She ran her gaze over him. Fear warred with hope. William ran his thumb along her lower lip. “I want you.” But he wanted her in the way she deserved—to be properly courted, betrothed, and then ultimately married. Her lips parted and then a small sob escaped her. William folded his arms about her, drawing her against his chest. “I want to court you as you deserve. I don’t care about the man who believes he has a claim to you,” he said, rubbing his cheek over the silken softness of her curls.
Her body went still in his arms. “Oh, Will,” she said brokenly. Cara drew back with pain burning in her eyes. “My father will never allow it.”
He captured her hands in his and silenced her. She deserved the truth of his identity. “You asked for my story, Cara,” he spoke in hushed tones. “I am not illegitimate.”
She cocked her head.
“I am the heir to a dukedom.”
Through the years, that revelation had been met with fawning and preening. Once more, Cara proved herself wholly unlike any other he’d known.
Her cheeks turned white to rival the unsullied snow upon the ground. Her hands went to her throat. “Wh-what?” He frowned as she took a faltering step away.
For the first time in the course of his twenty-six years, his birthright was met with whispered horror. Did she think he’d not wed her because of his title? He turned his palms up. “You asked if I was married…”
An agonized groan from Cara cut across his words and she staggered back, clamping her hands over her ears. “Oh, God, you are married.” She stumbled over herself in her haste to be free of him and tumbled into the snow.
With a silent curse, William strode over to where she lay shivering in a drift, her expression stricken. He held a hand out and she flinched. Pointedly ignoring his offer of assistance, she shoved awkwardly to her feet. Of course, they’d known each other but these handful of days and, yet, her lack of faith in him spoke to her broken past and his pain that she’d believe him capable of that imagined infidelity. Even with the sting of the winter snow biting through the fabric of his pants, the hurt fury emanating from her taut frame threatened to spill over and burn him.
“No,” he said hastily. He held a hand out, but she glared at his fingers. On a curse, he raked a hand through his hair. God, he was making a muck of this. “I am not unlike you. My father would see me wed to a woman whose familial connections he approves of.” Cara hesitated and her rapidly drawn breaths filled the winter quiet. She peered at him with a narrow gaze and then some of the anger left her eyes. She still studied him with the same guardedness that could only come from the ugliness of her own existence as a pawn of a ruthless nobleman.
“Are you betrothed?” Her tone was flat; devoid of all emotion.
“No, Cara mia.” He took her hands and, this time, she did not shove away his offering. “That is what I am trying to tell you. I was summoned by my father with the expectation that I’d wed her.” His jaw tightened involuntarily at the young girl he remembered. “I knew her as nothing more than a child. She is my mother’s goddaughter. My only memories of her were of a girl who was cold and cruel to her servants. I have spent the last eight years avoiding the responsibility expected of me.” He gave his head a bitter shake.
“You do not love her, then?” she asked hesitantly.
He grimaced. “God, no.” He raised her hands to his lips and brushed a kiss on the inside of each wrist. “She is the daughter of a duke, a miserable extension of her father.”
Cara froze. “She is a duke’s daughter?”
At the whispered words, William managed a brusque nod.
The color left Cara’s cheeks. “Wh-what is her name, this m-miserable creature you’d not tie yourself to?”
He frowned at the shock radiating from the depths of her blue eyes. Did she believe he was a man who cared where titles were concerned? “Cara, it does not matter. There is no formal arrangement. There are no emotions engaged.” He tipped her chin up. “I would marry you.”
“What is her name?” she demanded, her tone shrill.
“Lady Clarisse Falcot, daughter of the Duke of Ravenscourt,” he said quietly and, for one horrifying moment, he imagined she knew that woman.
However, if that name meant anything to her, she gave no indication. She simply slid her gaze off to a point beyond his shoulder. Her silence stood as the only response to his admission. After a long stretch of quiet punctuated by the shrill cry of a morning bird, Cara hugged her arms close to herself. “You would marry me,” she said on a broken whisper. “But you do not truly know me.” Bitterness and hurt made her words ragged. She rubbed her hands over her forearms. “You’ve known me but these few days and you knew that other woman how long? Eleven years?” She gave her head a slight shake. “Don’t you see, I am that woman?”
William growled. “Do not say that,” he commanded. He wrapped his arm about her forearm. “You are nothing like her.”
“Aren’t I?” She winged a regal, golden eyebrow upward. “I am the same woman who ordered a servant into a blizzard to obtain my baubles.”
“It was your mother’s necklace,” he gritted out.
“And I’m the same woman who is cold and condescending.”
How could she think she was anything like that woman his parents would see him wed? He opened his mouth, but then some sad glimmer in her fathomless, blue eyes spoke of a resignation. His breath stuck. By God, she’d reject him. For her words of love and the happiness she’d professed to know, she’d reject him. And for what? A misbegotten sense of who she was.
William proceeded slowly. One erroneously wrong word and he’d lose her forever. “At first, my opinion was such,” he said quietly. “I have spent the past eight years avoiding any woman who reminds me of…of Lady Clarisse.” His lips peeled back in an involuntary grimace at speaking the lady’s name aloud. “I want you, Cara. I love you,” he said with firmness in his tone, willing her to believe that truth.
Chapter 11
Lady Clarisse Falcot. Oh, God. The woman he’d spent years avoiding, was, in fact—her. Cara’s stomach lurched. As Will spoke, his voice came as though down a long corridor.
Her muddied thoughts spun wildly, madly out of control. Will, her stranger in the inn, was none other than the man her father would betroth her to.
She stared at him as his lips moved, trying to make sense. There should be joy in knowing the man she’d fallen in love with was, in fact, her future betrothed. But there was not. There was a grim emptiness.
Tears popped behind Cara’s eyelids and blurred Will’s visage. A panicky half-sob, half-laugh stuck in her throat at the comedy of errors that was her life in this instance.
Since her mother’s passing, all she’d wanted was to know love; wanted it, even as she’d known herself undeserving of that emotion. That wish to love and be loved had died a swift death at her father’s hands. She’d learned early on her value and worth—and it had not been much. The pain of that, of knowing she mattered so very little to the man who’d given her life, had driven her to bury that need for love. To care for anyone was to know hurt and she didn’t want any part of it.
Until Will. Until he’d shown her the splendor that came in feeling. And now this. The dream she’d carried deep within her heart, so very close, within her fingertips, and in her arms, and that dream was here. Yet, at the same time, she’d never been further from it.
She pressed her eyes closed and a single tear streaked down her cheek. This was to be her penance for the miserable, cruel creature she’d been. A woman who betrayed her half-sister, another victim of the duke’s heartlessness. Another tear slipped behind the first. Followed by another and another.
“Oh, sweet Cara,” Will whispered against her ear. He brushed his lips over her temple.
She cried because he’d spent eight years trying to forget her existence, just like everyone else. She cried because he deserved more than Lady Clarisse Falcot as his wife. “You must end it with,” me. “h-her,” her voice broke, and she clea
red her throat. “Y-you must go to your f-father.” The Duke of Billingsley, who’d smiled and laughed and whom she’d avoided when he’d come to visit because she didn’t know what to make of such a very human duke. Oh, God. Another tear fell and she swiped it angrily away. “For the woman your father would have you wed, Will…she does not deserve you.” He deserved a woman who was capable of light and laughter and goodness. She’d never been that woman and even the young man he’d been at eighteen had known it, early on and had wisely fled.
“Cara,” he began quietly.
With fingers numb from the cold, she fished around the pocket sewn along the inside of her cloak. She withdrew the heart pendant and stared blankly down at the crimson ruby. For years, she’d tied love and happiness to this gift given long ago by her mother. Her throat muscles struggled to work. “I want you to have this,” she said, pressing it into his hand. She wanted him to have it and remember the woman he’d met here who had been capable of feeling.
“I cannot,” he protested, his tone gruff. He made to push it back into her hand, but she held her palms up.
“I want you to take it, Will. And I want you to remember how important it was for you to find a woman you loved and cared for. A woman who is not c-cruel.” Her voice broke and she damned that slight catch, wanting to be done with this exchange, so she might climb in her carriage and return to the bleak, miserable existence she deserved.
Will pierced her with his blue-eyed stare. “I will come back for you.”
She nodded. “I do not doubt you will.” For that was the honorable, good man he was.
He brushed the pad of his glove-encased thumb over her lower lip. “Do you know, it occurs to me, love, that you’ve still not shared your identity?” The ghost of a smile played on his lips. “However am I to find you?”
You aren’t. Oh, the time would inevitably come when their paths crossed and he knew that Lady Clarisse Falcot—cruel and cold—and Lady Cara, with no surname, were, in fact, one and the same. By then, hopefully he’d be married to one of those cheerful sorts, capable of warmth. Oh, God. She almost buckled under the pain of that.
Then a wry half-grin pulled his lips at the right corner. “As I intend to wed you, it seems only appropriate that I know the full name of the lady I will call my wife.” Her heart squeezed at the boy-like quality of his smile. And with that expression of mirth, a memory slipped in of Will when she’d been just a girl of six. She’d been scolded by her father for resting her elbows on the table. He’d caught her eye across the table and winked once. Oh, God. It was too much. Agony twisted in her belly.
Some of the lightness dimmed in Will’s eyes. “What is it?” he urged quietly.
She shook her head, incapable of words. “I-I am just…” Falling apart inside. “H-happy.” She’d created such an effective mask these years; a façade she’d presented to Society, her family, and instructors and not once had anyone questioned the validity of her mask. Cara drew on years of practice in concealing emotion and flashed a sunny smile.
He kissed her; the faintest meeting of lips. “Cara mia?”
Determined to take this last moment with him, she twined her hands about his neck. “My name is Lady Cara Turner. My father is the Earl of Derby. I am journeying to his estate in L-Leeds,” she stumbled over that mistruth. And fearing he’d see the lie in her eyes or hear it in her words, she kissed him.
Will froze against her and she moaned fearful he’d stop. For this was the last taste of passion she’d ever know. The thought of that truth sent panic spiraling through her. She kissed him hard and he parted her mouth with his lips. He slid his tongue inside and found hers so that they mated in a primitive dance that should have shocked her as a proper lady but instead only resulted in a wet heat at her core.
Will clasped her buttocks and dragged her closer. She moaned, wanting more of him. Wanting all of him.
That jerked her to the moment. Her chest rose and fell with the rapidity of her breath. She passed her gaze over the precious lines of his sculpted cheeks, the noble jaw, the slight dimple in his right cheek. He eyed her through those thick lashes no man had a right to possess. “I love you, Will.” And she would forever love him for all the gifts he’d given her. None of them of the material sort, but more precious for what they’d shown her about herself.
“I love you, Cara.” The wind shook the branches overhead and sent snow tumbling into the drift in a noiseless fall.
If he utters those words once more, I will be lost. I will be the selfish, self-centered creature I’ve always been.
“Cara, I—”
“We should return.” Unable to meet the piercing intensity of his gaze, she glanced past his shoulder. “My maid will be missing me.”
Will shot a hand around her forearm, staying her retreat. “I will come for you,” he said with a quiet insistence. Concern radiated from his intelligent eyes.
Ah, through her false smile and feigned happiness, he’d seen the underlying agony taking apart what was left of her. Then, he’d been the only person to truly look at her.
His first judgment had been the correct one. “I know.”
Wordlessly, they made their way back to the miserable, little inn.
And that afternoon when Will rode off to break a pledge he’d made to his father, Cara boarded her borrowed carriage once more and left the only place she’d ever been truly happy.
Chapter 12
William took in the familiar halls, corridors he’d raced wildly down as a child, driving his tutors and nursemaids to near madness. Evergreen boughs with holly berries and apples hung along the walls. He pressed his palm against the front of his jacket pocket. The makeshift bough he’d collected alongside Cara that morning, resonated heat in his pocket.
With each step, his muddied boots trailed moisture and dirt on the sapphire blue carpet. His father’s butler, a young man with a serious set to his face at some point had replaced the old, grinning Halpert, shot a frown over his shoulder. At the very least, he should have changed his attire before storming into the Billingsley household as though he’d not been gone almost eight years; more a guest who came to call periodically. They stopped beside his father’s office door. And yet, he’d little intention of remaining. There was someone he longed to see more.
The butler rapped once and then tossed the door open. In his drawn out, nasal tones, the man announced William. “Lord Grafton.”
The Duke of Billingsley sat on the leather button sofa over by the hearth, his wife curled at his side in a bucolic tableau that defied the norms of most ton marriages. His parents stared, frozen, wearing the look of two who’d seen a ghost.
“Mother, Father,” he greeted, dusting his palms along the sides of his breeches.
The servant backed out of the room and his departure sprang his parents to action. With a cry, his mother climbed to her feet and raced across the room in a manner that would raise the brows of polite Society. Then, wrong or right, there were certain liberties permitted a duchess. “William,” she rasped and flung her arms about him, holding tight.
He folded her in his arms. “Mother,” he repeated, his throat thick with emotion. He’d not regretted the years he’d spent traveling, but there was a staggering shock in finding how time had marched on, aging his parents in his absence.
How he’d missed them. His absence, however, had been of his choosing.
On the heel of that were thoughts of Cara as she’d been since her mother’s passing; alone, without anyone to love or care for her—through no choice of her own.
“Oh, William,” his mother wept against his chest. He patted her back.
Would she feel this same overwhelming emotion when, after eight years, he asked to be pardoned of the responsibility to wed her goddaughter? William stiffened as the ugly, niggling reminder of what he’d ask this day surged forward. “Father,” he said cautiously to the bear of a man eying him from over by the hearth.
The duke stood with his hands clasped behind his back, an i
ndecipherable look in his eyes that may as well have belonged to his son. Determined to have out with it, William spoke.
“There is a matter I would speak with you about.”
“What is it, William?” With only a mother’s intuitiveness, the duchess stepped away and William made his way over to where his father remained rooted to the floor.
He held a hand out, but his father only enfolded it in his equally large fingers and pulled him close. “My boy,” he whispered and hugged him with a ferocity that momentarily cut off airflow.
Where William had come and gone through the years, flitting about the Continent and countries, there was a permanency to this homecoming. For the joy of this moment, for the love he knew from his parents, there was a gripping pain for Cara—forgotten at Christmas, alone in an inn without so much as a brother or father who remembered her existence. His throat closed and he stepped away from his father.
His father dropped his eyebrows. “What is it?” he said gruffly.
His mother looked back and forth between them.
He’d had hours to prepare for this exchange. In all he’d run through in his mind, nothing seemed adequate for what he’d put to his parents. Never one to prevaricate, William drew in a steadying breath. “I met a woman,” he said, meeting his father’s gaze.
The older man puzzled his brow. “A woman?”
For all the perplexity to that question, William may as well have just stated his intentions to climb astride Perseus’ mythical horse and take flight. “I had every intention of seeing to my responsibilities and wedding Lady Clarisse,” he continued quietly.
His father snapped his eyebrows together in an angry line. “And?” That single syllable utterance rumbled off the walls.
“On my journey home, I was…” captivated by a spirited lady and could not bring myself to leave.
His father gave him a probing look. “William?”
William cleared his throat. “Forgive me,” he said, finishing his previous thought. “I was delayed by the snow. I took shelter at an inn.” Had it only been three days? The joy he’d known in those three days outweighed every single one of the eight years he’d been gone. “And while I was there, I met her.”
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