“I believe that the author’s truth must be the aim,” Miss Blackman said.
“Indeed, most passionately did you argue your point, that I find myself most likely to agree with you, Miss. So, few young ladies know the sincere value of Mallory’s work,” Mr. Goudge enthused. Despite his scholarly appearance, as suited his career, Mr. Goudge looked most keen to snatch up Miss Blackman’s hand as he made his point.
With a sniff and a muttered, “Excuse me,” Woolwich cut into their talk. Resentfully Miss Blackman turned her head and stared at him.
“I do not believe His Grace to be fond of literature,” Miss Blackman said, her tone patronising and dismissive, so it was with great satisfaction that Woolwich straightened his spine, his height significantly taller than her companion and a foot more than her tiny stature.
His eyes swept her face hoping to see Miss Blackman rendered uncomfortable, “I have read several translations of the story, and I, for one, am surprised by your eagerness to promote such texts. I thought you a great romantic, Miss Blackman. Surely the affair between Guinevere and Lancelot is tragic and ruins everything?” He looked between the two of them, but when neither spoke up, he continued with grim alacrity, “The elevation of such material which glamorises an extramarital affair as something worthy of celebration is surely questionable.”
Blinking several times, Mr. Goudge seemed unable or, probably as was more likely the case, unwilling to launch into a public spat with a duke. When Woolwich turned back to Miss Blackman, a rosier flush donned her cheeks, and he noticed the ladylike gloves were balled into fists by her side. The obstinate aspect of her personality he’d been aware of previously and had, since this morning’s interlude, decided that he found it amusing to engage it. But truthfully, there was something else at play, another sensation… was it enthralling? Tempting? Yes, it was something closer to that. Annoyance shimmered through him. If anything, the realisation of how he was feeling in her presence added to his confused irritation.
Before either of them could muster a suitable reply to Woolwich’s dismissal, there came a distinctive noise from behind them, the soft notes of a piano playing the cotillion. When Woolwich looked back across the room, he could see that Lady Verne had taken a seat at the pianoforte, and several of her guests were forming into their sets for the dance.
They were laughing as they joined hands, one couple after another, as they prepared to begin the dance. He disliked the informality of it, and yet the casual pressure of the situation was persuasive, as if the notes of the piano were telling Woolwich to act in a certain way, demanding he perform his role.
Without really thinking it through, Woolwich shot out his hand towards Miss Blackman. She stared down at his proffered palm, her eyes lifting in confusion, and a blank, rather pained expression darted over her face before Miss Blackman lifted her fingers and took his hand. It prompted Woolwich into movement, and he walked them across the room towards the rest of the coupled-upguests.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting you away from the scholar.”
“I liked his company,” she replied. Her sideways glance tore into him, and Woolwich was sure if she had access to a weapon, he’d be on the ground, bloodied at her feet.
The dance began, and they bowed briefly to each other.
The movement of the dance carried them away from each other, swaying in and out of the raised arms and shifting bodies as the music picked up the pace. The cotillion was one of the more enthusiastic of the courtly dances.
“You cannot be enjoying this,” Miss Blackman said as they came together again.
She was wrong, he realised. Woolwich would normally have disliked this dance, but, in truth, he had not loathed the dance. He had liked the music the way it hung around the room, filling up the space with a reassuring sound. He also liked seeing Miss Blackman’s smile as she grinned at the other dancers, her charm abundant as she stepped away from him. In truth, he had liked all of the dance. He had liked dancing, especially with Miss Blackman, despite his fears of how it might be perceived by others.
They parted again before he could reply to her, moving once more amongst the other partners, lifting their arms, palms touching, and their bodies shifting as they went through their paces.
This time though, it was Woolwich who spoke first. Keeping his tone icy, hard, and ensuring his voice was sharp as he looked sideways at Miss Blackman. Around them, the music ended. “I came here tonight for one simple reason,” he said as he bent his head nearer to her ear, closing the distance between them so that no one else would overhear their conversation. Not close enough for anyone to notice it or for it to break the bounds of propriety, but enough for only Miss Blackman to hear his words. “It took me far too long to work out how I will gain the repayment of rescuing you from White’s. But now I see it all clearly. You are going to help me ruin your friend, or I will ruin you. Clever solution, is it not?”
CHAPTER6
The party was of the sort that Clara preferred to the grander society events. Smaller gatherings gave the invited a chance to mingle, talk, and discuss ideas. Verne’s home was precisely balanced between being large enough to host a nice amount of people but intimate enough to make it feel special. The rear-facing glass doors had been thrown open, allowing a soft, night-time breeze to drift in, filling the parlour with the scent of apple blossom and even the sugary smell of baked bread drifting up from the kitchen below. The rest of the parlour was lit by a dazzling array of candles that hit off the eyes of the guests and their glasses as their talk filled the room.
All of Lady Verne’s guests who were not members of the Set were fascinating, radical, and excellent at raising topical conversations, which Clara knew would be illuminating. These were the sort of people she wanted to be associated with. Added to this was the presence of Mr. Goudge. He was a charming young man, one who was smart, had a well-proportioned face, and sported a little moustache, which she knew, given the right inducement, she would come to like. On top of this, he seemed to appreciate her suggestions and her few comments on medieval manuscripts.
None of these things mattered because as soon as Woolwich danced with her, all her enjoyment fled. His grip was brief but impactful. His large hands held her with precision and firmness that Clara could still sense in her body. When he was near her, it felt as if her heart was beating nineteen to the dozen. A wave of scent, a masculine woodsy smell of bergamot, teased Clara’s nostrils as she resisted the temptation of leaning closer to him.
“You would not dare,” Clara said. Even to her own ears, it sounded weak.
Woolwich’s words, “I will ruin you.” His voice drawled over that one sentence, and for the first time, Clara was aware of how the duke spoke with slow, careful consideration that added emphasis to his vowels and an almost sensualness to his dictation. Rather like silk between his lips. They throbbed through her in a way that did not make sense so that her limbs, her core, her chest, hell, even her throat—every part of her body responded to his whispered threat. It would have had less of an impact if he had claimed her lips under his own. That idea repelled her. What a disgusting concept. She had to restrain her face from showing her distaste. Imagining that callous, unpleasant duke doing anything as human as kissing…
“I suppose it explains a great deal,” Woolwich said, cutting into her thoughts, “If you are forever making those sorts of faces, no wonder you need to chase after some stuffy don.”
She was unable to immediately come up with a proper reply as she was still caught on the image of Woolwich kissing her. No, her kissing him. No. Bother. She wanted none of it. Why did the question over how his disdainful and prim lips would taste continue to bother her that she failed utterly to think of a response?
“I am not chasing anyone,” Clara snapped. Her whole body was aflame. She felt she wanted to scream, punch, hit—anything to release this overriding tension that was engulfing her mind. Her body was heated by the idea of how Woolwich would taste, and she could not stop her devious thoughts from wandering down that alleyway.
“Of course you are. All young, unmarried women in society are. It is your only aim. Not a particularly notable one, but it is your only choice.”
“Your disdain for women speaks of a mind that regards others as beneath him.” Clara found her voice as Woolwich made to turn away from her. “What it demonstrates, though, is your inability to understand or appreciate those who are not as fortunate as you. We return once more to your overabundance of privilege. That might not matter were it not for your lack of kindness, which shows that you do not deserve any respect, no matter what your title may imply.”
The rest of the couples around them were chatting away most amicably with the intention of reforming for the next dance. Neither Clara nor Woolwich, however, had acknowledged their surroundings. In fact, they had been drawn together, their mutual dislike as they stared up and down at each other emanating off them.
