With a hiss, he yanked his mouth from hers, his breath leaving him in harsh pants as he stared down at her. Her eyes were huge, pools of violet-blue he could easily drown in, her mouth slack, swollen from his kisses. Everything in him screamed to lay her down upon the soft blanket of the moss on the forest floor and take her.
But he could not. She was too precious to him. She was too perfect and good and innocent, and if there was one thing he would not do,by God, was ruin her.
“I will court you,” he bit out, curling his hands into fists to keep himself from hauling her back into his chest and kissing her into oblivion once more. “Tomorrow. If you are certain I will be welcome?”
She gave him the most glorious smile he had ever seen. “I have never been more certain of anything in all my life. Thank you, Clay. You will not regret it, I promise!”
He hoped to hell she was right, and he would not come to regret this day. More importantly, that he would not come to regret losing his heart to a woman he knew would almost certainly never be his. He tucked her book into his coat, settling it over his heart.
Chapter Seven
For the secondtime in as many days, Clay encountered the young duke cuddling his cat. This time, it was late evening, and Clay had been returning to his apartments after a long day of making certain there were no weaknesses at Burghly House that could be exploited by the villains determined to do harm to Ara. Just as before, he had not even been aware that the young lad was missing from the place where he was meant to be—sleeping soundly in his chamber at this time of night.
Clay stopped and stared at the sight of the lad sleeping on his bed alongside Sherman. Both dozed peacefully, and despite the intrusion in his personal space and his irritation with the governess who was charged with his welfare, warmth seeped into Clay’s heart once more.
Damn it all, he did not want to feel this weakness for Ara’s son, the tender feeling, as if the young duke could grow upon him much the same way his cat had: at first always underfoot and then beloved. He did not want to like the boy at all. The lad was a symbol—more than Burghly House, more than referring to Ara asYour Grace—of the world she had built without him. A world of liveried servants and a St. James’s Square address, of Worth gowns and balls and routs and fêtes. A world he, simple Clayton Ludlow, who had been raised as a duke’s son but who would forever be a mere duke’s bastard, could never have given her.
She would have been plain Mrs. Clayton Ludlow. Would she have borne him a son as well? For a moment, the odd notion struck him that if Arahadgiven him a son, he would have looked rather a great deal like the lad. Dark-haired and lanky as Clay had been until he had grown into his body. Awkward and quiet as Clay too had been. With a good heart. A tender heart.
Hell no, he thought again, he did not want to like the boy.
Indeed, he wanted to dislike him on account of who his sire was—the man who had taken Clay’s place. To say nothing of who the lad’s mother was—the woman who had heartlessly betrayed him.
But he could not stop the feeling as he gazed upon the innocently sleeping form, the boy’s gawky body curled into a ball as if to protect himself and the white and black cat he cuddled against an unseen menace. Sadly, the menace was real. More real than the lad could possibly know.
And neither a stripling nor a feline could diminish it. But that was a concern for another time. For the moment, the lad was safe, thank the Lord, and he had not been swept away by some unknown Fenian menace whilst Clay had been otherwise occupied. He remained as he was for another beat, watching Ara’s soundly sleeping son.
He found himself moving across his chamber, reaching for a spare coverlet and draping it over the boy, taking care to leave Sherman uncovered as the cat did not care for it. Neither the lad nor the feline stirred.
Satisfied of the lad’s comfort and safety, he went in search of his mother or governess, whichever he could find first.
He had not far to roam, for a whirlwind of raven skirts collided with him just outside his apartments. Instinctively, his hands settled upon her waist, steadying her as her palms flew to his chest.
The lad’s mother it was, then.
Bloody hell, the connection of their bodies, albeit innocent, was enough to rouse the old demons within him. He had not stopped wanting her, it seemed. His cockstand gave painful testimony to that fact, straining against his trousers after no more provocation than her waist beneath his grip and her hands upon his chest. But her waist was perfectly curved. And her lips were so lush and full, begging for a kiss. And she was so beautiful it hurt.
Wide, vibrant eyes settled upon his, sending a jolt through his veins. “Mr. Ludlow,” she said, her tone rife with starch. “You are far too familiar with my person, sir.”
She sounded like his mother offering him a scold.
His mother had not dared to berate him in at least fifteen years. This woman—this beautiful, feminine creature staring up at him—was an asp fashioned in a goddess’s mold.
The heat in his veins turned to ice. He set her away from him as if she were an inferno and he feared getting burned. Because that was precisely what she was to him. Ruination. Destruction. His only regret.
Collecting himself and willing his erection to abate, he allowed his hands to drop to his sides and fashioned his face an impassive mask. “Your Grace, by any chance, are you searching for your son?”
The last two words tasted bitter on his tongue, the reminder of what could have been. He forced it all from his mind. He was here to perform a duty. To keep the duchess and the young duke safe until the dangers of the Fenian menace had blown past like a thundercloud on a summer day. And he could only hope it would, sending him speedily on to his next assignment.
So he could forget the bewitching blue-violet of her eyes and the fire of her hair and pink softness of her lips.
“Edward,” she breathed as if it were a sacred word. “Of course I am looking for him! He was not in his bed when I went to bid him goodnight, and his governess has no inkling of where he can be. Have you found him? Is he…safe?”
Despite their history and the way he felt toward her, he hated that she had to think, even for a moment, something ill may have befallen her innocent son. That the actions of some faceless villain who thought he could solve his homeland’s problems by slaughtering innocents could impact this mother in her very home enraged him.
He stared down into her arresting face, calming his rage as he crafted a careful response. “Yes. He is sleeping within my chamber.”
She inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring, her wide lips tightening with disapproval. “Your chamber, Mr. Ludlow?”
