She sat down on the bench and prepared herself for tears when there was an ominous click of the door swinging wide. Someone was entering the one space where she had hoped to gain some clarity and, if not, at least some privacy.
The conservatory was chiefly filled with flowers, fully blooming because of the season. There were a few twists and turns to get to her bench, as well as the occasional tree which hid Clara from sight. Or the intruder from her vision.
Knowing that her eyes were probably still swollen from her crying, Clara sank farther back into the seat and hoped that whoever it was would leave. A sudden vision of it being a pair of lovers danced before her eyes. Surely, she could not be so unlucky?
When Woolwich walked into her view, she realised she was worse than unlucky. She may be blighted.
She forced herself to stand as he drew nearer. “Why have you followed me here? Determined to truly humiliate me? Or just continue to berate me?”
“I did not wish to reduce you… that is, I came after… I wish to offer my apologies for any offense I have caused. I took advantage of you on the day your niece was born. It was wrong of me, and I apologise.”
“Accepted. I accept your apologies.” Clara looked over his shoulder, not allowing her eyes to be drawn to his face or the sympathy there. “You can go now.”
Woolwich did take a step back, but he did not leave her. “I will escort you back to the party when you are ready.”
“That, Your Grace, is entirely unnecessary.”
“Your reputation, your safety—”
Unable to help herself, Clara made a scoffing noise. “When has that been a concern of yours?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and Clara hoped if she could provoke him into an argument, at least it would end the tortuous kindness he was currently paying her. But no such luck. Instead, Woolwich drew close enough to push an errant curl off her face, his fingers lifting her chin, so she was forced to stare up into his face. Take in the severity of his features, mark his expression, and try to understand what he was thinking.
“I would hope you know me better than to believe me capable of deliberate maliciousness.”
“You may no longer be cruel, but you are thoughtless.” She tried to move away, but Woolwich was quicker, and his free arm snaked its way around her shoulders to stop her from running away. Clara supposed she could have struggled, but where would be the dignity in that? Instead, she went limp. A small, fragile part of her, she reasoned it must be her heart, clenched at having him so close. The scent that was uniquely his—bergamot, lemon citrus, and a touch of heat as if his body was a furnace—threatened to warm her entirely. It was embarrassing to admit, but it made her mouth water for him and wish to curl up closer despite everything. How could her body betray her in such a manner?
“Have you fainted?” Woolwich asked, cutting into her ridiculous meandering thoughts.
“It would serve you right if I did. Then you would be forced to carry me back to the ball. Ruin both of our reputations in one fell swoop,” Clara snapped.
“I think I would survive.” He still had his arms around her, and Clara looked up, his tone catching and making her stare. His expression when their eyes met was curiously intense as he stared down at her. The grey darkness of the conservatory turned the duke’s gaze almost black. “You know none of this is about my reputation or my title?”
Unable to resist, Clara rolled her eyes. In response, Woolwich’s arms tightened about her, bringing her body flush against him until her chest was crushed to his, and she was on her tiptoes. To be held so, to be embraced—so tantalisingly close to kissing him was bittersweet. She swore she would not give him the satisfaction of closing that gap. The only explanation Clara told herself was perversion on her part—she was acting against every instinct she possessed.
“None of what?” Clara asked, embracing the lie. “Your arrogance is extraordinary if you think I am cast low because of anything you have done.”
Briefly, there was some satisfaction in watching Woolwich’s frown deepen, but he did not release her. “I thought—after what occurred between the two of us. It connected us—”
Red rage bubbled in her chest. “Well, that was your mistake,” Clara said, taking her falsehood further.
“So, it meant nothing?” There was a note of sadness to his words, which Clara ignored.
Even in the dark, there was a touch of colour warming his face. Every movement or twitch was visible, and it was oddly satisfying to see such annoyance on display from Woolwich. But even with that spark of a familiarly dangerous fire, Clara was tired. She could not continue playing these games with him, not when she was engaged. Whilst she might not think highly of Mr. Goudge, it did not mean she would act against her own morals.
“Release me, please. This is not fair,” Clara said. “I have a fiancé, and he would not wish to see me like this.”
Woolwich hesitated, emotions battling behind his eyes. But he nodded, and said, “I suppose I should say goodbye in that case.” He then bent his head and brushed his lips against hers, just the briefest of touches, but enough to spark every single spinning sensation off in Clara. Her very mouth tingled at the contact, and she desperately desired to know what would happen if he were to deepen the kiss or move his mouth elsewhere. Here was the very coldest of men. His stilted control was all an act, and beneath the surface of his severity, there burnt a passionate soul. It killed Clara that she would forever be left to wonder about what would have happened if she were to give in to temptation.
She sank back from him, but her treacherous hands reached around his neck when he kissed her, so they were rooted together still. The grip of her fingers dug into the strength of his shoulders, steadying her. A part of her knew she did not have the strength to pull herself away. “You should not have done that. You should never have kissed me.”
“I could not resist.”
Clara nodded. At least he was able to acknowledge that he, too, felt that irresistible bond that linked them together. It wound the pair of them inexplicably into a dance, Clara did not know all the steps to, but she wanted to find out every single one.
“I suppose that is not true. I did not wish to resist any longer,” Woolwich said, his hands lifting and burying his fingers in amongst the strands of her chignon. This loosened the curls until Clara gasped. “Tell me to stop, tell me to leave, and it will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I will go. I will let you go.”
The brush of his fingers on her neck jolted Clara forward, and she closed the distance, kissing him hungrily. The promises, her agreement, what society might think, any of the consequences of this foolish action shrank, and all that mattered was him.
