A Duchess by Midnight

by Jillian Eaton

  “Then when should it be discussed?” she asked innocently. “Over breakfast? Or perhaps tea?”

  “Bloody hell,” he murmured.

  “I was only trying–”

  “Stop. Speaking,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. Raking a hand through his hair he glared at the two scullery maids standing in the far corner. “Leave us,” he ordered. With bowed heads they scurried quickly out the door and closed it behind them. “There.” His glare shifted until it rested squarely on Clara. “At least now we have a little privacy.”

  Clara shrugged. “If that is what you would prefer.”

  “What I would prefer is that we drop this matter entirely and go back to eating in blessed silence.”

  “I am afraid I cannot do that.”

  “And why not?” he demanded.

  “Because I haven’t received an answer yet.”

  Thorncroft pressed both hands flat on the table. His knuckles were white, betraying the tension that was also evident in the hard line of his jaw and the rigidness of his shoulders. If Clara had to guess, Thorncroft was not a man accustomed to being questioned… about anything. She had never met a duke before, but she had overheard enough conversations between her stepsisters to know that they were generally pompous, self-important men who thought themselves better than everyone else. Thorncroft did not strike her as that sort – arrogant, yes, conceited, no – but she did suspect he wasn’t used to being challenged, especially by a female.

  “Yes,” he growled after a long pause. “Yes, I do want to make love to you. I want to peel off your dress and take you right here on this table. I want to lick every inch of you. Kiss every part of you.” His eyes glowed silver. “I want to hear you scream my name as I bury myself in the tightest, wettest part of you and feel your nails dig furrows into my back as you clench around me. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  Clara could not breathe. Halfway through Thorncroft’s erotic confession her lungs had simply stopped working, like a fireplace bellow that had been squeezed all the way shut.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Is it? Is that what you wanted to hear, Clara?”

  “I – I – I don’t know,” she managed weakly. She felt dazed, as though she’d been standing out in the sun for too long. Except she wasn’t in the sun. She was in a dining room sitting beside a man who had just told her wicked, wicked things. And heaven help her, she had loved every word.

  Clara may have been a virgin, but that did not mean she was ignorant of passion or intimidated by desire. With his drugging kisses Thorncroft had taught her what it felt like to need. What it felt like to want.

  She did not know if it was love or lust that drew her to him like a moth was drawn to a flickering flame. But she did know that, like the moth, she was willing to dance a little too close to the fire if it meant being able to feel the heat.

  “Of course you do not,” he said with a derisive snort. “You do not know because you are an innocent. You are like a child, playing with things you does not understand.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I am not a child.”

  “Then who are you?” He leaned closer. The dim lighting cast one side of his face in shadow, making him look more like the nefarious villain in the fairytales Clara had loved as a child than the prince on a dashing white steed. “Who are you, Clara Witherspoon?”

  Her fingers clenched reflexively in her lap, digging into the soft fabric of her borrowed dress. How to reply to Thorncroft’s question when she did not know the answer herself? “A simple girl with simple dreams. I want what everyone wants. To feel loved and accepted for who I am rather than who people want me to be.”

  She could tell she had struck a chord within him by the way his jaw suddenly clenched, the muscle pulsing high in his right cheekbone. He sat back and folded his arms across his chest, his expression pensive. “I cannot tell if you are telling the truth or spinning a fancy tale to paint yourself in a better light.”

  “Why would I lie about such a thing?” Clara asked, confused – and frustrated – by his skepticism.

  “Because no one could possibly be that innocent and naïve.”

  “And until I met you I thought no one could possibly be so cynical and pessimistic.”

  To her surprise, his mouth stretched into something that… if she didn’t know any better… why yes! Yes he was smiling and then he was laughing, albeit in a gruff, throaty sort of way that made it sound as though he hadn’t laughed in quite a long a time.

  “Do you know you have insulted me more in the past twelve hours than anyone has ever insulted me in the past twenty-nine years? You’re a brave woman, Clara.” His smile faded. “And damned if I’m not more intrigued with you than I have a right to be. Where is your family?”

  “My – my family?” she repeated, caught off guard.

  “Yes. Your family. Surely you have someone looking after you. Caring for you. Wondering where you are. A mother or a father–”

  “Both of my parents are dead.” The words, evenly spoken, were no longer accompanied by a sharp slice of pain but she still felt a twinge in her heart. A twinge that would never go away, no matter how much time passed.

  “I am sorry.” There was genuine sincerity in Thorncroft’s tone. The type of sincerity someone could give only when they’d experienced a similar loss. He reached across the table, his palm turned upwards, and after a moment of hesitation Clara lifted her hand and placed it gently on top of his.

  They were both quiet for a moment. Clara thought of her father and she imagined (although she had no way to know for certain) that Thorncroft’s thoughts were with his wife and young son. She wanted to ask him about them, but she knew some things – the most important things – had to be freely given. So instead of asking she merely held his hand, her palm pressed against his palm and her fingers curled around his fingers as he fought back the inner demons that haunted him.

  After a minute or two – time seemed so fluid when she was with him that it was difficult to keep track of how much of it had passed – Thorncroft cleared his throat and slid his hand away.

  “What did the doctor say?” Picking up his fork, he speared a small piece of meat and chewed in silence while he awaited Clara’s answer.

  “He said I was perfectly fine.” Her gaze slid down to her plate. She had come in to the dining room with a ravenous appetite but since taking her seat she had barely touched a thing. “Although he did mention that head wounds are unpredictable and it would be best if I avoided certain activities for a few days.”

  “Such as?”

  Her mouth curved in a wry grin. “Walking, riding, and bumpy carriages.”

  “That does not sound as though you are perfectly fine to me.” He glanced up at her temple where the bump on her head was still visible. The swelling had gone down, but there was still an ugly bruise that had already gone from black to blue and was now turning yellow. “You can remain here for as long as you need to recover. I have a full staff who will be able to take care of your every need. Unless you have somewhere else to be?”

  “I have nowhere to be,” Clara said quickly. Too quickly she realized when Thorncroft’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. She did not want to lie to him outright, but neither did she want to tell him the truth: that the only reason she’d come to London was to meet with her fiancé, a man whose face she would not have been able to pick out of a crowd. She feared if he knew she was promised to someone else he would send her away and any chance they might have had at exploring their feelings for one another would disappear.

  “Then where were you going when your carriage ran off the road?”

  “To London,” she said honestly. “To… to visit a friend. But if I write her a letter explaining what happened I am sure she will understand.”

  “And your traveling companion? Won’t she be looking for you?”

  Drats. She had completely forgotten about Poppy. What would happen when Poppy returned to Windmere without her? For surely that was what she would do. Then
Lady Irene would immediately know something had gone wrong with her precious plan to be rid of her stepdaughter once and for all. She might even come to London herself. Clara’s eyes closed at the thought. If Lady Irene showed up on Thorncroft’s doorstep… she really did not know what she would do.

  “I will have her found and brought here,” said Thorncroft, neatly plucking the problem right out of her hands without even knowing it.

  Clara’s eyes popped open. “You can do that?”

  Looking just a bit smug he said, “I am a duke. I can do whatever I want. It should not be hard to find her, if she hasn’t been found already.”

  Well in that case…

  “Thank you.” It felt as though an invisible weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Suddenly she felt so giddy she nearly laughed, and disguised her surge of euphoria with a quick bite of roasted duck.

  For the first time in seven years she was free! Free of Lady Irene. Free of Henrietta and Gabriella. Free of their sideways glares and their constant criticisms. Free of her duties as a maid. Free of feeling as though she did not belong in the house where she’d been born and raised.

  “You seem… pleased,” Thorncroft remarked as he pushed his plate to the side and sat back in his chair, arms stretching above his head before settling at the nape of his neck. A vague smile toyed with one corner of his mouth, lifting it ever-so-slightly as though her happiness brought him happiness as well.

  “I am,” Clara admitted. “How could I not be? I began the day sitting in a ditch and now I am ending it sitting at a duke’s table.”

  “Indeed you are,” he murmured. A rare glimpse of naked desire flashed across his face as his gaze dropped to her mouth, but before Clara could do more than simply absorb – and delight – in the fact that he still wanted her despite his indifference at the beginning of dinner he had stood up and stepped back, putting the width of the table between them. “I have things of a personal nature to attend to. Were you pleased with the maid who drew you your bath?”

  “Very much so,” said Clara, biting back a sigh of disappointment. What would it take for Thorncroft to actually act on his feelings? Having already kissed him twice she was impatient to do it again. Her cheeks warmed as she imagined him making good on his words to strip off her clothing and bend her over the table. Who knew a formal dining room would be a suitable environment for such things? Although she supposed a table was not so very different from a bed. A bit harder, perhaps. And then there were the forks to worry about.

  “Good. She will be your personal attendant during your stay. Is there anything else you require?”

  Clara bit her lip. She hated to ask for things, but if Thorncroft was offering… “Another dress? I fear this one is a bit large and my traveling habit was ruined beyond repair. I do not need anything fancy,” she said hurriedly. “I would be more than happy to wear a hand-me-down from one of the maids. In fact I would even prefer–”

  “No,” he said shortly. “Your skin should not be touched by anything but the finest silks and softest muslins. I will arrange for a seamstress to come tomorrow morning. She will measure and attire you in half a dozen dresses to start. Along with the necessary undergarments, shawls, and hats.”

  “You do not have to do that,” Clara protested even as a tiny part of her thrilled at the idea of an entirely new wardrobe; something she’d not had since she was a girl of twelve. “It really is not necessary.”

  “You’re right. I do not have to do anything. But I want to.” His smoldering gray eyes drank her in, causing her toes to curl inside of her sturdy half boots as his voice turned husky and deep. “You are a beautiful woman, Clara. You should wear beautiful things.”

  Well when he put it that way…

  “Thank you,” she said simply, fighting back another blush.

  “You’re welcome.” For a moment it looked as though he was going to say something else, but with a shake of his head he left the dining room via a side door Clara hadn’t even noticed, once again leaving her to stare after him in perplexed silence.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  She is not yours.

  Thorncroft made himself repeat the words again and again until they became a silent mantra in his head as he slowly and steadily drank his way through a bottle of elderberry wine. Usually the dark red wine was only served at parties around Christmas time, but Thorncroft liked the taste of it so much that he kept a small batch of it stocked in all of his residences year round. It had a sweet taste that was not overpowering and enough bitter notes to appease the part of him that wanted to dive straight into a decanter of brandy.

  In the past two years he had managed to lessen – albeit not give up completely – his consumption of alcohol after he realized he was becoming too dependent on the damned stuff. The days and weeks that followed his decision to cut back on his intake of spirits had been pure hell, but he’d accepted the splitting headaches and night sweats as his due. Now he drank less than a glass or two per day.

  Except for tonight.

  Tonight he was drinking to forget, and any man worth his salt knew that if you were drinking to forget there was no limit to the amount of alcohol you needed to imbibe which was why he was on his fourth – fifth? – glass.

  But even though his vision had started to blur and his balance had become shaky he could not seem to rid his mind of Clara. Not the sight of her. Not the scent. Not the taste. If anything the bloody wine was making his desire for her increase until he was stumbling around his private study with a raging cock-stand.

  She is not yours.

  No, she wasn’t bloody his.

  But he wanted her to be.

  It was as though he’d been walking through his life in a fog, not living so much as merely existing. And then Clara had appeared and the fog had lifted and he was seeing the sunshine for the first time in seven long years.

  She made him feel again. For too long he had shut himself off from everything he had once taken for granted.

  Laughter.

  Happiness.

  Love.

  He didn’t love Clara. Not yet. At least not in the way he’d loved Katherine. With Katherine love had come out of a mutual respect and understanding of one another. They had, quite literally, been born to be husband and wife. He had been the wealthy duke. She the pedigreed lady. One glance across a crowded ballroom and he’d known she was destined to be his bride.

  With Clara it was different. With Clara it was not so much a soft, gentle acknowledgement but rather an unexpected blow straight to the gut. She had caught him off guard in the stream… and she’d been keeping him off guard ever since. He never knew what she was going to say or what she was going to do. And devil take him if that wasn’t one of the things he liked most about her.

  In all his time spent in ballrooms and playhouses and fancy luncheons he had never encountered another woman quite like her. Katherine had been quiet and shy and unfailingly polite. The quintessential lady of the manor, and he had loved her for it.

  Clara, on the other hand, was outspoken and impulsive and brazen. Some – no doubt most – would see those qualities as flaws rather than attributes. But to Thorncroft they were what set her apart and made her unique. They were what made Clara… well, Clara.

  Throwing back his head, he drained what was left of the wine in his glass and walked over to his desk to pour himself another drink.

  The seamstress arrived after mid-morning tea. Short and round and grandmotherly, she had gray hair tucked up in a neat bun and twinkling blue eyes. Her name, she promptly informed Clara, was Mrs. Periwinkle, and she had four children, all grown, eight grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren who were still in nappies.

  Despite her age, Mrs. Periwinkle was energetic and spritely. Her enthusiasm for clothes – and life in general – was contagious and soon both Clara and Emily were giggling along with her as she wrapped Clara in measuring tape and pinned samples of fabric to her white nightdress.

  “…and then she says to me, if you
can believe it, ‘But Mrs. Periwinkle, I cannot wear that color. That color will make my nose look big’.”

  “And what did you say?” Clara prompted when the seamstress bent down to take another measurement.

  Speaking around a mouthful of pins she said, “I told her that her nose was big regardless and the color of her dress had absolutely nothing to do with it.”

  “You did not,” Emily gasped.

  “I most certainly did.” Heaving herself up with a little huff of breath Mrs. Periwinkle grinned at both of the girls in turn. “Suffice it to say I was not invited back to that particular household again. Not that I minded. Three daughters, each one vainer than the last. You’re not vain, are you my dear?” This pointed question was asked of Clara who blinked and gave it all of the due consideration it deserved.

  “I do not think so,” she said after a thoughtful pause. “Although I believe part of being vain is not thinking oneself is vain. So I suppose it is really impossible to tell.”

  “Precisely!” Looking quite pleased, Mrs. Periwinkle began to gather up her supplies. “Emily, be a dear and take these boxes down to my coach, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” the maid said at once. Hurrying forward she picked up the boxes off the floor – though large, they were not very heavy – and carried them out the door.

  “There,” Mrs. Periwinkle said with one last critical glance at Clara that carried all the way from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “That should do it. The two morning gowns I brought with me will fit you nicely, just as I thought. The color is not perfect, but at least they will give you something suitable to wear until my girls can complete your wardrobe.”

  “I cannot thank you enough.” Wincing ever-so-slightly as she stepped down off the stool she’d been balancing on for the better part of two hours Clara took both of Mrs. Periwinkle’s hands and squeezed them tight. “I know you must be very busy and to have taken so much time out of your day–”

  “Think nothing of it.” Lines stretched out from the corners of the seamstress’s eyes as she smiled. “His Grace is an old family friend which means any friend of his is a friend of mine. You are a stunning young woman, Miss Clara. And I should know, given that I see my fair share of debutantes every season. Yet I have never seen you. Why is that?”