And she deserved an answer.
She knocked with greater conviction.
The door swung open, and a silver-haired butler frowned down at her. “How may I help you?”
“I am here to see Mr. Ludlow,” she announced, as if she were not likely bedraggled from her travels and her traipse across the park. As if it were perfectly proper for an unaccompanied young lady to appear at the front door of the Duke of Carlisle’s home and demand an audience with his bastard son.
She swallowed.
The butler’s frown of disapproval intensified. “Mr. Ludlow is not at home.”
Ara remained undeterred. “Where has he gone?”
The butler blinked, obviously not being accustomed to such dogged persistence. “I am afraid I cannot say.”
The man was bluffing, and she had not risked everything to come here to find Clay only to be turned away at the door as if she were a beggar woman asking for coin. “If you please, sir, let him know he has a friend calling. I am certain he will see me.”
His eyes narrowed. “Does this friend have a name, madam?”
She stared right back at him, unrepentant. “No. Tell him it is a friend who was expecting to see him, and he will know precisely who I am.”
“You may wait within,” he announced haughtily, as if he were the duke himself, allowing her entrance at last.
Giving the butler her sunniest smile—one she did not feel in the least—she swept over the threshold and fussed with her dress as she waited.Oh heavens, she must be a sight. Grass blades were stuck to the ribbon-trimmed hem of her riding habit, and her smart little boots felt sodden. Inhaling deeply in an effort to wrangle her misgiving, she shook the wrinkles from her two-tiered skirts and tried to squelch any worry longing to rise to the surface and consume her.
The butler’s reluctant decision to attempt to locate Clay seemed promising. If he would see her, that was. She cast her eyes about the entrance hall, which was a great deal grander than the entry Kingswood Hall boasted. It rose two stories so it could be overlooked from a variety of alcoves and arches above. Marble statues stared blankly down at her, as if judging her for her rashness. Perhaps former Dukes of Carlisle? She could not be certain. Or Greek gods and goddesses, those remaining fragments of belief in the fantastical.
The black and white floor glistened with polish. Footsteps could be heard somewhere, far off, echoing in the cavernous interior. Was it the butler? Clay? Other servants? Ara looked all around, feeling like an interloper. Feeling like a fool.
She ought to leave. Could she simply go? Quietly exit through the door she had so recently traveled past? Race across the park with what remained of her pride still intact, find her mare and ride home as fast as she could manage before anyone was ever the wiser of her imprudence?
Ara inched toward the door, even as more footsteps echoed. It was not too late. She could flee, and no one needed to know…
The footsteps were coming faster now, matching her breath and her frantically beating heart.Go, you fool! Run!She picked up handfuls of her habit, ready to flee.
“My lady.”
His voice stayed her, low and warm and so very welcome.
She spun about, and there he was. Her Clay. Today, he was dressed to perfection as a proper gentleman. No shirtsleeves rolled back or a lack of a waistcoat. No indeed. As she drank him in, she had to admit he looked every bit the duke’s son. And here in the grandeur of the Brixton Manor entry hall, she felt, for the first time, the disparity of their situations. Not because he was illegitimate, but because he was the son of a wealthy and powerful man. Though her father was wealthy, the opulence of Brixton Manor was beyond anything he could dream of owning. Kingswood Hall was a mere shack in comparison.
Her gaze clashed with Clay’s. His the darkness, hers the light. She wished she could read the emotions hidden in their glittering depths. “Mr. Ludlow,” she said stupidly, staring at him as if he were the first gentleman she had ever seen.
He was not, of course, but he was the most beloved.
“Why have you come?” he asked next, dashing her maudlin sentiments.
The blood leached from her cheeks. Yes, this had been a mistake. Perhaps he had merely been entertaining himself with their interactions. Perhaps he had been bored, and she had been too forward, and she had forever made a fool of herself. Perhaps he had not wished to hurt her feelings, and so he had allowed her to believe there was something more.
How wretched.
How humiliating.
But he had kissed her with such passion, as if he wished to steal her soul and hold it for ransom. Could she have been wrong?
“I…” She struggled to form words. Now that she was here, standing before him in her sodden skirts and ruined boots, her mind seemed to have taken its leave of her. She felt as inadequate as a discarded pair of stockings. “You said you would come to Kingswood Hall.”
“Aye.” He nodded, his jaw going rigid. “And so, I did.”
