by Erica Taylor
“Then what—”
“Did you know that I was not supposed to be the duke?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Jonathan told me of your brother and father dying when he came home from Eton without you. But he never mentioned how they died.”
“My father and brother were gunned down by highwaymen,” Andrew replied, and Clara’s heart dropped at the sadness in his eyes. “Oh.” And Clara understood. The pain in his eyes . . . the care and concern for his brothers. How had she not known about this before? How could she not know about such a tragedy in his life? Good lord, what else did she not know?
“So you see, my reaction was more than warranted.”
“I see that now, your grace,” Clara agreed.
“Why are you still addressing me that way?” he asked.
Her mouth had gone dry as she fought for a response, something clever and witty, to find a foothold of control, for with him she felt none. His gaze was slowly trailing down the length of her body. Her silk robe did not leave much to the imagination as it hung on her curves in a very tantalizing way. She had the urge to wrap her arms around her midsection in an attempt to shield herself from him, but something made her still. Something about him was powerful and predatory and male.
His eyes met hers and did not waiver as he moved closer. He was clad in black pantaloons, a waistcoat and shirt, but no cravat, leaving the top of his shirt open in a V. She could see part of his collarbone and a small amount of his chest. She felt very tempted to touch him, just to see if his skin was as soft as she imagined.
She took a hesitant step back, not necessarily afraid, but not sure she wanted him near. Her rational thoughts seemed to scatter when he was too close. A few more steps and her back would be against the bookcase.
Standing directly in front of her, Andrew still had not dropped his eyes from hers. Slowly he brought his right hand to cup the side of her face, rubbing the pad of his thumb over her cheek, a trail of fire left in its wake.
“Thank you for the flowers,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You are very welcome,” he replied.
“They are beautiful.”
“Much like you are. Do you ride, Clara?”
“Horses,” she replied, smirking.
One side of his mouth turned up into a smile. “Would you like to go for a ride with me tomorrow?” he asked. “Hyde Park has some breathtaking views from horseback.”
“I did not bring my horse with me to town.”
His smile melted into a devilish smirk. “I would be pleased to mount you, my dear.”
“Oh,” she said, tilting her chin up in challenge. “Then I would enjoy that very much.”
His bright smile and his bright eyes were causing her knees to weaken, her heart to crescendo in her chest.
“Are you going to kiss me again?” she asked, too aware of the bookcase pressed up against her back now, leaving no room for her to run. After the events of the breakfast room, she would think she would have been terrified of this man, but she could find no fear in her body. Shimmers of something else, but no fear.
“Do you want me to kiss you?” His question was simple enough, but words escaped her.
“I . . .” she began, intending to tell him to leave her alone, but her eyes and thoughts betrayed her, and he knew it. One look at his perfect lips, and she was lost. Slowly those lips descended upon hers, and she was lost in the magic and the beauty and the fantastic sensations running throughout her body. Slowly and possessively, he teased her lips apart and let himself in, tasting her. He tasted like wine and sweetness and everything she should not be doing.
Clara purred as the hard length of his body was pressed against hers, his warmth and strength cradling her. His lips wove long and slow kisses across her mouth, his tongue playing a torturous game with her own. She moaned with pleasure against him, arching her back, pressing her breasts against his chest. His hand came up to cup her breast through the thin silk of her night rail. She could feel everything through it, and he could too. With his thumb he rubbed the bead of her nipple, hardening it into a peak, as a similar sensation rose deep in her core. It was wrong, she shouldn’t kiss him. How could she know he was not the same as her brother? Arrogant, mean, and controlling.
But he was gentle as he kissed her, his tongue stroking hers in a slow steady torture, his hands gentle as he cupped her breast, kneading her through the silk.
He had completely justified his motives earlier when he had yelled at his brothers, she thought. It was because of the deaths he had experienced that had caused him to react thusly. But the image of his hateful face bellowing at his younger brothers suddenly popped into her head, and Clara pushed him away, breathless.
He did not resist, but he did not move away completely either. He stayed mere inches from her; she could still taste the sweetness of his breath, the heat from his pulse. For a long moment he stared at her, his dark blue eyes almost black with desire, boring into her with such an intensity, Clara was not sure what any of it meant.
“I am not that man, Clara,” Andrew stated hoarsely, and she nodded.
“I know.”
His hand came to cup her cheek, gentle and careful like she was a frightened foul.
“You . . . you make me want to be me, and I am grateful for that.” He kissed her again, lightly and sweetly before pulling away, stepping away from her.
She nodded but did not move away from him. Placing her hands on each side of his face, Clara leaned up on her toes and kissed him again, just as gingerly as he had kissed her.
“Good night, Andrew,” she whispered before disappearing out the door, the astronomy tome long forgotten on the floor.
Chapter Nine
Andrew woke the next morning with a pounding head. A troupe of dancing elephants could not have caused more pain had they been parading on his temples.
Walton arrived muttering about something, and Andrew groaned as his valet pulled the heavy drapes back. The bright morning sun hit him like a brick.
“Having a bit of a lie in, are we, your grace?” Walton asked impertinently, moving about the room as he prepared Andrew a bath.
Rubbing his eyes, Andrew inquired, “What time is it?”
“Nearly ten, your grace,” Walton said, holding out Andrew’s dark blue dressing robe. Feeling as though his head might burst with any sudden movement, Andrew slowly moved off the bed, and his valet helped him into his robe. Ten o’clock? Luckily he did not have any meetings that day and was not needed in Parliament.
“Are the girls already up for breakfast?”
“Yes, and they have already finished,” Walton said, and Andrew stumbled across the room to where a spread of coffee and muffins had been laid out. Walton handed him his cup of coffee before turning back to supervise the filling of the hip bath. The last of the footmen were coming in with the warm water and Andrew was grateful for its temperature. It looked very soothing.
“I have been asked to relay a message, your grace,” the valet said, pulling clothing out of Andrew’s wardrobe. “Lady Clara would like you to know that if your offer of riding still stands, she would very much like to go.”
“I asked her to go riding with me?” Andrew asked, looking around at his valet.
“She seems to think you have.”
When had he asked her to ride?
The library, he remembered, though the details were lost in a drunken fog.
“Is that wise?” Andrew asked. Being near her did not seem to be wise. “I mean, with her head injury?”
“I am not a physician, so I really could not say. What shall I tell her?”
“Oh, tell her that would be all right, I suppose, if her head is not bothering her,” Andrew replied, frowning. “No, wait, tell her I’m sorry for . . . that I had hoped I did not . . . did she say anything else, Walton?”
; “No.”
“She did not mention anything about last night?”
“Should she have, your grace?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“Are you all right, your grace?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” Andrew replied, racking his mind to remember what he said to her, wanting to hit Walton for ending each sentence with such a surly “your grace.” For the life of him he could not remember what had transpired in the library. It was all an alcohol-induced blur.
“Would you like me to tell her that you have already gone out?”
“No!” Andrew replied a bit too eager. “Tell her yes, no, I mean tell her no, I have not, I mean . . .” Andrew shut his eyes, pushing away the pain along his skull. “Please inform Lady Clara I would be honored to take a ride with her and to meet me in the front hall at eleven.”
“Very good, your grace.”
What have I done? he asked himself. He had kissed her, that much he remembered. But what else had he said?
The previous evening, he had arrived home later than planned, completely forgetting he was appointed as his sisters’ escort for the evening theater. After taking dinner in his study, he had consumed two entire bottles of wine while looking over his notes from Parliament, not fully aware he had had so much to drink. On his way to bed, he had heard someone muttering to themselves in the library and had walked in to find Clara there and barely clothed in what should really not be considered proper night clothes.
He did remember that. He remembered the way her backside had been deliciously molded by her thin night chemise, her golden-blonde hair hanging loose over her shoulders hiding her lovely, pert breasts.
Everything after that was lost in a drunken haze, though he had a vague sense that he had touched her, and not in the most gentlemanly way.
Settling himself into his now-lukewarm bath water, he sighed. He hardly drank in excess, and when he did it was always a challenge to remember what had transpired while under the influence. Now he had to pay the price and face Clara without the clear knowledge of what had occurred between them.
Promptly at eleven o’clock, he stood in the front hall wondering what had possessed him to ask her to ride with him in the first place, especially after his embarrassing display of behavior yesterday morning. But when he saw her walking down the stairs, smartly dressed in a dark brown riding habit which perfectly complimented her soft complexion and eye color, he did not mind in the least that his drunken self had taken control the night before. She smiled softly as she drew near, the faintest glimmer of fondness dancing through her eyes. Whatever he had said the night before must have prompted her forgiveness of his deplorable behavior the previous morning.
“You look well rested, Lady Clara,” he said. “I take it you slept well?”
Clara quickly glanced at him, and seemed confused by his words. “Actually, I did not, your grace. But facing the prospect of being mounted can do wonders for one’s mood, wouldn’t you agree?” Her eyes twinkled with her teasing words.
“Indeed,” he replied curtly and led her out of the house, perplexed by her choice of words. They sounded vaguely familiar. He had inquired earlier if Lady Clara had brought a horse with her to town and had been informed that she had not, so he requested a suitable mare of even temperament be selected and brought to the front of the house for her. The cream buckskin stood patiently beside Titan, an entire head shorter than him, looking very unimpressive and very uninterested in their outing.
Clara stopped walking and looked at the horse in disbelief.
“Is there a problem?” Andrew asked.
“This is the horse I am to ride?” Clara asked doubtfully.
“This is Hillie,” Andrew replied, petting the horse’s muzzle. “Is she not suitable?”
“She’s beautiful,” Clara said. “But I grew up in the country, and I don’t mean to be rude, but . . .”
“Do you wish for something livelier?”
“If possible, your grace,” she replied. “For she will be as bored as I am if I ride her.”
“What sort of horse do you have at home?”
“A thoroughbred,” she replied proudly. “He’s black, and his name is Magnificent, Maggie for short.”
“You have a male horse named Maggie?” Andrew asked, and Clara nodded. He chuckled as he handed Hillie’s reins back to the groom and instructed him to saddle a specific thoroughbred. Taking Titan’s reins from the groom, he led Clara towards the mews at the back of the house. A rich chocolate-colored horse was being led out of his stall towards the hitching post to be saddled.
“This is Homer,” Andrew said, pleased at the delighted look on Clara’s face.
“Hello, Homer,” Clara said gently, running her gloved hands along the tall horse’s muzzle and neck as the grooms worked quickly to saddle the horse.
Homer was only a hand shorter than Titan, but he was very gentle with Clara as she climbed atop him, her legs elegantly nestled to one side, long cane gripped in one hand. Andrew mounted Titan and the two of them set off towards Hyde Park. They walked through the park along the same path he and Luke had taken the morning prior.
“We really mustn’t waste such a beautiful day, your grace. I have always wanted to race along Rotten Row!” Clara laughed, throwing him a smile full of challenge.
Before he could respond, she tapped the cane into the horse’s flank and Homer leapt into action, racing towards the Serpentine. Andrew wondered briefly if it would be ungentlemanly of him to surpass her, he paused long enough to count to three, before urging his horse after her. After a few moments, though, he realized she was a good distance away and he was not gaining on her. Urging Titan on again, Andrew willed the horse to go faster, realizing that this time he was not going to win.
Clara dared not look behind her, knowing what she would see. She was giddy with excitement, knowing she had out-ridden him. She knew that was not an easy feat—Andrew was a natural born rider. She smiled to herself, knowing he would not share in her glee.
At the end of the long stretch of Rotten Row, she brought Homer around, slowing him down as she turned, leaning down to pat the horse on his neck. It was still early enough in the day that there were not many people in the park, mostly nurses and governesses with their young charges happily throwing bits of bread into the water, laughing at the geese and ducks that came to feast.
Hearing the thumps of hooves approaching, she turned in her saddle to watch Andrew arrive firmly in second place.
“You’ve beaten me,” Andrew stated in anguish, pulling his horse to a stop beside her. Clara could not help but laugh out loud. He narrowed his eyes at her. “I say, are you laughing at me?”
Clara laughed again and nodded. “Oh, Andrew, I learned how to ride in the years since we were children running about Morton Park.”
“You took off so fast it quite caught me off guard,” Andrew replied. “We will have to have an official rematch to determine who the real winner is.”
“Oh, no, I won this one fair and square,” Clara laughed. “But by all means, let us have a rematch. I will best you again, your grace.”
“No one has outridden me in a long time,” he said, propping his hand on his hip and looking her up and down. “You, my dear, may have triumphed this time, but it will never happen again.”
“You should not underestimate me, your grace,” Clara replied, challenge flashing through her brown eyes. Riding was the one and only area Clara was ever overly competitive, and this man was the main reason. “It would do you well to remember that.”
“Oh, believe me, I will,” Andrew replied, steering his horse around the bend of the Serpentine. Clara turned her horse to walk steadily beside him. It was already a warm day, and she could feel little beads of perspiration collecting at the base of her neck. Clara was happy to just be outside, to enjoy this brief reprieve before she must figure out wha
t to do with herself. She was merely a temporary guest in his home, though unbeknownst to her host.
“I would have never have guessed you were such an accomplished rider,” Andrew commented, unaware of the thoughts rampaging through Clara’s mind.
Clara laughed. “I did not used to be. I remember when you were friends with my brother, the two of you would ride all day, all over the property at Morton Park. Jonathan would never let me come with you and for good reason. I was appalling on horseback. One summer, when I was ten, you argued with him and told him to give me a chance, which he eventually did.”
“You lost control of your horse,” Andrew said, smiling at the memory. “We had to chase after you. I managed to grab the horse’s reins and slow him down.” “Which caused me to fall off my horse,” Clara finished. “Into a pond.”
Andrew chuckled. “You climbed atop my horse and told me I was your hero. You even kissed my cheek and declared you would marry me someday.”
“Goodness, don’t remind me,” Clara groaned. “I was an embarrassing ten-year-old girl.”
“At least you were not wounded when your horse dumped you into the pond,” Andrew added.
Clara nodded. “My pride was bruised. So the next year when you and Jonathan were at Eton, I rode and rode for hours every day to get better so I could show you I was not such a silly girl. Then the next summer Jonathan came home from Eton, angry and without you. And you never returned to Morton Park.”
“That was the summer I inherited,” he replied, his face clouding with emotion.
“What happened between you and Jonathan?” she asked. “I asked him, of course, but each time I inquired he became angrier. All he ever said was you were not the friend he thought you were.”
Andrew shifted his weight in the saddle.
“I do not know what he would mean by that,” Andrew replied, frowning. “When I became the duke, your brother decided he no longer wished to be my friend.”
“It is as simple as that?” Clara asked.
“Yes,” Andrew replied, looking at her, though she did not believe he was telling the complete truth. “We’d had an argument just before I learned of my inheriting, though over what, I cannot remember.” His eyes unfocused for a moment as if recalling something. Whatever it was, he did not share. “I was called away to the headmaster’s office. When I returned to my dormitory, he was nowhere to be found. I was packed up and sent home within the hour. I did not see him again until I returned to school three months later. And our friendship simply . . . ended. There was never an official falling out or a ‘farewell and good luck.’ We simply stopped speaking. Eventually, I realized he despised me, though I doubt I will ever know the reason for it.”