“I can only apologise for that.” The grip on her waist tightened, and briefly, Clara swore she could feel his forefinger stroking against her back. It sent a wave of awareness over her skin, and heat infused her lower limbs. Unquestioningly, she leant closer to him, the rise of her cleavage brushing against his chest.
It was galling, Clara realised, to hear the duke be so sincerely apologetic to her.
“Have you resolved to speak to Heatherbroke?”
“I have no wish to discuss the marquess tonight. But rest assured, I will speak to him.”
“And abandon your plans for Lady Heatherbroke?”
“Yes. You will be pleased to hear I no longer have any inclination towards the young marchioness.”
“Well—that is good,” Clara said. She made herself smile, although there was the slow dawning realisation that this decision meant they had no reason to talk to each other again. That was why he was dancing with her—he was saying goodbye. Should she recognise it for what it was? A generous gesture by a man she normally considered a devil. They may have kissed. She may have liked it, dreamt of it, dwelt upon it with the sort of focus normally reserved for an especially enthralling mystery or a puzzle of a character but never a real man. She should remember her place. Drawing herself up with a sigh, Clara straightened herself within his arms. They certainly would not be dancing like this again. “I suppose I can take my share of credit for this decision.”
“I thought you might think that.”
“Indeed?”
“But a majority can be attributed to my own mother, as well as a realisation that it would not be wise to debase myself as badly as Heatherbroke in an effort to right a wrong.”
“And the bet?”
“I will speak to Covington or cause a bigger scandal that will attract far more gossip.”
“What do you envision would work?”
“Perhaps I might be forced to follow your initial advice and mend bridges,” Woolwich asked smoothly. He leant down and whispered near to her ear, “You, my lady, are clearly excellent at skirting close to disaster but managing to avoid it.”
“I am far better at avoiding attention,” Clara said, her fingers nervous and warm within his grip. How and why did he render such nerves within her? It wasn’t fair. She was on edge around him, and Woolwich appeared unflustered and calm. All brooding, tall, and swoon-inducing—there was even a scent to his clothes or perhaps just to him: sandalwood, rich and tangy, that made Clara wish to lean her head back, exposing her décolletage to his gaze. She wished to see the heat enter his eyes, hunger enflaming Woolwich’s poised elegance. “Normally I find myself left alone, even at Almack’s. There is a delightful corner, third on the right of the large shrub, where one can hide with a book.”
It was the perfect opening for a cutting and dismissive comment from Woolwich, as he had done previously when they had interacted. Instead, he frowned as if he disapproved of her revelation. “I suspect you do not recognise your own advantages. Besides, you were dancing with that officer and afterwards with Mr. Goudge.”
For a moment, Clara was grateful for his praise, but then the acknowledgement of Mr. Goudge’s presence made her uncomfortable. After deciding she wished for marriage with the don, she saw after a few weeks of courtship how ill-suited they were. She forced herself to look up into the duke’s face. “Mr. Goudge is a fine man.” Even if that was something he himself had told her. Emphasising his own good fortune and his promise for the future, from his proud birthright with an older brother who was a magistrate in Kent, to an elderly aunt who seemed likely to give Mr. Goudge her estate on her death. All of it hinted rather heavily that Mr. Goudge was preparing Clara for his offer.
“You would expect a proposal,” Woolwich said. It was not a question.
“That is not for me to say,” Clara said.
“You are too modest.”
Their turns during the dance had brought them closer to the musicians, the waltz was heady and intense, and suddenly tears tugged at the back of Clara’s eyes. Emotion rushed through her unbidden. She had her doubts she would ever dance with Woolwich again. Bickering their way through it—discussing another man and her potential marriage—surely it would be better to simply let the music wash over her? Enjoy this brief experience. Instead, their conversation had dwelt on Mr. Goudge.
“I cannot imagine there was a case where you did not have an opinion to share,” Woolwich said. With a deep, weighty resonance, he added, “It will always be of value to me to hear your thoughts.”
“Now, I do not believe this in the slightest,” Clara laughed, certain that Woolwich was teasing her.
“I would hope you do not believe me insincere.”
“No, indeed, Your Grace, but when would the marriage of two such unimportant peoples matter to someone of your high status.”
“So, your intention is to accept him?”
“I am nearly twenty-six,” Clara sniffed. The duke’s probing questions were forcing her to form thoughts and realisations that she had long denied even to herself, “I cannot have a fourth season.” If the duke continued to pester her, she might start crying as she assigned herself to some quiet, out-of-the-way cottage with the pretentious don. “Come, Your Grace, let us focus on the only thing which has brought us together—the bet, and now that is resolved, or more precisely put aside, we have very little reason to associate with one another again.”
Woolwich frowned and looked like he meant to argue, so Clara added brightly, “I was pleased to hear your son is much approved.”
“He is dear to me.” There was a weighted zeal behind those words, and Clara could recall all too well the sheer desperation that had beat through him when Lord Saunders was in danger. The stupidity of his wager against Lady Heatherbroke, foolish and cruel, was motivated by a keenness to defend his child.
“He is a lovely boy.”
