With the same cagey finesse he had displayed during his sparring match, he spun around to face her, his expression thunderous. His handsome face was all sharp angles and harsh edges. His dark eyes blazed. The angry scar bisecting his cheek was pulled taut. “Strike me.”
The two stark words were not what she had expected.
She dashed at the tears blurring her vision, swiped the wet trails from her cheeks, and stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“You hate me,” he said calmly, as if he didn’t stand before her with his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a distracting swath of his huge chest. As if she had not just leapt upon his back like a feral cat. “Perhaps it would do you good to relieve some of your anger, Your Grace. Your husband was murdered. You are at the mercy of a vicious band of killers who would make you their next victim. And now here I am, the bastard who once dared to defile you with my touch. Slap me. Punch me. Kick me. I care not. I will not feel it anyway.”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I cannot do that.”
“Assuage your guilt, madam.” He took her hand in his, closing his fingers over hers and exerting enough pressure to force her to make a fist. “I will show you how to hit. You would do well to know how to defend yourself.”
His hand over hers, warm and large and familiar in a way that made her ache, was almost her undoing. “I do not want to hit you, Mr. Ludlow.”
“Yes, you do.” His lips quirked into a derisive half grin. “Else you would not have leapt on my back. You hate me, do you not?”
No. She did not hate him at all.
She wanted to hate him. Needed to hate him.
But all she truly wanted to do was kiss him.Dear God. This could not be happening.Her lips parted. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. The air seemed to catch fire around her. Or mayhap it was just Clay. Resisting him was so much easier when he did not touch her. When he was not half disrobed before her.
She tried to respond. Nothing emerged from her. Not a whisper of sound.
“Say something, Duchess.”
How she wished he would call her Ara again. Her name in his sinful voice was enough to melt her. “I…”
“Mama?”
That small voice, so familiar and beloved, turned the forbidden passion swirling through her into ice. Tugging her hand from Clay’s grasp, she whirled about to find her son had entered the ballroom without her even hearing the door click open. He stood, hesitant and small at the threshold, sending a questioning glance between her and Clay.
He looked so much like his father, wearing a serious expression, lanky and dark-haired and far too tall for his age. Why, he was only seven years old, and it would not be long before he was taller than she.
“Edward,” she said, rushing toward her son. Rushing away from Clay and the unwanted way he made her feel. “Why are you not with Miss Argent?”
“You told me you would read with me this afternoon,” he said, frowning at her.
So she had. What was the time? Somehow, in the whirlwind of the day, she had lost her wits. She was not ordinarily so distracted. This she blamed upon Clayton Ludlow as well. “Of course I did, and we shall do that. What would you like to read, darling? More ofAlice’s Adventures in Wonderland?”
But her son, an intelligent boy, was not so easily distracted. “Mama, why does Mr. Ludlow want you to hit him?”
She blinked, grateful he had apparently not entered the room in time to see her full ignominy as she pounced upon Clay’s back as if she were no better than a wild animal. Her cheeks went hot. What was wrong with her? She had a reputation to maintain. She was a widow. She had a child. She could not allow herself to become ensnared in the same madness she had once fallen headlong into with Clay.
“I wish to teach the duchess to defend herself, Your Grace,” came the low rumble of his voice behind her before she could answer.
“Because of the bad men who killed my father?” Edward asked.
The bad men? Her heart froze. She had not spoken to her son of the circumstances surrounding Freddie’s death. What use had a child for such information? It would only haunt him, give him nightmares, and fill him with more fright than he already possessed.
“No,” Ara denied hastily.
“Aye,” Clay said, hunkering down before her son and meeting him at eye level. “Because of the bad men. It is best to be prepared, Duke. It is my duty here to keep you and your mama safe, and part of keeping her safe means showing her how to fight off anyone who would wish to do her harm.”
That was not what he had been about with his little demonstration. Or was it? Had she read too much into his actions and his words? Did her proximity to him rob her of the ability to conduct coherent thought?
Either way, it mattered not, for she did not wish Edward to know anything more about what had befallen Freddie than necessary. There need be no talk of dangerous men or killers or her defending herself. How dare Clay reveal such damning information to her son? It was not his place.
Her lips tightened. “Mr. Ludlow, that is more than enough of troubling thoughts. Edward, we ought to adjourn to the library so we can continue our reading.”
