No longer.
Here he stood looking down upon the ghost of the girl he had loved, a vast, gaping chasm of emptiness threatening to consume him. He released her wrist. Took a step back from her because it was necessary. He feared he could not control himself where she was concerned here in this moment, with the tension and the pain of the past vibrating around them.
“Do not dare to attempt to strike me again, madam,” he seethed. “And do not keep your back to the door. From this moment forward, you will trust no one. Assume everyone wishes you ill, myself included. Though it grieves me to say it, if you wish to survive until the bastards behind your husband’s death are caught and clapped into gaol, you need me here. The Home Office has decreed it, and it is my duty to remain. That is why I am here. The very instant the danger has passed you, I will be gone from your life forever, and that is one vow I can promise you I will uphold above all others.”
He did not wait for her to speak, for he could not bear to hear another word. With a curt, mocking bow, he took his leave of her for the second time. He could only hope the Fenians who had murdered Burghly would be caught.
Soon.
Chapter Four
Eight years earlier
His name wasClayton.
Ara had tried it out on her tongue in the privacy of her chamber. She had written it on her sketchbook in charcoal. She had penned it into the margins of her journal as if it were the lyrics to a favorite hymn. Over and over again, small and neat, large and dramatic, sometimes with a flourish, sometimes accompanied by a heart. What silly doodles. What foolishness.
She was old enough, wise enough, to know her heart could not possibly love him already after having met with him in secret each day for the last fortnight. And yet, she could not stifle the emotion bubbling up inside her, like a kettle filled to the brim upon a hot stove.
Shewas boiling. Threatening to overflow. He was all she could think about. His name, his face, his hands. They were so large, the fingers so long and thick and handsome. Could fingers be handsome? Yes, she decided, they could. For if anyone had a question regarding such a notion, they had only to look upon Clayton’s hands.
They were lovely and gentle, sculpted perfection. Capable of anything really, but most of all tenderness. Though he had not touched her with them, she had lain awake at night in the loneliness of her chamber and imagined those strong, masculine hands upon her. Lifting her nightdress. Skimming over her ankles and calves. Caressing her in the place only she had dared trespass upon, though she knew how wicked it was.
But if it was wicked, why did it feel so lovely and pure and good? This was ever a conundrum in Ara’s mind, one she had put to her mother. Mama had blanched and urged her to never again speak of such a despicable thing.
And so, Ara had learned her lesson. She would never again ask her mother about such matters. Instead, she would enjoydespicable thingswithout worrying about the rightness or wrongness of them. For indeed, no gentleman had ever made her feel so manydespicable thingsas Clayton.
She felt them now as she allowed her mind to wander to him while she awaited his presence in their appointed meeting place. He was so strong. His lips were beautiful, as was his smile. What would they feel like against hers? Would he dare to kiss her? Would she dare to let him if he did? He had been a perfect gentleman upon each of their clandestine meetings. Nothing he had said or done had suggested his heart beat for her in the same fashion hers did for him.
But she liked to believe they had an unspoken bond. An understanding.
From the moment he had come upon her in the forest that day, they had spoken to each other with a candor and an ease she had never known. She was one-and-twenty years of age. She had taken her curtsy at court, had experienced her comeout. She had been courted by suitors who inspired not even a flutter in her belly or a pounding in her heart. Nothing and no one compared to Clayton.
Or, as she had begun to think of him recently when she was mooning over him in the privacy of her chamber each night,Clay. Yes, that was the perfect name for him. Far more suiting than the rigid and overbearing Clayton.
She tried her new sobriquet for him in the welcoming shade of the forest. “Clay.” A dreamy sigh escaped her as she waited, hoping he would return as he had promised he would.
It had been fourteen days since he had discovered her watching him in the forest. Fourteen days since they had spoken for the first time. Fourteen days since everything had changed.
“Lady Araminta.”
With a squeal of surprise, she spun about to find him, her beautiful man. She had not heard him approach, but she had learned in the short time they had known each other Clay was adept at being stealthy. If he wished to be heard, he would be. If he chose to remain elusive, no one would have an inkling he had approached.
Heat rushed to her cheeks as she realized he must have seen her pacing about, sighing his name to herself as if she were a young girl who had just seen her first gentleman.
“Call me Ara if you please,” she corrected him, furrowing her brow. “It suits me ever so much better. If only I could convince my family of the same. They seem to enjoy making light of my irritation.”
Oh, Lord.She was rambling again. Saying too much, allowing her inner nervousness to surpass her poise and grace. He came nearer to her, handsome in a way that was almost reminiscent of nature itself. He was rugged and beautiful, raw and angular, a force.
“Ara.” He smiled then, striding forward. His teeth were even and neat.
She wanted to kiss him. Or for him to kiss her. Anything, any action on either of their parts that resulted in their mouths fusing would be lovely. It would be enough to change her world forever, she was sure of it.
And, she hoped, to change his as well.
They were meant to be together, the two of them. She knew this with the kind of certainty that told her the sun would rise each day. She felt it deep in her heart, in her bones. In her soul.
“I do like the way you say my name,” she whispered, watching with wide eyes as he stopped only when his boots brushed her skirts.
