“You beast,” she charged.
He ignored her, walking on with a calm he did not feel. Did she suppose he was not good enough to carry her precious heir? That his bastard hands would somehow tarnish the lad? Or did she loathe him so much she would fight him at every turn regardless of the cause?
It little mattered, for she was not a conundrum upon which he should waste his focus or time. His presence at Burghly House had nothing to do with their painful past, nor anything to do with her current opinion of him. Indeed, if she despised him, all the better for his cause and peace of mind. He could not be distracted by her.
The Fenian menace was poised to once more strike. And Clay would be damned if he allowed anything to happen to the lad sleeping trustingly in his arms. That was where his thoughts needed to lie—with the protection of the duchess and the young duke. Nowhere—absolutelynowhere—else.
“I will be speaking to the Duke of Carlisle about this,” came her threat as he held the boy with one hand and opened the nursery door with the other before stepping inside.
“You do that, madam,” he said grimly, for he knew it would not do one whit of good.
His brother and the Home Office had decided he was to be the guard placed at Burghly house, and so he would be. Leo treated him as an equal. They had grown up in the same home, shared tutors, bonded as true brothers. But duty always took precedence for Leo.
The child’s hapless governess appeared then, wide-eyed, hands flurrying in agitation. “You have found His Grace! Oh, thank you, Mr. Ludlow. Where was the naughty boy hiding?”
He lowered the lad to his bed with care before straightening to his full height and pinning the domestic with a glare. “He was hiding in my chamber. This is not the first time His Grace has gone missing, Miss Argent. One has to wonder whether the lad has an affinity for disappearing or if you are deficient in your duties.”
Miss Argent gawped at him. Perhaps his plain speaking surprised her. He did not care. The woman had smelled of spirits on at least one occasion, and her propensity for losing her charge was hardly promising. If she were directly in his employ, he would have given her the sack well before now.
“Thank you, Mr. Ludlow,” Ara said pointedly. Coldly.
He turned from the sleeping lad back to her. Her fiery hair had never been more at odds with her icy demeanor. How pale she was. How small. How elegant. How regally beautiful. The Ara he had once known had always been beautifully imperfect, her hair cascading halfway down her back, her hem torn or muddied, a spot of mud on her cheek.
The duchess she had become was almost frightening in her effortless perfection. Her hair was ever elaborately coiffed, nary a lock out of place. Her silk gowns, though fashioned for mourning, were the first stare of fashion, never even a loose thread to be seen. Nor would she ever deign to allow herself to become dirty.
She was dismissing him, he realized.
“I will speak with you in the morning, Your Grace,” he returned. “Over breakfast, just as you suggested.”
She frowned. “I suggested nothing of the—”
“Until tomorrow, Your Grace,” he interrupted with a deep, mocking bow. “Miss Argent.”
Stifling the torrent of emotion unleashing itself inside him, he quit the chamber, leaving Ara to handle her ineffectual servant. On the morrow, he would address his concerns regarding the governess. Until then, he needed to find his bed and some sleep of his own, if it would claim him.
More often than not, it never did.
Chapter Eight
Ara had notbeen prepared for the sight of Clay holding her son—his son,their son—in his arms. The large, hulking figure carting about a smaller version of himself had taken her breath. For the first time since Edward’s birth, his father had held him. And he had not carried him with a stiffness of bearing as she had supposed he might, as though Edward was a weight he did not wish to bear.
Of course he had not.
Instead, Clay had carried Edward as if he was precious.
As she went about her morning toilette the next day, watching her lady’s maid brush her hair into a semblance of order in the looking glass, she could still recall the sight of his immense hand stroking Edward’s back.
Lovingly.
No.
Not lovingly, for Clay did not know. He could never, ever know.
You are like a butterfly flitting about the head of a lion, madam.
His vicious words returned to her. Yes, perhaps she was. Yesterday, she had realized once more just how truly dangerous it was to have Clayton Ludlow beneath the same roof as she and their son. He was an intelligent, perceptive man. How long would it be before he began to make connections between Edward’s age and his dark hair and tall, lanky body? How long would it be before he saw himself in the son he did not know he had?
Your fault, whispered a voice inside her.It is your fault he does not know he has a son. You denied him the right.
