A Duchess by Midnight (16 page)

“Shut the bloody curtains,” he groaned, burrowing his face deeper into the chaise lounge. “And then kindly bugger off.”

Ignoring him, she moved on to the next window and then the next until the study was awash in afternoon sunlight and Thorncroft was grumbling like an injured bear.

“What did I say,” he snarled as he rolled over and dragged himself up into a sitting position. Squinting against the natural light he threw a hand up in front of his eyes and sagged backwards until his head was in danger of tipping off the back of the lounge. “If you value your life you’ll close the damn curtains and get the hell out.
NOW!
”

Completely unfazed by his bellowing shout, Clara made a bit of space for herself on the edge of his desk and hopped up, feet swinging lightly back and forth as she studied Thorncroft with a critical eye. At least now she understand why Emily had fled in the opposite direction. If
she
were Thorncroft’s servant she would run away too. But she wasn’t his servant. Far from it, in fact. And she refused to be intimidated by him no matter how bullishly he behaved.

“Do you always drink yourself in a stupor and pass out in your study?” she asked curiously. “Or are you celebrating a special occasion?”

“I said to get –
Clara
?” His hand dropped away from his face, revealing gray eyes filled with redness and disbelief. “What the bloody hell are you doing? You shouldn’t be in here.”

“Neither should you, by the looks of it.” Glancing to side she spotted at least two empty bottles of wine, one of which had been knocked to the floor and rolled halfway under one of the bookcases. “How much did you drink? Do you do this every night?”

He let his head fall back with an audible groan. “Save the lecture. I am not in the mood.”

“I cannot imagine why.” Her fingers strayed to her lap, idly plucking at the soft muslin folds of her new dress. Had Thorncroft even noticed her change in appearance? She doubted it. The man looked like he was absolutely miserable, although she couldn’t summon any sympathy for him. Not when he had brought this on himself.

Spying a crystal pitcher sitting beside a potted fern she hopped down from the desk, grabbed an empty wine glass sitting on a stack of unopened letters, and gave the poor fern some much needed water before filling the wine glass to the brim and carrying it over to Thorncroft.

“Drink,” she said briskly.

Looking at the glass as though it held poison instead of water he scowled and turned his face away like a child refusing a spoonful of medicine. “I am not thirsty.”

“Maybe not, but this will help your pounding head. Drink,” she insisted, sticking the glass under his nose.

His scowl deepening Thorncroft grabbed the wine glass by the stem and downed the water in one swallow. Sputtering, he shoved it back into Clara’s hand while she bit back a smile.

“There,” she said. “Don’t you feel better?”

“What are you doing here, Clara?” He peered up at her beneath a hank of tousled black hair, his gray eyes still lined with tiny streaks of red but already more focused than they had been when he’d first woken up. “What do you want?”

It was a very good thing, Clara thought, that she wasn’t the sort of woman who was easily offended. The only thing she’d wanted from Thorncroft was for him to notice her changed appearance but instead he’d done nothing but snap at her. Ornery man. Why couldn’t her heart have stumbled over someone who gave her endless compliments and recited sonnets by moonlight?

He did look rather adorable though, all crass and cranky and disgruntled. Her fingers itched to tuck a thick tendril behind his ear and after a moment’s hesitation she gave in to the urge. His hair felt soft and rough all at the same time, like a wolf’s pelt. Their gazes locked as her thumb lingered on the curve of his ear, tracing back and forth across the rigid cartilage.

“What are you doing?” he said warily.

“Touching you,” came her simple reply.

“I do not like to be touched,” he growled even though he did nothing to stop her.

“That much is clear. Do you know what time it is?”

Giving her a dark look he swatted her hand away and surged to his feet. Noting the unsteadiness of his legs Clara backed quickly out of the way. Thorncroft’s eyes refocused as he blinked several times, a frown dragging at the corners of his mouth when he lifted his gaze and looked at Clara as though he were seeing her for the very first time.

“You’ve done something to your hair,” he noted.

“Yes,” Clara said, biting back a smile.
Finally
, she thought. Lifting her hand she gently touched the back of her coiffure. Truth be told the three dozen pins it had taken to tame her unruly curls were beginning to make her head ache, but she supposed it was just the price one had to pay for beauty. “Emily helped me. Do you like it?”

“No,” he said bluntly.

“
No
?”

“It’s not… wispy enough,” he said with a vague sweep of his arm. “I liked it better before.”

Clara frowned. “You mean when it was all knotted and tangled?”

“Wild. I liked it when it was wild and I could run my hands through it.” He shifted his body, crowding her back against one of the bookcases. “It was like holding fire in the palm of my hand,” he said huskily as he reached up and pulled one of the pins free. Tossing it carelessly over his shoulder he pulled out another pin, and then another and another until her hair tumbled down around her shoulders in a waterfall of coppery silk. “There. That’s better.”

Clara stared up in him wide-eyed, her chest rising and falling in time with her rapid breaths. “Do you have any idea how long it took for Emily to fashion that coiffure?”

There was a hint of boyish mischief in his gaze as he said, “Longer than it took for me to take it apart, I imagine. You’re a creature of the forest and the sun and the fields, Clara. You do not belong in a drawing room with your hair coiled and your hands covered with gloves and your nose coated with powder instead of dirt.”

Her heart sighed. How could it not when he looked in her eyes and saw her soul? How could she
not
fall helplessly in love with him when he stole the very breath from her lungs?

“Kiss me,” she said impulsively. “Kiss me like you did before in the stream and in the bedroom.”

Thorncroft’s eyes darkened like the sky before an incoming storm. “You do not know what you are asking.”

“I do.” To prove her point she brought her hands up between them and pressed her palms flat against his naked chest. His skin was surprisingly hot to the touch. His muscles hard and tense. She felt the rapid beat of his heart, its rhythm a perfect match for her own. Using her hands for leverage she pushed herself up on her toes until their faces were level. “I know exactly what I am asking. Kiss me, Thorncroft.”

“Andrew,” he said.

A faint line appeared between Clara’s winged brows. “What?”

“My name is Andrew.” And then he kissed her, soft and slow like he had in the stream. His large hands cupped the base of her skull, fingers sliding through her titian curls, protecting her head from the hard edge of the bookshelf.

He moved closer as his tongue traced the seam of her lips, pressing his body against her body, his thighs against her thighs, his stomach against her stomach, his chest against her chest. On a soft, needy sigh she parted her lips and beckoned his tongue in, sampling the tartness of his mouth as he drank in the sweet nectar of hers.

She tasted wine and passion and desire. It surrounded her, drowning out everything else until her only taste was of him. Her only thought was of him. Her only dream was of him.

He changed the angle of the kiss, taking her under to a place of deep sighs and long, sensual, liquid pulls from the most intimate part of her body. When she looped her arms around his neck he picked her up as though she weighed no more than a feather and carried her over to the chaise lounge. His gaze hooded, he laid her back amidst the soft cushions and knelt between her thighs, powerful arms braced on either side of her head. Just as she began to squirm from the intensity of his stare he kissed her again, his mouth still soft, his movements lazy and languid as though they had all the time in the world on their side.

Clara’s eyes drifted closed when she felt his lips begin a gentle descent along the curve of her jaw and down the elegant line of her neck before pausing to suckle at her collarbone, eliciting a breathless sigh from her as he traced the hard ridge of bone with the soft tip of his tongue.

She buried her hands in his thick hair, fingers clenching reflexively around the tousled curls as his head went lower and lower and lower still until she felt his warm breath fan across her breasts. He carefully pulled at her gown, pushing down the sleeves and the heart-shaped bodice until her nipples sprang free, dusky and swollen with arousal.

Her spine arched off the chaise lounge when he kissed one breast and then the other, teasing her nipples with his teeth and his tongue until she was red-faced and panting.

“Do you like it when I taste you like this?” he murmured against her warm, wet flesh.

She nodded her head with so much enthusiasm she felt his husky chuckle vibrate against her skin. Craning her neck she met his gaze and caught a glimpse of herself in the dark reflection of his pupils. She looked wild and wicked, Clara decided with no small amount of pleasure. Just like a woman being properly ravished ought to look.

“And do you like it when I touch you here?” He cupped one breast, supporting the weight of it in the palm of his hand. Clara nodded again. “What about here?” His hand drifted lower, skimming across the flat plane of her abdomen before stopping just above her navel. She nodded once more, albeit more hesitantly this time. “And… what… about… here?” he breathed in her ear as his fingers skimmed to the apex of her thighs and pressed against her pubic bone through the thin layers of her skirt.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I like that very much.”

His fingers began to gently circle and rub, coaxing a soft, breathless mewl from Clara’s lips. She could feel something building inside of her. A pressure she did not have a name for. It grew with every stroke of Thorncroft’s hand. He played her as a musician played a violin, knowing precisely what strings to flick and thrum to elicit the most beautiful music Clara had ever heard.

Her head flung back and forth as the tempo increased and the music roared in her ears, deafening her to everything else save the frantic beating of her own heart. And then the music reached a crescendo and Clara arched into Thorncroft’s hand as something opened inside of her, like the petals of a flower unfurling, leaving her dazed and breathless and oddly content.

After a moment he stretched out beside her, their bodies fitting together like two wooden puzzle pieces clicking into place. He kissed the nape of her neck, murmured something she couldn’t quite hear above the humming in her ears, and began to comb his fingers through her hair, gently untangling the snarls and knots that had formed from tossing her head in wild abandon.

The gentle tugging on her scalp was oddly soothing, as was the steady drum of his heartbeat against her back. On a contented sigh she snuggled against him, curling into the crook of his arm as her lashes fanned out across her cheeks.

“That was lovely,” she murmured drowsily.

Thorncroft did not answer. At least not with his words. He just kept combing her hair until, with another long, blissful sigh, she slipped effortlessly into sleep.

“Let’s go to
the park. It is a beautiful day. How can you possibly stay inside and work when the birds are chirping so loudly?”

Thorncroft glanced up from the papers on his desk to find Clara beaming down at him, her blue eyes as bright as the cloudless sky drifting by outside his window and her smile as wide as the Thames. It took every inch of willpower he possessed not to grin back at her like a love struck fool, but even after employing all of his considerable self-control he couldn’t quite help the corners of his mouth from curving upward. She was simply too damn fetching to resist with her hair all a tumble and her face filled with a glow that rivaled the sun.

“Come here,” he said gruffly, pushing his chair back away from his desk.

Only too happy to oblige Clara skipped around the edge of the desk and perched on his lap, her rounded derriere wiggling between his thighs as her legs kicked up beneath the soft green fabric of her skirts. “You promised,” she reminded him with mocking sternness that was completely overridden when she dipped her head and kissed his cheek. “The day after tomorrow, you said, if it isn’t raining, we can go to the park. Well it is officially the day after tomorrow and I am holding you to your word, good sir.”

“Oh you are, are you?” The impish glint in his gaze was all the warning she had before he took her lips with his own, effectively silencing her with a drugging kiss that left them both breathless and aching for more.

“No,” Clara said decisively when his fingers strayed to the back of her gown and he began to pluck at the tiny pearl buttons that ran the length of her spine. “I will not allow you to distract me this time.
This
time we are going to the park.” Reaching behind her she playfully slapped his hand away. “You promised, Andrew.”

“So I did,” Thorncroft said on a heavy sigh. It was just as well. In the six days that had passed since their afternoon together in the study he had managed to limit himself to kisses and fondling, but he knew it would take just a moment of weakness to send him plunging over an edge from which there would be no return.

Clara, for all her delightful enthusiasm when it came to matters of the bedroom, was still a virgin and he intended to keep her that way until he either let her go… or made her his wife. Were he anyone but who he was he would have put her in a carriage and made all haste to Gretna Green, but if there was one thing a duke could not do it was marry recklessly.

At least if they were in a public setting he would be forced to be on his best behavior and keep his hands to himself.

For the most part.

“Are you ready to go now?” he asked.

“Yes!” Beaming ear to ear Clara off his lap and raced to the door like an eager puppy wanting to go out. “I only need to put on some shoes.”

“And a hat. I don’t want your face to be burned.”

“And a hat,” she said agreeably. “Do you want to walk to the park or should we take a carriage? Oh, let’s walk! It really is a beautiful day.”

“So I see,” he said, glancing out the window.

Clara rolled her eyes. “Seeing something and
feeling
something are two entirely different things.”

Though he would never admit as much out loud, Thorncroft could not agree more. The way he felt when Clara was with him was unlike anything else he had ever experienced before. After struggling to come to terms with the lingering endearment he still had for Katherine and the rapidly growing affection he had for Clara he’d decided that loving one woman did not mean he could not love another. Feeling something for Clara did not diminish what he’d felt for Katherine.

He would always love his wife. She had borne him his son and for that – and for everything else she had given him during their short time together – he would be forever grateful. To honor her, to the honor the commitment they’d shared and the vows they’d spoken, he owed it to himself – to
both
of them – to find happiness again.

Thorncroft had thought that by bringing misery upon himself he was somehow atoning for their deaths. But no amount of misery could bring them back to him. He had learned that the hard way. They were gone, taken before they had a right to be, and a piece of his heart would always remain with them. As for the rest of his heart… It now belonged to someone else. Someone who brought joy with her wherever she went. Someone whose laughter always lifted his spirits. Someone whose unique way of looking at the world had forced him to look at himself… and made him realize he did not like the reflection glaring back.

She had brought him the sun, he thought as he watched her flounce from the room, her infectious laugh echoing down the hallway. And the shine of it had never been brighter.

Following at a slower pace, Thorncroft’s grin spread ear to ear as he slid on his waistcoat and retied his cravat. It attracted the attention of his butler, enough to cause the older man to frown and ask his master if he was feeling well.

“Never better Edwards,” Thorncroft replied. “Never better. Can you have the phaeton brought round? Miss Witherspoon and I are going for a ride in the park.”

“A – A ride in the park, Your Grace? In the middle of the day?”

“Yes.” Never taking his eyes off Clara as she chatted enthusiastically with her friend Poppy (after two days of searching his man had managed to track the maid to an inn one mile south of London and not a minute too soon as she’d been abandoned by the driver and stranded without a single shilling to her name) he held out one arm and then the other so Edwards could fit him with a sleek black tailcoat.  “Does that surprise you?”

The butler’s gaze slid from Thorncroft to Clara and back again. “It would have a week ago, Your Grace.”

“And now?” Thorncroft asked.

“Might I speak frankly?”

“Of course.”

“I have found since Miss Witherspoon’s arrival nothing surprises me anymore.”

His answer pleased Thorncroft more than he could say. “She is a light, isn’t she Edwards?”

“A light, Your Grace?” The butler frowned in confusion.

“A light,” Thorncroft confirmed. “Shining down on all of us. Makes one wonder how we saw anything before she arrived, does it not?”

“It does indeed Your Grace,” Edwards murmured. “It does indeed.”

Clara had never
been in a phaeton before and she could not help but marvel at its speed. Clutching tight to Thorncroft’s arm as they raced through the park she screeched with delight – and just a little fear – as the two wheeled carriage whipped around the winding curves in the road, going so fast it was a wonder of aerodynamics that it didn’t tip over onto its side.

She sat up a bit straighter in her seat, enjoying the rush of the wind as it blew past her face and caught in her hair. Were it the height of the Season they never would have been able to go so fast or drive so recklessly for the roads and footpaths would have been gridlocked with a myriad of carriages and riders and pedestrians. In the middle of the summer, however, Hyde Park was all but empty for everyone who was anyone had long since retreated to the comfort of their countryside manors.

If Clara were honest with herself she would be forced to admit that she did miss Windmere. Thorncroft’s home was lovely, there was no doubt about it, and since her arrival she had wanted for nothing. But she missed Agnes, and Mr. Plum, and being able to walk outside and see nothing but fields and forest for miles and miles.

London had its charms, to be sure. It truly was a beautiful city if one only took the time to look past the dirt and the grime and see the elegance in its architecture. But it was also busy and loud and unfamiliar. Were it not for Thorncroft she would have turned on her heel and fled back to Windmere the very night she arrived, fiancé or no fiancé. For Clara now knew one thing for certain: she was
not
going to marry Mr. Ingle and it turned her stomach to think that had things happened a little differently she very well might have.

How foolish she’d been to even entertain the idea! Foolish and naïve and cowardly. She should have stood her ground, but as always her stepmother had known precisely where to twist the knife and cut her where it hurt the most. If she only had herself to think about then she would have gladly suffered for the sake of her own freedom, but she could never live with herself if her actions put Agnes or Poppy at risk.

And yet how could she go through with marrying a man she did not love when she had finally found one she did? It was a conundrum, to be sure. One that Clara was no closer to solving than she had been eight days ago. She knew she would have to tell Thorncroft eventually, but she was afraid if she did it would burst the bubble they’d been living in. A bubble filled with love and light and laughter. A bubble that held no place for unwanted fiancés and wicked stepmothers and evil stepsisters. A bubble that kept them isolated from the outside world with all of its pitfalls and problems and hard truths.

Were Clara a practical sort of person she might have questioned Thorncroft’s intentions with her. After all, he had not promised her anything. And their current situation was, to put it lightly, quite unusual. Not to mention one that could have serious social consequences were anyone to discover she was, for all intents and purposes, living under the same roof as an unmarried – and very eligible – bachelor. But despite all of that she knew he loved her. Or at the very least he was
falling
in love with her. Perhaps he hadn’t yet landed in a bed of dreams and rose petals as she had, but she’d witnessed his love in countless other little ways.

It was the way he looked at her.

It was the way he touched her.

It was the way he spoke her name.

Something had changed inside of him since the first time they met. Clara did not have a name for the change or even an explanation, but she felt it just the same.

It was a softening. A growing. A sort of letting go. He was a different man than the one he’d been before. Not in appearance. Not even in demeanor. But deep down where it counted, he was different. And she loved him all the more for it.

“There!” she cried, standing up halfway out of her seat as she spotted a glimmer of blue through the trees. “There it is!”

Cursing under his breath Thorncroft switched the reins to one hand and used the other to scoop Clara in tight against his side. “You little fool,” he said with great affection and just a tiny, nearly imperceptible hint of fear. “You cannot stand up in a phaeton. You’ll break your neck.” He whistled to his horse, signaling for the lathered bay to drop out of its canter before gently applying pressure on the reins. With a snort the horse took a few prancing steps of trot before settling down into a slow, leisurely walk that carried the phaeton to the edge of the pond Clara had spied. Small and secluded, it was separated from the rest of the park by a thick circle of trees and underbrush, giving it the illusion of their own private oasis.

Ducks swimming leisurely by in the glimmering water perked their heads with interest as Thorncroft helped Clara down from the carriage before tying the horse to a nearby tree and loosening the harness.

“Do you have the breadcrumbs?” she asked, nearly bouncing up and down in her excitement to feed the ducks. When Thorncroft had casually mentioned that Hyde Park was only a short ride from his residence she’d made him promise to take her as soon as the skies cleared. After nearly a week spent inside – mostly because of rain and a little bit because Thorncroft was an extraordinarily busy man – she was itching to feel the grass beneath her toes and the sun on her face.

“Here you are,” he said dryly, pulling out a crinkled paper sack from the pocket of his waistcoat. “What do you want me to do with everything else?”

After she’d gotten his promise to take her to the park, Clara had devised an entire afternoon filled with activities including a picnic lunch, something she had not done since she was a child. With the cook’s help she had packed a large wicker basket to the gills with thick slices of roasted beef, hunks of cheese, warm bread, fresh fruit, and an orange marmalade spread that she knew Thorncroft was partial to. A smaller basket held a bottle of wine cushioned by a large blue and white checkered blanket.

“Find a shady spot and set everything out on the blanket,” she said before she grabbed the paper sack of breadcrumbs, gave him a quick kiss, and dashed over to the edge of the pond. Quickly kicking off her shoes and stockings and tying up the hem of her skirt so it hovered at mid-calf she waded fearlessly into the warm water.

The bottom of the pond was a mixture of sand and pebbles, giving her a sturdy base to stand on while she waited for the ducks to approach. They came in a feathered rush, their webbed feet making tiny waves as they rushed to be the first one to the breadcrumbs. With a delighted laugh Clara threw out handful after handful until the brown paper sack was empty.

“I am very sorry,” she apologized when the ducks had gobbled up all of the crumbs and were looking up at her for more. “That is all I’ve brought with me. If there is anything left over from the picnic I will be sure to let you know.”

Wading back to the shore she left her shoes and stockings where they were and raced across the grass to where Thorncroft was lounging on the blanket under the shade of a large elm tree. He sat up on his elbows as she approached, a lazy grin lifting his mouth to the side.