Clara’s words around his cowardice crystalised through his body and his mind. He staggered after them, breath catching in his throat, and it took Heatherbroke hurrying back to his side, holding him up, his hand on Woolwich’s chest, before he felt a little better.
His fingers gripped Heatherbroke’s jacket. “I can’t lose her too.”
Lady Heatherbroke moved closer. “Because?”
“Why does it matter so much for me to say the blasted words?”
“Because it is the thing that matters most,” Lady Heatherbroke said. “It is a thing worth all, worth the most, and I won’t let you marry my friend if you don’t know that. How do you feel about her?”
He could hardly describe in vivid detail all the ways he wanted Clara, how attractive he found her both inside and out. “She says she loves me.”
“And yourself?” Lady Heatherbroke said. “I won’t help you unless you tell me how you feel.”
Rather lamely, even to his own ears, partly from a desire not to have to justify himself or, worse, explore too deeply everything Clara made him feel, Woolwich said, “She’s very pretty and good, of course.”
With a wave of her hand, Lady Heatherbroke dismissed his comment. “I know that.”
What did she want from him? A graphic recounting of how wondrous it felt to slide between Clara’s thighs, to capture her mouth and her gasps as he drove her wild? None of that could be said aloud, not with a lady present. “I care for her.” He snapped, emotion broiling through him unbidden and unwelcome. “I want her to be safe and protected. Even from someone like me.” The words caught in his throat as he attempted to convey what marriage meant to him. It was safety from the cut throatiness of society, but any deep affection was unwise. Lady Heatherbroke was still watching him closely. It was clear she expected more from him. “I would rather argue with her than talk to anyone else.” He would forever wish to return to Clara’s side and hear her viewpoint, even if it meant he would have a fight on his hands.
As he watched Lady Heatherbroke, he saw a faint smile grace her rosebud lips, as if she was realising the depth of Woolwich’s feelings, despite all his denials. It hit him hard as the truth of what he had denied for so long rammed into him, robbing him of his breath. He loved her. It was eating him up, and he’d been too blind to see it until now.
“My love is a poison, a curse.” Woolwich gave voice to his fears as he looked between the last people he ever expected to confide in. He had always thought that his feelings were better repressed, but it was through Clara’s encouragement to bond further with his son that he was able to take the next step. “I have lost one woman already, and I know all too well that with Clara’s wit, humour, beauty, and bravery… would all the feelings that burn through me hurt her?”
Drawing nearer until she was staring up into his face, Lady Heatherbroke said, “You’re right. Clara is brave, strong enough to face desertion if you were to be such a blaggard as to abandon her. I will not speak of your late duchess since I love her daughter dearly—but I do know that Clara deserves that passion that is within you. She would welcome it.”
The breath eased out of him. The reassurance from someone who knew Clara so well matched what Clara herself had been saying, but he had been too stupid, too scared to see the truth before his very eyes.
With a grudging admittance, Woolwich said, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix this mistake. I don’t know how to convince her that I love her.”
Releasing him, Heatherbroke stepped back. He wasn’t looking at Woolwich but at his wife, considering her emotions and what her reply might be. She looked away from Woolwich, her expression opaque. Finally, she let out a sigh and gave her husband a quick nod, seemingly pleased with what she had heard.
With a smile, one of charm and expectation, Heatherbroke said, “I think we can help you, Woolwich.”
CHAPTER24
Clara was failing to find comfort in the realisation that her promise to herself that this Season would be different had come true—she had received multiple offers of marriage, she had danced at dozens of balls, she had kissed a man, well… to claim that kissing Woolwich had ever been part of her plan was a stretch. It had certainly never been her intention—nor was falling in love with such a man. Her assumption and her resolution were all crumbling away.
Hurstbourne townhouse was quiet. Her sister and the children had left for the countryside now that Lady Hurstbourne could manage the journey. Lord Hurstbourne was only staying a few more days for some last-minute, London-based obligations, and then he, too, would leave, and the townhouse would be shut up for the summer. The beckoning promise of a summer in Sussex, filled with noisy children’s laughter, familiar cooking, and sun-drenched trips to the seaside, lay before her, provided, of course, that Clara did not find herself with child. Carefully, she put her hand on her stomach. The curved shape of her belly gave no indication of what lay beneath the folds of her dress, what occurrence might be happening inside her—it would be at least a week before she would know for sure.
Having dressed in a travelling gown and gone downstairs, Clara moved through the silent townhouse, nodding at the remaining servants and holding one of her favourite books to her as if it were a shield. The dining room was set just for her as Hurstbourne had already left, and she sipped her chocolate without much enthusiasm. Her eyes moved listlessly over the room, not enjoying the elegant furniture, the liveried servants, nor the lifestyle she had been privileged to enjoy recently.
Her mind was preoccupied with Woolwich, wondering what his next step would be, what attempt he would make next, or if he would abandon her and leave Clara alone. If she were to become a spinster, then a fate with her dearly beloved books would hardly be a curse. It may well be a blessing in disguise. There was something soothing and familiar about that option.
A sharp knock interrupted her wonderings, and a maid entered and said Lady Heatherbroke was waiting in the yellow salon for her. Abandoning her eggs, Clara made her way towards Prudence. If and when she left London, it would be a great deal of time before she saw her dear friend again, especially since Lady Heatherbroke spent most of the year in Cumbria, hundreds of miles away from Sussex—there was the comfort of her frequent letters. Still, the reality of a friend before her could not be matched.
Flinging the door wide, Clara stepped inside and smiled at Prudence, her affection undimmed despite all the emotions she was currently beset with. “How lovely to see you.” Clara hurried over and flung her arms around Lady Heatherbroke. Holding on to her dear friend most keenly. Despite how much she loved her older sister, it was Prudence who knew all the dark secrets around Woolwich. There was something in her friend’s clear-eyed righteousness and her directness that Clara had always admired. Perhaps Lady Heatherbroke would be able to make Clara feel reassured about her refusal.
Returning her affectionate embrace, Lady Heatherbroke gripped Clara’s shoulders as she pulled back to take in Clara’s face. The two of them, hands clasped, moved across to the sofa. “I heard that you were all set to leave today.”
“That is correct. It is most excellent that you had a chance to call on me because it may be several months, perhaps even longer—”
“I have just realised you have the time to drive to Hatchards,” Lady Heatherbroke interrupted her. “I had a present set aside for you, but you must have it before you leave London. You always tell me it is your favourite place.”
All her plans that Clara had sought dissolved as she dwelt on her beloved bookshop, and the realisation that if she were to forever depart from theton, she may well not have an opportunity to visit there again.
Clara nodded. “Let us take a carriage over there. It would be a good chance for me to tell you about a hundred different things. I should have come to you sooner.”
Lady Heatherbroke nodded most solicitously. “Run and grab your bonnet. We will discuss whatever you want on our way to the bookshop.”
