“I cannot be.” He released her hand and turned to walk away from her, his large frame tensing with anger. “Do you not see? No one will allow me to even court you, let alone wed you because of who I am. And they are right. They are right, damn them.”
“No,” she denied just as vehemently, going to him and throwing her arms around his waist from behind. She pressed her face in the dip between his shoulder blades, inhaling deeply of his scent. He was so vital. Everything she needed. All she ever wanted. “They are all wrong, because nothing has ever been more right in my life than you, Clayton Ludlow. Do you hear me? I do not care if you were born illegitimate to the Duke of Carlisle or to the queen herself. I will not give you up. Not now. Not ever.”
A knock sounded at the door then, interrupting the solemnity of the moment.
“Brother, what is the rumor I hear about you hauling a mysterious village girl into your chamber? Father will have an apoplectic fit.” The sardonic voice was muffled.
Ara stiffened as the seriousness of the improprieties she had committed returned to her anew. She had waltzed through the Duke of Carlisle’s home with shocked servants looking on, holding Clay’s hand, allowing him to lead her to hisbedchamber. There were eyewitnesses to her shocking lack of shame.
If anyone discovered who she was, she would be ruined.
“Damn,” Clay cursed with quiet vehemence then, echoing the vein of her thoughts aloud. “I do not know what I can have been thinking, bringing you here. You make me lose my head, Ara.”
“Tell me you are not bedding the girl in there,” his brother said from the other side of the door. “You ought to know better than to bring quim here. Father has eyes and ears everywhere.”
She did not know whatquimmeant, but she was certain it was not a complimentary word. Before she could contemplate the matter further, Clay tugged free of her grasp and spun to face her once more, his face set in severe lines.
His dark gaze plumbed hers. “Your mother was right to send me away. There can be no future for us. No hope.”
She shook her head as tears stung her eyes, refusing to believe his words. “There is always hope. Court me in secret if you must. We will find a way to be together.”
Another insistent knock intervened. “Brother, I must insist on rescuing you from your folly. I know of just the place to take your lightskirts. Bodesly Inn. The serving wenches are most accommodating. I once had two in my bed—”
“Stubble it, Leo,” Clay hollered in the direction of the door.
She searched his face, desperate for him to see how deep her feelings for him ran. He had become a part of her. The notion of never seeing him again filled her with a hollow ache. “Meet me in the forest tomorrow,” she said. “Please.”
He touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Just once. The ghost of a caress. “Ara.”
But she would not give up on them. “Please, Clay. I will be there. Waiting for you.”
I will always wait for you.
I love you.
She tucked the remainder of what she wanted to say inside herself.
He stared at her, his face harsh. Inscrutable. “You must go, Ara, before anyone realizes who you are.”
“Tomorrow,” she repeated. “Let me make my own choices, Clay. Let me choose you, if you dare.”
Chapter Eleven
“Here you are,lad. This knife is for you.”
Clay handed the young duke his favorite blade. Small yet capable of inflicting damage on any assailant, the knife featured three blades that folded inside a golden case accented by repoussé. Each blade was of varying length, and it had served him well on many occasions over the years.
Yet surprisingly, as he placed it in the lad’s palm, he felt not even a hint of sentiment. Gifting it to the boy had been a sudden decision, but it was the right one. Here was a young lad whose father had been slaughtered in a most brutal fashion, and there were now strangers infiltrating his home because of threats made against his mother. Perhaps the blade would enable him to feel some measure of reassurance, however small.
“Thank you, Mr. Ludlow, but he cannot accept such a gift,” came the wintry voice of the lad’s mother from over his shoulder.
He ground his molars. Of course she would object.
He had just spent the better part of an hour training the lad in the art of fisticuffs and defending one’s self. Naturally, the duchess had insisted upon observing his lessons with the young duke, and to that effect had taken up residence in a chair on the far side of the ballroom, a book in her lap.
He knew the reason for her presence.
She did not trust him. How dare he, a bastard, presume to train a peer of the realm? Likely, she feared he would somehow corrupt the lad. That he would taint him. How thoroughly she had fooled him once, with her proclamations of love and her promise she would choose him. That she loved him in spite of the circumstances of his birth that would mark him for the rest of his life.
