“But Mama,” protested the lad now, his blue-violet eyes pleading with his mother. “Mr. Ludlow has given it to me, and you said one must always appreciate a gift and be thankful for it. I cannot return the blade to him now.”
“The blade belongs to you now, Your Grace,” he said solemnly. “I could not take it back even if I wished it.”
“No?” The lad’s eyes went wide, his eyebrows climbing up his small forehead toward his shock of dark hair. “Why not, sir?”
“Once a warrior gives a gift to another warrior, it is bad luck to take it back,” he lied, casting a glance toward the lad’s mother.
She scowled and rose from her chair, shaking out her skirts with an elegant gesture before gliding toward them. The way she moved was always effortless, filled with grace. “That is pure nonsense, Mr. Ludlow.”
“I am a warrior now, Mama,” the lad said triumphantly, and it was the most animated Clay had seen him since his arrival at Burghly House. The dark husk that once had been his heart warmed at the sight.
“You are not a warrior,” she snapped at her son. “You are a duke. Dukes do not go about carrying weapons upon their person.”
“Perhaps if Papa had, the bad men would not have killed him,” the lad countered stubbornly, his fist closed tight around the closed blade as if he feared his mother would wrench it from his grasp.
She paled, stopping midstride, her black skirts swaying about her. “How do you know of such things, Edward?”
“You must not think in that fashion, lad,” Clay intervened, lowering to his haunches so he could look the boy in the eye. “Your papa was a brave man, and the men who attacked him were cowards. They came upon him from behind. Even if he’d had a blade, he would not have been prepared for their attack.”
“Edward, I need to speak to Mr. Ludlow alone.” The duchess’s voice cut through the air, as sharp as any of Clay’s blades. “Why don’t you run along to Miss Argent and return to your studies? Leave the knife with me, if you please.”
“Please, sir, tell her I must keep it,” the lad whispered to Clay.
His eyes—Ara’s eyes—were huge, pleading. A shift happened inside Clay. A sensation blossomed. There was a name for it: fondness. Yes, he liked the lad. More than liked him, actually.
“He must keep the blade,” Clay reasserted, giving the lad a bolstering wink before glancing up at the duchess.
She watched him with ice in her eyes, her face a pained, ashen mask. “He is a boy. He cannot have a blade.”
Clay rose to his full height, never taking his gaze from her. “I shall teach him how to use it properly.”
“It is not your place to teach him anything,” she snapped, her tone biting. She held out her hand to the lad. “The knife, Edward. Give it to me.”
No, it was not his place. He had no claim upon her son. No claim upon her. He was the bastard she had once scorned and betrayed. He wondered if she felt any guilt, even the slightest hint, when she looked upon the handiwork of her father’s mercenary. Likely not, and the thought provoked the banked fires of his rage toward her into a freshly burning flame.
“But Mama,” the lad protested, dragging Clay from the depths of his thoughts.
Taking pity on the lad, Clay intervened once more. “It is not bad luck if the blade is held in trust for the warrior by the warrior’s mother, however,” he invented.
He had not much experience with children, but it had become apparent to him that they were eternally hopeful, their hearts filled with innocence and beliefs that had yet to be dashed. The day would come when that would happen. But it would not be today for the lad, damn it. He needed to believe in something. He needed to cling to his bloody hope, for it was all the boy had left.
Ara gave Clay a sour look. “The blade, Edward.”
“Very well, but only if you are certain, Mr. Ludlow, that a warrior’s mother can hold the blade for him without it causing misfortune?” the lad asked.
“Aye,” he said past a sudden thickness in his throat. “I am sure, lad.”
As if his blessing was enough, the lad acceded to his mother’s wishes and deposited the folded blade in her waiting palm. “Very well, Mama, but I shall want it back. Mr. Ludlow will show me how to use it, and I will be requiring it then.”
Her fingers closed over the blade with so much force her knuckles went white. “Thank you, Edward. You may return to Miss Argent now.”
“Yes, Mama, I shall.” He slanted another glance toward Clay. “Until our next lesson, Mr. Ludlow.”
Clay bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”
The lad offered a hasty bow in return and then took his leave of the chamber, closing the door quietly behind him. Silence descended for several heavy moments. Clay swung his attention back to the duchess. She stood within reach, not even an arm’s length away. Near enough to tempt him, even after everything she had done.
His eyes dipped to the ever-present mourning brooch on her bodice, and for the first time, he noted the color of the hair trapped behind the glass. Golden. The Duke of Burghly must have been as flaxen-haired as a wheat field. How odd the lad was so dark in contrast, possessing neither Ara’s flaming locks nor his father’s blond.
