She wanted more.
“I like the way you say mine.” He touched her chin then. Just a small, brief caress.
And she melted. “Clay. Won’t you kiss me?”
He shook his head, his dark regard growing intent. “I would not presume to take such a liberty, nor am I fit to do so. You deserve far better than a lowly man such as me. You deserve everything, in fact. All the stars and the moon, the sun, every flower, every diamond, each ruby. Were it in my power, I would give you all those things.”
The ferocity in his tone struck her heart. “I do not want those things, Clay. All I want is you.”
And your heart. Please, please, say it can be mine.
He exhaled, the sound harsh. “You do not even know me, my lady.”
But of course, she knew him. They had shared a great deal about each other these last two weeks. He liked to read poetry best. He was a talented rider. Hunting had never appealed to him. His favorite color was copper, like her hair. He did not enjoy sweets, though he could not resist fruit, especially pineapples. He had one brother.
“I know you,” she argued, daring to reach up and cup his whisker-roughened cheek. “Moreover, it would not be taking a liberty if I give my approval.”
He shook his head, shrugging away from her touch and putting some space between them. “What you ask is impossible. I am not who you think me.”
She frowned, following him, confounded by his sudden withdrawal. “You are Lord Clayton, the Duke of Carlisle’s son. I have already told you I do not give a fig about the feud between our fathers. Their old enmity belongs to them and not us. We cannot allow it to ruin our friendship.”
Or—she dared hope—their courtship.
Clay’s father the duke owned the lands bordering her father’s estate, but for reasons her father refused to divulge, the two men detested each other. The quarrel was the reason for the reticence she sensed in Clay from time to time, she was sure.
“I am not Lord Clayton,” he bit out grimly, plucking the hat from atop his head and flinging it to the forest floor.
A trickle of unease licked down her spine. It occurred to her for the first time that perhaps he had lied about his identity. Mayhap he was a groomsman or a steward for the Duke of Carlisle. She would not have known the difference, having never been introduced to any of the duke’s household. He could have led her along quite easily. And she had lapped up every word he spoke like an eager little kitten. Because she had lost her heart to him somewhere along the last fortnight of furtive meetings.
Her every day revolved around when she could sneak away and what subterfuge she might employ so she could see him once again. She passed the hours from their goodbye to the moment she saw him again filled with desperate longing.
She touched his coat sleeve, needing to feel his reassuring strength and warmth. “Have you deceived me, then?”
If he had, she did not care. It did not matter to her who he was. She would forgive him. She would find a way to be with him. For now that she had known him, she could not fathom her life without him in it. They were like two halves coming together to form the perfect whole.
He stiffened but did not move away from her this time. His countenance was hard and harsh, so different from the young gentleman she had come to know. “I am Clayton Ludlow.”
She blinked, her brow furrowing. “I am afraid I do not understand, Clay. That is precisely how you introduced yourself on the first day we met.”
“I am a bastard,” he bit out, the words emerging like a feral roar, torn from him, it seemed. “Specifically, I am the duke’s bastard. Not a lord. NotLord Clayton. I will never be a lord. Nor will I ever be truly welcomed in drawing rooms or ballrooms. There will not come a day when those who see me do not look upon me with scorn, knowing I am the product of sin.”
His revelation took her breath. But not because of who or what he was. Rather, because of the resigned manner in which he disparaged himself. It was as if he believed he was a monster to be shunned. That he was unfit, lesser than because his father had not married his mother. He could not help the circumstances of his birth. Tears welled in her eyes, unshed. For him. For the burden he had borne his whole life, the burden he would always carry.
“Clay, it does not signify,” she began, but he cut her off.
“Yes, it bloody well does,” he hissed, raking those long, beautiful fingers through his rich, dark hair until it stood on end. “I was wrong. So damned wrong to allow this to carry on for as long as I did. I should not even have besmirched your reputation by speaking with you. I do not know what I could have been thinking. You must not—we cannot—associate with each other any longer. I am so sorry, Ara, but this has to be goodbye. It must be goodbye for us.”
“No.” She launched herself at him then, without a second thought. Without a moment of hesitation. Straight into his chest she went, her arms looping around his lean waist and holding tight. She breathed in his delicious scent. His heart thrummed.
“Ara, release me,” he growled, tugging at her arms in an attempt to dislodge her.
“No,” she repeated into his coat, turning her face until her ear rested above that reassuring thump. She locked her arms tighter. “Never.”
He caught her elbows and pulled. “This is not proper, and if the earl were to discover I have been meeting with you in secret, he would have my hide and you would be ruined. We need to forget we ever met. I am not for you, and you are far too good for the likes of me.”
“You cannot say that,” she cried with feeling, still holding on to him with all her might. “I will never, ever forget you. I do not care if you are not Lord Clay. I have never wished to be a lady anyway. All I want is to be happy.”
Mama was a countess, and she was not happy. Rosamunde had become a countess as well, and each time Ara saw her, the grooves of sadness alongside her eyes had grown deeper. Titles and wealth and comfort did not make a contented heart.
