wandering about, unescorted.” His arms tightened even more over her. “I will have Farleigh’s hide for allowing you to flit away from Harlton Hall without accompaniment.”

  “You will have no one’s hide.” She took another surreptitious inhalation of his shirt and sighed. “I browbeat your men into allowing it, and they knew I was coming to find you.”

  “You browbeat them?” He chuckled, the velvety timbre sending a spark of pure desire shooting through her. “Darling, you are smaller than a dunnock. They are trained and armed. They are not meant to be browbeaten by you. They are meant to hold firm.”

  “Nevertheless, here I am,” she said, feeling quite pleased with herself. Clay had called her darling, and she liked it far too well. Wrapped in his hold, his warmth burning into her, his scent filling her senses, and the quiet cover of the trees around them, it seemed almost as if they had stepped back in time. Here, she could forget—if even for only a short while—all the ugliness in her life. “I had them quivering in fear.”

  “Of course you did.” He pressed another kiss to the top of her head, his hot breath fanning over her part like a benediction. “You have me quivering in fear as well.”

  She swallowed, her smile deepening as hope sparked deep within her. “What if I told you I felt the same?”

  He inhaled, his chest expanding beneath her cheek. “I would say it is only fair that you must be tortured as well.”

  Ara closed her eyes, reveling in this quiet moment, in the unfettered tenderness. Perhaps he had been avoiding her all day. Perhaps he was as shaken by their newfound circumstances and the revelations between them as she was. But everything about this felt as right as drawing her next breath.

  “I do not know where we are,” she confessed softly.

  “We are here, standing beneath the trees together.” A smile permeated his voice.

  His gentle teasing put her at ease. “Yes. You have a beautiful estate, Clay.”

  “I bought it because of the forest.” His voice was a low rasp. She almost had to strain to hear him. “And then I could not come here for the same reason. The forest was you, Ara. It still is, but now you are here, and you are in my arms where you belong. You are here at Harlton Hall.”

  Yes. Precisely where she belonged. She wanted to say it. Wanted to ask him. But even as close as she felt to him in that moment—physically as well as emotionally—she was uncertain of herself. This was all so new to her. He was new to her. Old and beloved yet new and different. Clayton Ludlow had changed in the eight years since she had known him. He had lived life, fought battles, traveled. Perhaps he had fallen in love. So much of the time denied her was a mystery, just as she must be a mystery to him.

  “Thank you for welcoming me into your home,” she forced herself to say then before shifting to a different subject—the reason she had sought him out in the first place. “I had dinner last night with your mother and breakfast with her again this morning.”

  “I am aware.”

  When he said nothing else, she continued, the question that had been nettling her ever since breakfast returning. Needing to be answered. “Does she know, Clay?”

  He was silent for some time, the only sound between them his steady inhale and exhale, almost as if he were asleep. “Elaborate, if you please,” he said at last.

  Ara sighed, her arms tightening around him, wishing she could st
ay thus forever, connected to him. That they could never again be torn apart. “About us…our past?”

  He took his time answering once again, leaving her waiting, staring into the sunlight-dappled forest with nothing but the thrum of his heart for comfort. “She knows I wished to court you all those years ago. That I was denied. She knows what happened that day and why.”

  “Does she know about Edward, Clay?” she asked. His mother had seemed to know far too much, but she could not be certain whether it was her guilty mind at work or Lily Ludlow truly did know all.

  “She has surmised.” His voice was decadent and low, a delicious rumble. “I could not deny it. The lad is my image, and my mother and brother both took note. You need not fear, however. She is aware that Edward does not know I am his father, and that we are waiting until the timing is right.”

  The timing would never be right for her to reveal to her son that she had lied to him for his entire life. That Freddie had not been his father by blood, but that he had been his father by choice and deed.

  The thought of revealing everything to her son continued to fill her chest with a gripping, tight anxiety. But her earlier realization stayed true and firm, unwavering as ever. As did her determination to begin the process of undoing all the wrongs her family had perpetrated upon herself, Clay, and Edward.

  To make everything right.

  She took another deep, steadying breath. “The timing is…it will never be… We should tell Edward now, Clay. I want him to know you are his father. You and your mother…you are Edward’s family. He needs that now more than ever. He needs you both.”

  “Are you certain, Ara?” His voice was conflicted. “I would like nothing better, but I do not want to frighten the lad, or upset him in any way.”

  Of course she was not certain. She had kept her son’s true father from him for his entire life. Edward would be angry. Confused. Upset. But the time had come for the truth. She may have been a young lady with no options when she had married Freddie, pregnant with another man’s child, but much had changed since then.

  She nodded slowly. Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them away. Something about this felt so very right. Frightening, but right. “Yes. Edward deserves the truth.”