A good few seconds ticked by before Verne spoke.
“I thought better of you,” Verne said coolly, disappointed at Woolwich’s declaration. He, too, made his way toward the door, ready to depart. “I will speak to Covington and have the bet withdrawn.”
“That will hardly squash the rumours,” he said to the departed figure. Woolwich strode across the now-empty room and yanked back the curtain to reveal the young man. He had expected to find a quivering lordling, but instead, he was a short lad, staring up at him with a tremendous frown on his youthful face.
“I insist that you take back that bet about the Marchioness,” the boy yelled, hands on hips in the pose of a fishwife, as he stared at Woolwich with unmatched anger.
There was something decidedly recognisable about this very small young man, from the rounded, button nose and fine pale brows, to the well-lashed eyelashes, and the wide, full lips. A feminine familiarity that tugged at Woolwich’s consciousness. He was less of a boy and more of a girl. Now Woolwich noticed the rounded pink cheeks and the flashing aquamarine eyes that were shooting fury at him. He could hardly grace her with the title of lady given she was dressed as a man and in White’s, a club which banned the presence of females.
With a quick, decided gesture, Woolwich yanked the hat off her head. Down tumbled a thick braid of red hair, which had been curled around her head.
Miss Clara Blackman. An overly opinionated, novel-quoting female, who happened to be the sister-in-law of the Earl of Hurstbourne. Nick would undoubtedly expect Woolwich to escort his sister-in-law out of White’s when all Woolwich wanted to do was leave the furious virago where she was.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Woolwich demanded as he gazed down at the diminutive woman. His threatening drawl was normally enough to intimidate anyone.
Miss Blackman, without any fear at all, walked straight up to him so that only a handful of inches separated them. She then poked him with her left index finger, stabbing him in the middle of his broad chest. Her head was tilted as she frowned up at Woolwich, “Don’t you dare go near my best friend, or you’ll have me to deal with.”
CHAPTER2
This was not going to plan, Clara thought as she looked up into the harsh face of Woolwich. She had come to White’s, dressed in her brother Tom’s clothes, on a mission. Her purpose had been to get hold of the famous Betting Book and see which gentlemen were likely, willing, or able to wed this Season. Clara was determined to marry this year, and therefore she needed not to waste any more time pining after unsuitable men. She was done with being a spinster, reading books in corners, and knowing things, but always being someone of words rather than action. It did not seem as if gentlemen cared for it.
“Well?” Woolwich demanded. The duke’s piercing eyes almost had Clara admitting everything right then and there. Just so he would stop staring at her, as if he could see beneath all the layers of clothes she wore. His look made her acutely aware of her body, and that, in turn, made her angry.
“Stop looking at me and answer the damn question. What in God’s name are you doing here?” He barked at her.
Clara opened her mouth, trying to form an explanation that might answer.
“Nothing to say? Or do you know all too well there could never be a reason for you to be present here? A ruse, no doubt, to meet a gentleman. I thought better of you, Miss Blackman,” Woolwich pressed. Unlike other gentlemen who Clara knew, Woolwich did not draw back. Instead, he seemed to crowd her until she had to step back into the shelter of the window’s alcove. It did offer the advantage of shielding her from view if someone was to enter, although Clara did not think that likely motivated Woolwich. His consideration for others died when it might inconvenience him in the slightest.
His Grace. The severe, scary, stupidly tall duke, who she had loathed from first sight. It didn’t help that Clara’s best friend, Prudence Cavendish, Marchioness Heatherbroke had warned Clara all about the inscrutable Woolwich, his cruel behaviour towards his wife’s bastard daughter, and indeed that these actions had extended outwards to anyone who crossed him. Since Clara was a loyal friend, she had, in turn, disliked Woolwich immensely. Being out in society had not improved her opinion of him either, given he was cold, haughty, and distant. What was there at all admirable about the duke?
“Are you going to speak after that embarrassing outburst or merely stare at me? Perhaps I should be grateful. Silence from you, Miss Blackman, is, I’ve heard, a rarity.”
“Stop being such a blasted bully. Just because you’re taller than me doesn’t mean you get to lord it over me. Besides, you are the one who is a disgrace.” Clara found her voice. This seemed to rock Woolwich, whose smooth, refined cheeks coloured. “Of course,” Clara continued, “rudeness and cruelty is the only thing Your Grace would understand as a course of action. But I am surprised to note the desire for ruination.”
“A subject,” the duke’s lips drew back against his teeth as he spoke, “I can only assume from your presence here is a topic you are well versed in.”
“I would never seek to bestow it on another, especially an innocent lady who has done no wrong. Lady Heatherbroke is—”
“No adult in her society is sinless.”
“My friend is. She is not merely the wife of Heatherbroke. She is also a vicar’s daughter—” Whatever Clara had been about to add was cut off when the duke lowered his head, so their faces were only inches apart. His grey eyes were hard, with little variance in shade, so much so it seemed as if they had been cut from granite.
It was possibly the longest conversation or interaction she had ever had with the duke. And it was proving to be as unpleasant as she had always assumed it would be. However, she had never pictured herself in trousers in any of these instances.
“I doubt such a blameless angel would be so contently wed to a libertine like Heatherbroke.” The duke continued to criticise dear Prudence.
“He is a reformed rake,” Clara interjected. “And now, a happily married family man.”
Woolwich continued with grim determination as if she hadn’t spoken, “Or countenance someone with such loose morals as yourself, who would give up her good name to come here, dressed as a man. Pray tell me, Miss Blackman, are you a fool or just a jade?”
Clara had read a great deal of books in her twenty-five years, and novels were her particular weakness. So, she had some familiarity with the idea that the villains in these stories were prone to insult and cast aspersions on the heroines, but never had she been on the receiving end of such blatant disrespect. Although, if Clara were honest with herself, she had never been placed in a scenario where she might be considered the heroine of the tale. No, she was the best friend. The sister. The aunt. As the baby daughter of a doting family, she wanted nothing more than to find acceptance and affection, traits absent, it seemed, from a lot of available gentlemen in society. Men did not view her as a romantic possibility. All too often, she was cast as nothing more than the friend. Regardless, she would not tolerate this duke’s attitude for a moment. No one had the right to speak to her in such a way.
Without a second’s hesitation, she raised her hand to deliver a slap to the smug duke’s face. But Woolwich was too quick, and he caught her wrist. His grip was not hard or malicious but firm, as if holding her so was nothing more than a lion might catch a bird. So, in annoyance and as an answer, Clara stamped on the duke’s foot with the heel of her boot.
“Damn it.” All the evident self-satisfaction fled as Woolwich winced, immediately releasing her hand as his foot smarted from the contact.
“Don’t try battling with me. I have three older siblings. I know every trick in the book,” Clara said.
