When she blinked, half expecting the place to disappear in the moonlight, she heard the babbling of a gleeful stream somewhere near.
The place was beautiful. Charming. Even night’s shadow couldn’t mask the loveliness of the thatched roof or gabled windows.
“Who lives here?” she asked.
“I do.”
“You do not,” she scoffed.
“Well, I do when I wish to disappear. It’s been in my family for generations, but we keep it a secret. A quiet place for an earl to run off and hide when the world becomes too demanding.”
A quiet place to hide.
It sounded a bit like paradise. It certainly looked it. Still, appearances could be deceiving. After all, she’d married into one of the greatest families in the land and moved into one of the most stunning homes in London. She would not be fooled again by a pretty facade.
“I can see the wheels of your skeptical mind turning,” he chided. “Now, come along.”
He started down the stone-lined path that wound its way to the deep blue door.
Clare gave his back a scathing look then forced herself to cease. Had she indeed become so wary of that which appeared lovely?
She supposed she had, but was that such a bad thing? Surely Wyndham wouldn’t have her innocent as a child to the ways of the world?
He lifted the wrought iron latch and ducked, the door being surprisingly low. His footsteps thudded along the wood floor. A muffled curse drifted backward as he searched for something.
That something became apparent as light spilled from a lantern out onto her booted feet.
Clapping her arms about herself, she bounced, trying to keep warm. She’d been so drawn into the night’s events the cold hadn’t made itself known until just this moment, standing on the threshold of what looked like a cottage out of a dream.
He held the door open wide and peered down at her.
The lantern glow tossed its light over his strong jaw, illuminating his surprisingly soft lips. In such a hard face, it was astounding that his mouth looked as if it would be as gentle as silk.
She tore her gaze away and swept inside. The hoops of her skirt banged against the whitewashed walls and pressed up against his legs.
Her breath caught in her throat as she was stuck. For one brief, shocking moment, her body pressed up against his as she tried to squeeze past. And instead of displeasure or annoyance, she felt deliciously warm.
Quite as if it had a mind of its own, her body began to sway into his, as if he were a magnet drawing her in.
Once, she had dreamed of feeling such sensations, of being swept away by a torrent of desire for a man as she had read in novels.
It had been her greatest wish. But she’d put that wish far away, the moment her husband had shown his true nature. It was far too dangerous to take it out again. Wasn’t it?
Her breath stilled and as he looked down on her, his gaze undemanding yet full of heat, she thought that perhaps, just perhaps, danger of this sort mightn’t be such a terrible thing after all.
Chapter 7
Wyndham longed to pull her up against him. It didn’t matter that he’d only met her this morning. But there was something about this duchess that prevented him from taking her in his arms and throwing them both headlong into passion.
She’d been hurt, brutally, and she had little trust of men.
Each step he took now had to be one of care, of building up her belief in him. He would be noble. He’d put aside the desire to take her mouth with his.
Resigned, he shut the front door then began to inch to his left so that she might free herself and move down the hall.
“I do not understand you,” she said, fixed on the same spot, though she was now free to add space between their bodies.
“No?” He drew in a cooling breath, determined not to respond to the nearness of her beautiful body wrapped up in dark apparel.
It occurred to him then that he didn’t just wish to kiss her. He wished to strip her naked and see her gloriously nude and free, unrestricted by all of societies trappings. That dangerous thought sent his blood pumping to the one place it should not.
He clenched his jaw.
“I thought . . . I thought you were captivated by me,” she said.
“I am,” he responded through gritted teeth.
“Then why don’t you try to kiss me? I could have sworn, you were about to.”
Was this his widowed duchess asking such a thing? The reserved, cool, determined woman from this morning? Had his candor upon the road spurred her openness now?
“I am trying to be noble,” he replied. “You seemed to doubt my intentions earlier, implying that I might take advantage of our situation. I will not.”
The soft look disappeared from her gaze as if she had been under a spell. “Good.”
Good indeed. It felt like hell.
“I am very tired and should like to turn in,” she said, the perfect duchess, imparting her needs.
He bowed, stepped past her, and headed for the stairs at the back of the hall. The cottage was cold, but he knew it would be simple to have a few rooms warm in little time. The fireplaces were good and he always kept a small pile of wood stocked in every room. He never knew when he might need to descend upon his own personal haven.
She followed him in silence, just as she had done when they had left the hackney.
He didn’t know what to say. Their circumstances were beyond bizarre and though it was against his inclinations, he wanted to curse fate for bringing them together in such a way. He was a cad for desiring a woman who needed his help.
But he did. He desired her. It was as simple and as complicated as that.
She struggled on the stairs with her hoops, but he was wise enough not to offer aid. His duchess loved her independence and far too much of it had already been taken from her this day. Without looking back, he held the lantern high and proceeded down the even narrower hall.
The cottage had been built in Tudor times and the floorboards were swayed what with the house having had nigh four hundred years to settle on the shifting earth. He stopped at the bedroom closest, lingering before the door.
It was his favorite room, large and overlooking the tall hill and stream which gave the place so much of its healing properties.
The four-poster bed would no doubt be freezing, but the warming pan hanging over the fireplace would soon see that set to rights. As soon as he had a blaze going, in any case.
She entered slowly behind him then proceeded to the center of the room.
Her chin lifted as she surveyed her new surroundings. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
He couldn’t help smiling. Though absolutely absurd, it was important to him that she liked it. “It is my favorite room. Little has changed in it since my grandfather’s day.”
Keeping an eye on her as she began her inspection, he knelt down by the fireplace and pulled a few pieces of kindling from the brass dish holding the cut oak.
She trailed her fingers over the large, carved dark table positioned near the latticed window. Her fingers paused on a stack of Henry Fielding’s work. “It’s like stepping back in time.”
He laughed. “Sometimes I think my grandfather shall walk through the door at any moment.”
“Truly?” she breathed. “How wonderful that must be. I barely knew my father let alone my grandfather.”
“I’m terribly sorry. Did they die young?”
She stopped and bit her lip before flipping open one of the books. “No. They simply had little time for a girl child.”
“That must have been very sad.” It was difficult listening to the pain she so desperately didn’t want anyone to hear. Though every fiber of his being urged him to comfort her, he tended to the fire, hoping that his actions would
allow her to continue to speak openly.
She skimmed a finger along the parchment of the first volume then snapped it shut. “I think many girls never truly know their fathers or grandfathers.”
“You are most likely right,” he agreed before leaning forward and blowing on the small tinder coming to light beneath the kindling he’d so carefully arranged. “But I know if I had a daughter, I should wish her to know me.”
She moved to the window, her steps barely audible over the rug brought back from the Ottoman Empire so many years ago. She placed a pale hand along the seat just before the glass pane. “Then she shall be very lucky.”
“It is I who will be lucky, to have someone to love and love me in turn.”
She whipped towards him, her dark blond hair slipping free of its pins. “I— I’m not sure anyone has ever loved me. My mama, I suppose, but I saw her not above an hour a day for most of my life. As soon as I was old enough, I was married.”
He placed a log upon the licking flames, careful not to stifle the newly sprung fire just as he was careful not to stifle Clare’s admissions. “Mary loves you; of that I am certain.”
She smiled then, her gaze askance, as if she was conjuring Mary’s countenance. “Yes, I think she does.” That lovely, vulnerable smile dimmed. “But she mightn’t if she knew . . .”
He brushed his hands against his trousers before reaching for the bed warmer. “Knew?” he prompted casually.
She shook her head. “Nothing. A silly thought. Tell me more about your grandfather. Was this his room that you remember him here so clearly?”
Sensing her reticence and unwilling to push lest she withdraw from this easy flow of conversation between them, he picked up the fire tongs and dropped a few pieces of smoldering wood into the bed warmer. “Will you help me with the covers?”
Wordlessly, she crossed to the bed and took the great burgundy counterpane in her hands. She tugged backward and let out a groan. “Goodness, that’s heavy.”
“Only the best down. You shall be very warm.”
She tensed, her fingers clutching the white linen. As she stared at him, he could have sworn that the color drained so fast from her face she was almost as pale as the sheet. “Where will you sleep?”
“In here, but on that chair.” He gestured with his chin to one of the great chairs before the fire with its lion-clawed feet and cushioned high back.
“While I’m glad of your presence, it will be very strange . . . and uncomfortable.”
He laughed. “Speaking of my grandfather, he was quite the odd fellow. He liked to sleep outdoors, and when I was a boy he would take me with him.”
She gaped. “Out of doors?”
“Most strange, I realize.” He lowered the brass pan onto the exposed sheet and began running it back and forth. “But he had gone to the Americas and said there was nothing like the West where a man slept beneath the stars as he traversed across the terrain.”
“He went to the Americas?” she breathed.
“Yes. I always thought to go myself and have his adventures, but I had adventures of my own.”
She tugged at her cloak string. “What kind?”
“A soldier’s adventures.” He didn’t really wish to talk about it, but he would if she wished. Still, that past was something he preferred to leave alone. He’d come to terms with it long ago. No longer haunted by it, he preferred to spend his thoughts on the present and visions of a hopeful future.
As though she too could sense his unwillingness to discuss certain things, she pulled her cloak off and set it at the foot of the bed. “We all have adventures of a different sort, I suppose. I think your grandfather’s sound the best.”
“Yes.” He took the warming pan to the fire and placed it down in the wide hearth.
“You could still go to the Americas,” she said softly, sitting down upon the bed.
The old four-poster creaked even under her slight weight.
“I could,” he acknowledged. “But I’ve wandered far from home, and my dreams are different now.”
“What are they?”
He let out a rough breath. Their conversation was unlike any he’d ever had before. Blunt, curious, unhampered by the rules of polite discourse.
“Do forgive me,” she said. “Your dreams are a private affair—”
“I am honored you should ask.” He crossed before her, feeling the need to be close to her, to speak quietly. “I’ve seen much of the world and traveled to inhospitable shores. I have no wish to go anywhere now, but to . . . ”
“Live here in ‘this England,’” she said, her lips curling into a kind, knowing smile.
“Yes. It’s a beautiful place, unlike any other, for all its fits and foibles.” He loved all things English, Shakespeare especially. Shakespeare had gotten him through many difficult hours. “But more than anything I wish to have the love and peace that my parents had.”
“That is your dream?” she breathed. “To have a family.”
He shrugged, suddenly wondering if he’d revealed something too honest about himself. It certainly wasn’t a very exciting aspiration, but it was what he wanted above all things. “Isn’t that the most wonderful dream that anyone could ever have?”
She closed her eyes and lowered her face.
To his absolute astonishment, a tear slipped down her cheek.
“Your Grace?” He crossed to the other side of the bed, chancing the impropriety of taking her small hands in his.
She turned her face away but didn’t pull her hands free. “How silly of me. I do beg your pardon, but it’s been a most trying day.”
“Of course,” he said softly, caressing his thumbs over her palms. “But is that what has caused you such distress? I fear it is something I said.”
“I—” She drew in a shuddering breath. “It is only that, that was once my dream too.”
A slow sort of dawning eased the tension in his own shoulders as he understood her tears. “My God, what an ass I am.”
“Are you?” she asked, half laughing as another tear spilled down her ivory cheek. “You seem remarkably kind to me.”
Oh-so-carefully, he turned her hands over, examining them, wishing he could draw her pain out through his gentle grip. “I’m rambling about family and you’re a widow, but you’re young. I’m sure you’ve been told many times but you can still have a—”
“I don’t wish to marry again,” she said quickly.
“I see.”
“My tears are for something forever lost,” she whispered.
“You cannot mean that,” he breathed.
“I am not a little girl any longer, my lord, and my dream of the family you describe? Those are the dreams of a child.”
He peered down at her, amazed by the sense of broken disappointments in this beautiful, young lady. The world should have been entirely open to her. Yet, somehow, she had decided that she was closed off from it and always would be. “Perhaps once, when I first returned home from war, I felt the same as you. Maybe I thought I was undeserving of love after the things I had done.”
Her eyes met his and there, in their depths, was a recognition as though he’d spoken directly to her soul.
“I do not feel like a child to have such dreams,” he whispered. “I think it brave.”
In contrast to the hope he’d wish to instill in her, a hollow laugh echoed from her lips. “Are you saying I’m a coward now for having abandoned such thoughts?”
“What I am saying, with apparent ill grace . . . ” He stopped himself. He’d spoken enough. Words just seemed to lead them away from each other and so there was only one other tack he might try. One he’d wished for, but thought to avoid.
He freed one of his hands and lifted it to her cheek. Ever so slowly, he spanned his fingers along her jaw, tilted
her head back, and just before he lowered his mouth to hers, he whispered, “I’m saying, you, duchess, have everything to live for.”
Chapter 8
The soft brush of Lord Wyndham’s lips sent Clare reeling. In all her life, she’d never been kissed. Not like this. Not this kind of kiss that every girl imagined and cherished in her heart.
She should have jerked back, but she couldn’t. She was too stunned, too curious, too absolutely drawn into the heat of him to do something so reasonable. And she was sick of being reasonable.
All her life, she’d longed in vain for a moment like this, and now it was happening.
Even so, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. While her husband had been a violent man, their exchanges in the bedchamber had been brief, silent, and over quickly. She’d disliked it, but there had been far worse encounters with her husband outside the marital bed.
As if all her unpleasant memories might be wiped away with a gentle caress, Lord Wyndham’s broad hand, gently cupped her jaw, angling her head to aid their kiss. But his other hand slipped from her grasp to the curve of her corseted waist.
As those lips of his moved hypnotically over hers, stealing her thoughts and breath with each subtle movement, he pulled her against him.
That solid wall of his body met hers and she gave into the sheer pleasure of her body leaning into his. She couldn’t make sense of the shocking sensations giving her body an unbelievable lightness. Indeed, she was certain she was going to fly away at any moment.
Quite unthinking, she raised her arms to his shoulders, and looped her hands behind his neck. His rough hair brushed her fingers and she pulled herself closer to him, needing more.
All her life, she’d been denied this kind of real intimacy, and now that he was offering it to her, she never wanted it to end.
This was the stuff of knights and their ladies, of Abelard and Eloise, of Darcy and Elizabeth, of Jane and Rochester, of every romance she’d ever read. How she’d longed for it.
She nearly laughed with delight. A strange moan purred from her throat.
A Lady Undone: A Mad Passions Novella (A Penguin Special from Signet Eclipse) Page 5