He spotted his quarry. Lady Heatherbroke was close to the water, with her dark-haired husband lingering nearby. The marquess and marchioness made a handsome couple with fine features and a charismatic air, the two of them wrapped up in their own little world. Beyond a few nods and tilts of his hat, Woolwich strode towards the water, not allowing himself to be distracted. If he was going to make a scene, then interrupting them publicly would be a start.
Halfway there, a flash of red hair caught his attention, and unable to look away, he turned to see Miss Blackman waving excitedly. She was attracting the marquess and marchioness over to her side and away from the water. Away from the approaching Woolwich. Her giddy voice carried as she beckoned them towards her, “Come, come, we’re for the maze.”
It was then that Woolwich spotted the man next to Miss Blackman, none other than thedonMr. Goudge. Why the bloody man had not left for his university yet, Woolwich did not know.
If he was to intercept the married couple, it would be now or never. Before Woolwich could take another step, there was a rush of children. They came hurtling past him followed by an exhausted looking governess. She briefly shot Woolwich an apologetic look before her dozen or so brats reached the water, their noisy excitement added to the general merriment that engulfed the gardens.
So, Woolwich turned back towards his quarry. They were close to the maze, which meant he made his way forward in the wake of Heatherbroke. The marquess was talking to Mr. Goudge as they wove their way between the raised green hedges. The two men entered the maze. Leaving the marchioness alone. Save for Miss Blackman, who was talking animatedly in her ear.
As he drew nearer, he saw that Miss Blackman had spotted him, her mouth tightened, and she grabbed Lady Heatherbroke’s arm, pulling her into the maze.
Eyes rooted on the disappearing Lady Heatherbroke, Woolwich barely gave her companion a moment’s notice. At least that was his plan. It was all going well until he entered the maze, turned the corner, and that was when he felt a thud right into the middle of his ribs and stomach. Only then did he realise what the damned chit had done. He rocked backwards, immediately losing his balance, tilting towards the ground. She’d run at him and thrown herself full tilt at him, sending the pair of them crashing to the side, directly through the hedge wall.
Miss Blackman must have abandoned Lady Heatherbroke with the order of seeking out her husband and Mr. Goudge, whilst she set about tackling him. Twisting and turning as they fell, he managed to take a majority of the pain of hitting the ground on his back. The twist and scratch of the branches would also have a slight effect, but he had at least shielded her from that. When they landed down through the hedge and onto the ground, he found Miss Blackman sprawled on top of him, his hands keeping her body securely rooted to his, the plush figure now a reality rather than just a dream. Or a nightmare, he thought wryly.
CHAPTER8
The day had been going so well, Clara thought morosely. She had been invited by Mr. Goudge to attend the large society picnic, and she’d been delighted to accept his invitation. Dressed in her favourite sprig muslin walking dress, Clara had her maid curl her tresses into a fetching style and added a straw bonnet with long navy ribbons to complete the look. All of that was, of course, for nothing now as she was lying sprawled over.
Mr. Goudge and she had attended several of the same events together—a recital, and then a small, private ball—and once more when she had been out walking with Mrs. Trawler on Rotten Row. Clara would only admit now that the entire time she had been waiting with bated breath for Woolwich to arrive. Frequently, Clara had been forced to refocus her attention on Mr. Goudge. She had grown accustomed to the don’s manner, his tone of lecturing her as he spoke. It certainly felt like she was a student of his rather than an active participant in the conversation. But at least, Clara told herself, she liked the topics he brought up. She was aware that whilst he could be patronising on many matters, he was never boring. It was enough, alongside his pleasing looks, for Clara to feel vaguely hopeful. It was a boon that Mr. Goudge clearly liked her. After all, he had invited her here today and was proudly escorting her through the gardens. Next week, she hoped or believed she would receive a posy of flowers from him—an unmistakable sign of courtship, which Clara longed for.
All that was at an end. Given how she was currently positioned.
Clara could almost imagine that the last five minutes were simply an error, and if she blinked hard enough, she would somehow make the choice of charging at Woolwich disappear. Make him vanish as if it were magic. As a child, she’d loved that game.
As an adult, blinking down at the groaning duke, her thighs straddling his, her fingers on his broad, warm chest, all the while unable to move because the brute had one hand on her rump and his other tight on her upper back. She could barely wriggle.
Distantly she heard a feminine voice, that of Lady Heatherbroke, calling out to her, “Clara, where did you go?” There was a shifting noise of leaves being moved as Lady Heatherbroke looked for her. Then a startled gasp, but lingering within it was a slight laugh to it, as her friend viewed the pair of them. “Are either of you hurt?”
By turning her face a tiny fraction, or as much as the brute would allow, Clara could see the gap behind her in the hedge. Precisely where she and the duke had fallen through. Snaggled branches and broken leaves left a hole wide enough for them to have ended up on the ground. Were Lady Heatherbroke so inclined, she could probably squeeze through after them. But looking back over her shoulder, Clara could tell that her friend had no desire to do so and spoil her handsome apricot ensemble.
“Shall I climb through and assist you?” Lady Heatherbroke asked reluctantly.
“That won’t be necessary, my lady,” the duke said, and because of where Clara’s head was located, she could feel the rumble of his words throbbing through his chest against her cheek.
There was a pause in which the duke tried to sit up, and Clara tried to scramble off him, and all the while, Lady Heatherbroke seemed to be considering her next move.
“I will run ahead and ask the others to hurry towards you,” Lady Heatherbroke said, darting away and leaving Clara still helpless with the furious Woolwich to deal with. Abandoning them there, despite how much Clara wished to call her friend back.
Clara listened to the sounds of her friend’s footfalls and the noise of Lady Heatherbroke calling out to her husband until that sound vanished as well. There were the occasional outcries or chatter of nearby people, but no one seemed to notice them. All Clara’s senses were preoccupied by the heat, the rhythm of Woolwich’s heartbeat, and she felt close enough to hear his muscles moving and the wheels in his head turning.
“We cannot be seen like this,” she muttered.
His grip loosened, and she pressed her hands off his chest to lever herself up—to lift her body higher and away from him. But the broken branches stuck into her legs, and she had to shift her chest farther up, almost as if she were crawling over him. Clara’s hips knocked with his, and she muttered a half apology and glanced up at him.
He seemed to be in pain. His thin lips were pressed together furiously, and his eyes were closed. All the while, the muscle in his stern jaw twitched.
“Have you landed on a branch?”
In response to her worry, Woolwich groaned.
The noise he made was hardly a pleasant one, yet at the same time, the sound ran through Clara’s body, making her acutely aware of how her muslin clung to her frame, the tactile awareness of the flush material against her flesh. She had a sudden urge to rub her lower body against Woolwich, to press herself wantonly there and luxuriate in the feeling of his larger frame. Where had that lustful thought come from? It was so illogical.
Watching him, she wondered whether he could sense those desires that fluttered through her or whether a similar madness might ever run through him too.
When he met her inquiring look, she saw he was furious. His gaze was flinty, almost enough to hit sparks off it. He looked angry enough to implode. There was even sweat beading on his brow. With an abruptness that surprised her, he reached forward, encircled her waist, and lifted her completely off him whilst muttering, “You, madam, are a menace. How you managed two Seasons baffles belief, although now your lack of success speaks volumes.”
Rather than muffle the desirous bubbling sensation at his harsh words, it was as if his insults enflamed her higher—the provocative feeding her want for him. He was touching her, and it was thrilling. Large, powerful hands that held her until she was off him. Briefly, as she had shifted her knee over him, she felt what she was certain was his engorged manhood. She had an idea of what might do that from a few stolen novels. Which meant, she thought smugly, he could not entirely loathe her.
