If only she could shake him.
Chapter Nine
Stripped to thewaist and covered in sweat, his body aching from the blows he had received, Clay stood in the center of the Burghly House ballroom, facing his next sparring partner. Beauchamps was the fourth man he had faced and defeated this afternoon. Here now was Farleigh, who at least matched Clay in height and brawn, if not in agility. He doubted the fellow would produce much of a challenge, but if it meant more of the distraction he craved, he was willing to give it a bloody try.
He and Farleigh squared off, facing each other, fists raised.
“Are you not growing weary, sir?” Farleigh asked, grinning.
“I never tire,” he lied, feinting to his left, fists at the ready. Brilliant attempt at diversion, but his senses were honed upon one thing. “I need to make certain my men are always at the ready.”
He often sparred for the rush it gave him and for the manner in which it kept his instincts honed. Today’s spate of bouts had less to do with training his men than his own need for a productive manner to occupy his day. Something to keep him from hunting down the Duchess of Burghly and taking what she had been offering that morning.
Damn it, he could still feel the soft warmth of her lips on his skin as if she had branded him.
Farleigh landed a blow to his shoulder. Clay grunted, doubled back, and attacked, knocking him in the jaw. Just a glancing blow. Not enough to do harm. Sparring with his men was of no use to him if any of them were actually injured. It was more for the sport, for the excuse to unleash their bloodlust, to keep them sharp and hungry.
Farleigh gritted his teeth. “Is that all you have to give me, sir?”
No, it damn well was not. He had rage in him that was clawing and fighting to be unleashed. Years’ worth of anger for the same woman who had just all but seduced him in her chamber. In the bed she had shared with her husband.
The thought of the Duke of Burghly bedding Ara, claiming her, losing himself inside her body, made Clay want to smash his fists into something. Anything. Anyone. He watched his opponent, looking for a sign of weakness. With a lunge, he took Farleigh by surprise and jabbed him in the midsection.
The breath left Farleigh in a rush, but he did not give in to defeat, instead catching his breath and regaining his stance before striking back. His fist would have smashed into Clay’s eye socket had he not been faster. With a lightning-swift blow, he deflected Farleigh’s wrist.
“Is that allyouhave?” he returned mockingly.
“What in heaven’s name is going on in here?” demanded a husky voice dipped in ice.
A voice he knew too well. The one that haunted his thoughts, waking and sleeping. He glanced over his shoulder to find Ara standing at the threshold of the ballroom like an angry goddess. Her hair was a fiery riot in contrast to her prim black mourning weeds, her face pale, brow furrowed. How was she so damn alluring, even in her disapproval, even dressed as if she were an advertisement for the love she had shared with her dead husband?
The thought made his lip curl. In the next breath, Farleigh took advantage of his distraction, his fist crashing into Clay’s jaw with a surprising amount of force.
Pain exploded, radiating from his jaw to his molars. Black specks dotted his vision. Had he been a smaller man, Farleigh would have easily laid him low with such a punch. But it was good. He needed the reminder. Perhaps now his mind and his bloody foolish body would forever equate the sight of her with a blow so hard it rattled his teeth. Maybe he could train himself to be impervious to her.
“Sorry, sir, was that a bit too hard?” Farleigh’s voice reached him through the haze clouding his mind in the wake of the initial shock of the blow. “I have never been able to land a blow to your face before. You are far too skilled, and I did not realize you were distracted by the lady.”
Rubbing his jaw, he muttered the vilest, filthiest curse he knew, but it did no good, and his jaw still throbbed with an unmerciful intensity. “Her Grace,” he corrected Farleigh. After all, she had all but destroyed Clay so she could bear her title. May as well allow her to wallow in it now. She had wasted no time in throwing it before him like a gauntlet. “And no harm done, Farleigh. I think.”
Wryly, he tested his teeth to make certain none had been knocked loose as she approached in a swirl of indignant midnight silk. She stood before him, eyes flashing. An errant tendril of hair had escaped her elegant coils and braids, brushing over her cheek.
Blue-violet eyes scorched him. “What is the meaning of this outrage, Mr. Ludlow?”
Odd choice of word in his opinion. An outrage was the woman he loved betraying him. An outrage was what had happened to his face. An outrage was the fact that he was now saddled with the unwanted burden of her.
But they had an audience, and so he flicked a glance at Farleigh. “You may return to your post. We will continue this match again another day.”
“Of course, sir.” Farleigh bowed and took his leave in a haste likely borne of the combination of the blow he had landed to his superior and the dudgeon the Duchess of Burghly was in.
Clay could not blame the chap. Still rubbing his smarting jaw, he returned his attention to her after the door had fallen quietly closed. “What do you want, Duchess?”
He was curt, but he did not give a damn. He had been in the devil of a mood ever since that morning. Ever since she had pressed her lips to his skin as if he was a sin she could not resist and had kissed him. If it had been one kiss, he could have been able to ascribe it to gratitude or confusion from the fit she had suffered. But it had been more than one. Eight to be precise. He had counted.
She stared at him for a moment, chest heaving, and he swore he could see in her eyes—the large, dark pupils growing round—the memory of their last encounter. But then she stiffened her shoulders like a woman going into battle and sailed forth. “What I want is an explanation for my ballroom being turned into a pugilist club. You may be staying at Burghly House as a guest, but that does not give you leave to commandeer an entire chamber for your savagery.”
His savagery, was it?
The laugh that tore from his lips was bitter and dark. “Is that what I am to you, Your Grace? A savage? An animal?”
