“Your lack of memory of the incident does not mean it did not occur,” Woolwich lied, knowing all the while he was being an arse. Unsure of how or what precisely to say now, he wished to be charming towards her. “I will escort you.” He snatched up her arm and placed it in the crook of his elbow. “Besides, I owe you my thanks.”
Miss Blackman looked surprised enough to pass out. She eyed him as they walked, and he sensed that she was pleased by his offering of thanks. Whether she still would be when he insisted that they waltz together would be entirely another question.
CHAPTER12
This evening’s ball was different from the others. From Clara’s prior visits to Almack’s—admittedly the first time she had gone she had hidden in an alcove with a novel. It was the same crush of people, the debutantes in their white gowns, the gentlemen in their immaculate crisp suits. Elegance from the arches of the building down to the stretch of the floor, everyone danced on.
She had taken more care and thought over her appearance, allowing her sister’s lady’s maid to dress her hair, to weave pearls in amongst her red curls, the sheen of both which reflected in the candlelight. Isabel had even given Clara a delicious bottle of jasmine scent, which Clara had dabbed behind her ears, the smell feeling grown-up, as if she finally belonged in such a milieu. In order to firmly change her ways, she had left the book she was reading behind, despite it being only fifty pages from the end. To match the pearls, she had worn a white dress but had added a thick band of velvet to her waist, the colour a greyish blue that she realised matched Woolwich’s intense gaze. She hoped he would not read anything into that choice.
Something was altered in the very air of Almack’s. People reacted differently to her, smiling, bowing, and asking her to dance.
Beneath her tight silk gloves, Clara gripped her fan and dance card closer to her side. She was nervous and had a strong desire to run from the room, back to the carriage, and home to the heavily pregnant Isabel, who had stayed curled up in bed.
The difference, she realised, was the duke. Woolwich. The dominating presence of Jasper, the sheer size of him, caught her attention all the way across the room. His magnetism held her focus even when she desperately wanted to look away. He was the one who had rendered these changes in her, and what shocked her was how much Clara was willing to embrace these alterations. So, the difference was within her—she was empowered and aware in a way that had never occurred before. Her awkwardness as a debutante and her role as a wallflower was receding or perhaps changing altogether—she was feeling more confident in herself. When Woolwich caught her eye, when he seemingly took hold of the situation, leading her away from Mr. Goudge, she had the self-assurance to smile graciously back at him.
Clara’s gaze met those slate-coloured eyes, and she realised that Woolwich had spoken and was awaiting her reply.
Drat. She had been too busy congratulating herself on being grown up that she had not been paying attention to whatever he was actually saying.
Previously, Woolwich would have waited with impatience, a curl to his thin lips, but now she saw there was a faint smile instead. He was watching her with a touching sweetness, which was shocking in itself. For a tiny fraction of a moment, Clara could play that he was courting her. That someone with such a grand position, such a name, might consider her. It was a mad, dangerous idea that a book-loving, red-haired romantic might capture Woolwich’s attention.
“Yes?” Clara forced herself to say. There was an uncomfortable twist of her stomach, similar to the tossing sensation of being at sea, churning away beneath the silk of her. Didn’t she hate him? She had certainly told Lady Heatherbroke that. He was cruel. His treatment of his wife’s bastard child told her this. His sworn revenge on Heatherbroke, the nastiness towards Prudence—he was a bad man. Yet looking at him, she only saw and felt a curious burning excitement.
“I asked you to dance, Miss Blackman. Would you do me the honour?”
“You don’t dance. Here, I mean,” Clara said. She hoped this reminder of his colder, harsher presence would recall Woolwich to himself. To his true self. He shouldn’t be seen with her. It wasn’t fair. After all, she should be settling for Mr. Goudge—the problem was where that blasteddonhad gone. Glancing around, she could not see Mr. Goudge. Instead, she was just consumed with awareness of Woolwich’s presence. From the scent of him to the desire of what his shoulders would feel like beneath her fingers. The desire or even the thought of leaving him to search out Mr. Goudge was absurd.
“I will make an exception on this occasion. Do you have permission to?”
“Permission?” She repeated. There was a strange persistence in his gaze as he watched her closely.
Woolwich took hold of her hand, the heat of his fingers scorching through the material of her gloves. “Yes, I know it is rarely played here, but one does need permission for the waltz.”
She had gained permission from the patronesses. In her first Season. But it had not been relevant before. She hadn’t been asked to dance the most romantic of dances—the waltz, a heavenly seduction of embraces that most considered scandalous. Only those with serious courting ambitions would wish to dance the waltz with their beloved. It was an intimate dance she had watched her sister and her friends take to the floor with their suitors or husbands. Such a privilege of opportunity had never been hers before.
With her hand on his forearm, Woolwich strode on, unaware of all those emotions that swirled through her. Oblivious to the effect he was rendering on her mind, body, and soul.
Were Clara more naïve and wishful, she might have been foolish enough to let such an action give her false hope. She could not allow such silliness to affect her. Woolwich must have sought her out for something. Perhaps because there was a degree of friendliness existing now between them, she could not allow herself any false delusion of anything more.
The duke drew them to a halt when they reached the middle of the dance floor. He was confident in his right to be the centre of attention. Woolwich stepped closer to her, as near as they’d been since they had rolled together through that hedge maze. Immediately, Clara recalled when they had kissed—how intense and all-consuming it had been. Those lips. The feel of his tongue in her mouth. The scratch of his whiskers. Woolwich had been her first kiss—and it was galling to know she would not forget it, almost as upsetting to know that it would never happen again.
Briefly, he locked eyes with her and gave Clara a smile that sent shivers down her spine. One of his strong arms came around her, capturing her with a light touch that was sweetly kind, as if this was romantic. Surely that could not be the case. Clara reminded herself that it might be a ruse or yet another bet and forced herself to ask, “Are you not going to tell me why you’re doing this?”
The deliciously intoxicating music started, and despite the differences in their heights, they fitted together neatly, him all masculine strength and her all feminine smallness. It made her tiny, delicate as if she barely weighed a thing when she was in his arms. Woolwich swept her away amongst the other dancers. With Woolwich, she was able to drift away from her worries, despite all the nagging anxieties that nibbled their way through her.
“Why am I doing what?” Woolwich sounded at ease.
“Dancing with me?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“I am hardly a catch, as you enjoyed reminding me.”
“That was ungenerous of me.”
“You called me unladylike.”
As the music swelled, Woolwich swept her into a romantic loop. She looked up into his face, the emotion flushing her cheeks—all of which Woolwich saw as he grinned down at her. Seemingly to find all her queries and questions amusing.
