A Duchess by Midnight (9 page)

No man had ever held her so closely.

“Thank – thank you, sir. I do not know what came over me.” Startled by the intimate contact – as well as her reaction to it – she peered shyly up at him beneath a fringe of thick golden lashes. There was a scar high on his left cheek that she hadn’t noticed before. It was long and silver and jagged, making her wonder what had caused it. Possessed by the sudden urge to trace the raised edge of the scar with her fingertip she clenched both of her hands into tiny fists, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms as her heart began to pound.

“I could not very well let you fall.” Again his gaze fell to her mouth, almost as though he were trying to memorize the delicate curve of her lips. For one breathless moment Clara thought he was going to kiss her in the middle of the stream with the sun trickling down through the leaves and the soft coo of songbirds serenading them from the trees. She wondered if she ought to close her eyes, but decided that if this was to be her very first kiss she did not want to miss a single second of it.

Instead of kissing her, however, the stranger asked a question, his expression tinged with equal amounts of wonder and frustration as he gazed deeply into her eyes, searching for answers Clara was not prepared to give.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Who was she?

A baron’s daughter.

A loathed stepchild.

An orphan.

A lady.

A maid.

“No one of importance,” she answered truthfully. “A maid from a small household not far from here.”

He smiled, the muscles in the corners of his mouth quivering ever-so-slightly as if they had not been used in a very, very long time. “And here I thought you were a fairy queen sent to bewitch me.”

“No,” she replied with a small smile of her own. “Nothing so fanciful as that, I am afraid.”

His gaze lingered on her face, drinking into the soft lines and curves of her countenance.

Now he is going to kiss me,
Clara thought breathlessly as she lost herself in the stormy depths of his piercing gray eyes. She saw strength there, but she also saw loss. Loss and heartbreak and pain. It made her wonder who he was. Who he
really
was behind the wall of cold indifference he’d built around himself.

The air was electric, pulsating between them like a living thing. The muscles in Clara’s belly clenched tight and then released in a slow, lazy flip of anticipation when she felt his hands tighten. With a low growl that reverberated deep inside of his throat he slowly drew her closer, his shoulders angling forward as she pushed herself up on her toes. At the last second she closed her eyes, squeezing them shut so tight that little bright dots of light danced across the inside of her lids.

The kiss was soft.

Softer than she ever thought a kiss could be.

His mouth found hers and their lips melded together like two puzzle pieces clicking into place. One of them moaned. Clara thought it might have been her, but she couldn’t be certain. In that moment she did not even know her own name.

He kissed her with the lightness of a butterfly, drinking up the sweet nectar of her lips in slow, purposeful sips that left her yearning for more. Water splashed as she stepped into him, pressing her breasts against his chest. She felt her nipples harden, the sensitive buds pushing against the damp fabric of her dress. One of his hands slid up her back and into her hair, fingers curling possessively around the titian curls.

She tasted peppermint when his tongue traced the sensitive seam of her lips. Her mouth parted on a soft sigh and he took full advantage, deepening the kiss with a bold sweep of his tongue that left her gasping. Like a sleeping dragon roused from its cave he began to take long, hungry pulls. The hand tangled in her hair tightened, pulling her head back, giving him access to the slender column of her pale throat.

Clara’s pulse quickened when she felt his mouth trail a damp, suckling path down the side of her neck. When he nipped her with his teeth she arched against him, one hand splaying flat across the front of his shirt, fingers digging into the soft linen. 

And then without any warning the stranger ended the kiss with a hard, almost brutal shake of his head, as though he were rousing himself from a deep trance. A dark lock of hair tumbled into his eyes, giving him a rakish appearance that was far better suited to a pirate lord than a prince charming.

Dazed and dizzy Clara remained where she stood, her body pulsing with tiny quivering after-shocks of sensation. He released her and stepped back, a stiff line forming between his brows as he scowled down at her.

“I apologize,” he said stiffly. “I… I have not kissed a woman in quite some time and I allowed my emotions to get the better of me.”

In Clara’s opinion he would do better to let his emotions get the better of him more often, but for once she held her tongue. “No need to apologize.” Her numbed, swollen lips lifted in a bashful smile. “I admit I quite enjoyed myself.”

To think she’d gone from cleaning chamber pots to being kissed senseless by a dark, brooding, handsome stranger! It was like something out of a fairy tale. One she was not ready to put down. 

“What should we do now?” she asked as her mind whirled with possibilities and her young, impulsive heart gave a joyous pitter-pat inside her chest. She imagined him sweeping her onto the back of his horse and galloping through the countryside. They would ride all afternoon until they reached a grand castle set on top of a hill. He would kiss her lips as he gently lifted her down from his horse and carried–

“Now you get the hell off my land,” he said flatly. “If I see you here again I will have you arrested.” With that ominous threat hanging in the air between them he stalked out of the stream, retrieved his horse, and rode away down the path without another word.  

The Lion’s Den
, a small, run-down inn on the edge of town, was known for two things: women and ale. Ignoring the first, Thorncroft settled in to drown himself with the second. By the time Adam elbowed his way to the back of the dark, dingy tavern he was well into his third tankard and was showing no signs of slowing down.

“There you are.” Assessing the situation with a knowing glance, Adam’s teeth flashed in a grin as he pulled off his hat and shrugged out of his coat. With so many bodies stuffed into such a small place The Lion’s Den was stiflingly hot. The air buzzed with raised voices, the clink of glasses, and the husky laughter of barmaids. It certainly wasn’t the first place one would think to look when they were searching for a duke, which was precisely why Adam had made it his first stop.  

“Go away,” Thorncroft said without looking up.

“And leave you here to get foxed by yourself?” Grabbing a chair from a nearby table Adam sat down and held up his hand to flag down a nearby barmaid. “What would be the fun in that? I’ll have what he’s having love,” he said when a large-busted brunette sidled over, her gaze sharp and assessing. When she saw the gold buttons glinting on Thorncroft’s jacket her smile came automatically, as did the velvety purr in her voice.

“Will that be
all
you’ll be wanting?” she asked, her eyebrows arching suggestively as she sidled closer to Adam and ‘accidentally’ rubbed her right breast against his arm.

Adam’s eyes gleamed. “Why don’t we start with the ale and–”

“Leave us,” Thorncroft growled.

“But I only just got here,” the barmaid pouted.

“Better do as he says love,” Adam said after a quick glance at his brother’s formidable expression. “And be a doll and double that order of ale, won’t you?” Dismissing the barmaid with a quick slap on her derriere that made her squeal, he turned his full attention to Thorncroft as she sauntered away.

“You look like shit,” he said bluntly.

For the first time since his brother had sat down Thorncroft lifted his head. He had come straight to the inn after his encounter with the titian-haired beauty at the stream. An encounter he still wasn’t certain had actually happened… or was something his subconscious had dreamt up to torture and taunt him.

He never should have stopped and gotten down from his bloody horse, let alone walked into the stream like a man half-crazed and kissed her. But one glance at Clara had been all it took to make him lose all common sense. With the sun dappling her magnificent hair and the sparkling indignation in her brilliant blue eyes she’d called to him like a siren of old, luring him into the water and straight into her arms.

Aside from one blurry night two years ago when he’d vented his pent up frustrations on a well-paid whore, Thorncroft had not kissed a single woman since Katherine and it wasn’t until he rode away from Clara that he realized why. By not losing himself in another, he’d been unconsciously preserving his wife’s memory. The touch of her silky skin. The taste of her delicate lips. The sound of her shy laughter when he teased her with his mouth.

Now when he tried to think of her his mind conjured flashing blue eyes and a spattering of freckles and a stubborn chin. When he tried to remember what her lips had tasted like he thought of strawberries instead, the one fruit Katherine had despised. And when he tried to recall the sound of her laughter he heard a fairy queen’s voice asking him what they should do now…

“I met a woman.” His gaze returned to his tankard of ale while Adam’s sharpened with interest.

“A woman? What was her name? Where did you meet her?
When
did you meet her?”

“Clara. Clara Witherspoon. I saw her this afternoon in the woods by the stream. She was standing in the water with her skirts tucked above her calves. She was there to clean chamber pots.” His mouth twisted with vague amusement at the memory. “And I kissed her.”

Adam sat back in his chair. “You found a woman in the woods by the stream cleaning chamber pots… and you kissed her,” he said slowly. “Was this before or after your second tankard?”

“I didn’t bloody well dream it up if that is what you are implying.” Or maybe he had. It had certainly
felt
like he’d been dreaming when Clara’s slender body had been pressed against his and he had his fingers tangled in her hair and his mouth at her throat.

It hadn’t just been her lips that tasted like strawberries. Her skin had been tart and sugary sweet and completely irresistible. If he hadn’t stopped when he had… If he hadn’t stopped when he had he had no doubt he’d be sprawled beside her naked body on the bank of the stream instead of sitting across from his brother in a sweltering tavern that smelled of cheap perfume and horse piss.

Adam snorted. “Is that why you’re in such a foul mood then? Because you kissed a woman?” That’s a cause for celebration, mate. Unless she was hideously ugly or deformed.” He leaned across the table and lowered his voice to a sympathetic whisper. “
Was
she hideously ugly or deformed? Go on. You can tell me.”

“Bugger off.”

Clara had been, unequivocally and without a single doubt, the most breathtaking female Thorncroft had ever seen. Her beauty was what poets wrote about and kings dreamed of when they conquered distant lands. Her hair was like a fine tapestry woven with shades of red and gold. Her eyes, slanted ever-so-slightly at the corners and framed with thick lashes, reminded him of the sky in the heart of summer. Her nose was small and straight. Her lips soft and smooth and pink. Her hands small and dainty. If there were any imperfections to be had he supposed they might be found in the obstinate tilt of her chin and the light scattering of freckles across her high cheekbones. But when Thorncroft had seen her freckles his only thought had been where he might find more on her delectable little body.

The tiny fairy queen had completely enthralled him… which was why he could never see her again.

“I’ve two mugs of ale here.” A different barmaid than the last set down an overflowing tankard in front of Adam and another in front of Thorncroft. Then she waited, hand held out in silent expectation until Adam crossed her palm with two shillings before flouncing away.

“Now that’s a fine piece,” he said, following the barmaid with his eyes as she made her way through the crowd. This time it was Thorncroft’s turn to snort.

His brother was, if nothing else, tediously predictable. While Adam had a fine time with the women who threw themselves at him – of which there were too many to count – his real enjoyment came from chasing down the ones who played hard to get.

“It’s time to go,” Thorncroft said, nearly toppling over his full tankard of ale in his haste to stand up. The last thing he needed to do was track down another one of his brother’s bastard children in nine months. Better to nip the problem in the arse, as it were, and get Adam home before he did something he could come to soundly regret.

Clara woke to
the sound of wheels churning on gravel. She sat up with a jolt and hurried to the window, her mouth forming a tight grimace when she peered through the glass and saw the carriage rolling up the drive.

Lady Irene had returned.

She supposed it had been too much to hope that her stepmother would decide to remain in London for the duration of the summer. That would have taken a miracle, and if there was one thing Clara knew for certain it was that miracles did not exist.

Her life was proof enough of that.

Hearing the bang and clash of dishes as the kitchen staff rushed to prepare breakfast, Clara dressed quickly in a plain cotton shift and a faded blue dress. Winding her long hair into a bun, she pinned it at the nape of her neck and plopped a lace cap on top of her head before dashing out the door. It wasn’t until she was halfway down the narrow staircase that she realized she’d left the attic without any shoes or even a pair of stockings.

A rueful smile tugged at one corner of her mouth as she turned around and slowly made her way back to her bedroom. A rush of sunlight greeted her as she pushed open the door. Going first to the windows she opened both of them as wide as they would go, welcoming in a sweet breeze that smelled like freshly cut grass and daffodils. Next she began the search for her shoes, never an easy task despite the relatively small size of her living quarters. Living quarters that were, according to Lady Irene’s own promise, only supposed to be hers for the duration of a week, maybe two. Certainly not for seven long years.

It was one of the few promises Clara was glad her stepmother had broken. 

Every treasure she held dear was kept in the attic. It was her own private sanctuary in a house she no longer recognized as her own. Paintings – most of them done by her own inexpert hand – hung side by side next to colorful rugs that had once covered the floors in the drawing room and the parlor. Tables and bookshelves were cluttered with every imaginable knick-knack from cracked vases filled with flowers to a miniature fleet of wooden ships complete with tiny masts and fabric sails.

The ships had belonged to her father. They’d been one of his few possessions Clara had managed to salvage before her stepmother had all of his things taken away. Of her mother she had little, save a perfume bottle, a tattered blue ribbon, and the large portrait that had hung in the library.

She kept the portrait covered beneath a burlap sack for Lady Irene did not know she had it. When she was feeling particularly melancholy or simply in need of seeing a familiar, loving face she uncovered the painting and sat before it, staring up at her mother’s bright smile with a secret longing that time had done little to diminish. Clara may not have remembered very much about her mother, but she missed her all the same.

She missed the stories her mother would have told her. She missed the kisses that would have been placed upon her brow. She missed the hugs that would have been freely given whenever she needed them. She missed the gentle words that would have lifted her spirits and brightened her day.

Finding one shoe beneath the bed and the other turned on its side in the closet, Clara forwent stockings in her haste to get downstairs and help the other maids with their last minute preparations. There were curtains to be opened, chairs to be arranged, and food to be carried out in great silver trays to the buffet table.

She was just topping off a crystal pitcher with freshly squeezed lemonade when the front door opened and Lady Irene’s voice rang out, high and clear as a bell.

“There is dirt all over the walkway. Did no one think to sweep it while I was away?” She clucked her tongue and although Clara did not have a clear view of the foyer, she imagined her stepmother shaking her head. “You there, take a broom and see to at once. One never knows when unexpected company will arrive, does one? We must always be prepared. Now where is my stepdaughter?”

“In the drawing room!” Covertly tucking away the decanter she’d used to fill up the pitcher of lemonade inside an empty cabinet, Clara was waiting with her hands tucked demurely behind her back and a smile on her face when her stepmother walked into the room followed – as she always was – by Henrietta and Gabriella. “How was your journey from town? Uneventful and quick, I hope.”

Experience had taught her the best way to handle Lady Irene was to agree with everything she said, and then do what she wanted once her stepmother’s back was turned. Arguing was pointless. Disagreeing was utterly futile. If Lady Irene said the sky was green then the sky was green. There was no use in trying to correct her. Clara had learned that lesson the hard way.

Untying her hat and pulling off her leather traveling gloves, Lady Irene carelessly discarded them in a chair for a maid to pick up. “The roads were particularly abominable this time. It makes one wonder what is being down with our tax dollars. Is that
all
the food that has been set out?” she asked, her gaze falling on the buffet table where half a dozen dishes were being kept warm beneath oversized silver lids.

“You informed us in your letter you would not be returning until the afternoon,” Clara reminded her. “But Cook was able to prepare sausages and buttered scones and–”

“I suppose it will have to do,” Lady Irene cut in before she took her customary seat at the head of the table. Falling in like obedient little ducklings her daughters sat down on either side of their mother. Neither one of them had yet to acknowledge Clara’s presence, which wasn’t unusual nor particularly troublesome. What
was
unusual was Lady Irene looking up and asking, “Won’t you join us, dear? There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

‘Dear’ and ‘discuss’ were two words that always set off alarm bells inside of Clara’s head. Nothing good had ever come of them.

“Are you certain? I would not want to interrupt and I have an entire list of chores to do.”

“You are a member of this family, Clara. Would it hurt you to act like it once in a while? Gabriella, move down one please.”

Gabriella’s face pinched in a scowl. “Why do I have to–”

“I said
move down
. There,” Lady Irene said, a pleasant smile settling in the corners of her mouth once Gabriella had reluctantly moved and Clara had cautiously taken her seat. “Isn’t this lovely? We really should dine together more often.”