What the devil? Was Ara’s father mad?
He shook his head slowly. “I am afraid I do not, my lord.”
“Your mother,” the earl elaborated, bitterness resonating in his words. “He stole your mother from me. I loved her, and he took her away. If you think I would ever give the misbegotten product of their unholy union the slightest courtesy, you are wrong, you insolent whelp.”
Shock permeated Clay. His mother had been a celebrated songstress in her youth, but he’d had no notion she was the reason for the feud between his father and the earl. Dread settled into his gut like a leaden weight, for whilst the likelihood of Wickham giving his blessing upon a union between Clay and Ara had been tenuous at best before, it now seemed impossible.
But he had not come to Kingswood Hall to walk away without trying. “My reason for seeking an audience with you today has nothing to do with grudges you hold against my mother and my father. Rather, it pertains to your daughter, Lady Araminta.”
Wickham stiffened. “I cannot conceive of a reason you would need to discuss Lady Araminta with me, Mr. Ludlow.”
“I wish to marry her, my lord,” he revealed, deciding to make the leap. The opportunity and his reception could not be worse. He had nothing to lose.
Except Ara.
And he would not—could not—lose her.
The earl’s expression hardened. “You cannot imagine, for even one moment, I would allow my lady daughter to wed a bastard.”
He was prepared to make his argument. He had spent the last sennight practicing. “Kingswood Hall borders an estate adjoining Brixton Manor that my father wishes to settle upon me. I also have a generous income per annum that I feel confident would enable Lady Araminta to a life of reasonable comfort.”
“You have not even been introduced to my daughter.” The earl’s gaze narrowed upon him. “Why would you wish to marry her? Undoubtedly, you are aware of her dowry. However, she is already all but promised to the Marquess of Dorset. Surely even one such as you can comprehend that a marquess and a bastard do not equate. Therefore, I could not countenance the mésalliance as you propose, even had I been so inclined, which I most assuredly am not.”
All but promised to the Marquess of Dorset?
This information gave him pause.
But it was something he would address with Ara later. In private. It was possible that her father bluffed. Or perhaps it was a match he wished for her to make. She had certainly not spoken of an imminent betrothal aside from their own.
“I beg you to reconsider, my lord,” he tried again. “While I may not be a peer of the realm, I would treat Lady Araminta with fairness, respect, and above all kindness.”
“As will Dorset,” Wickham snapped. “You have said your piece, which is more than I was initially willing to allow. Consider yourself fortunate and take your leave.”
There was an air of finality in his tone. In the moment.
Clay felt as if the air had been stolen from his lungs. The embittered man before him would never allow him to wed Ara. Part of him could not blame Wickham, for Lord knew if he had a daughter of his own, he would want her to marry a wealthy lord who could provide for her rather than a duke’s by-blow who had been scorned all his life.
Nothing he could do or say would change Wickham’s mind. There had to be another way.
He bowed, sickness swirling in his gut. “Thank you for your time, my lord.”
And then he stalked from the study and from Kingswood Hall altogether.
But he had not given up on Ara. Not yet. Somehow, by some means, she would be his wife.
Ara raced throughthe darkness and collided with a wall of chest.
Strong, familiar arms banded around her.
“Steady, Ara love,” Clay whispered.
She embraced him tightly, burying her face in his coat. It had been two days since she had seen him, and the intervening hours had been interminable. Finally, at last, here he was.
“I missed you so,” she murmured back, rising on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his corded neck. Here, the bristle of his whiskers pricked her lips, and she could open her mouth to taste the salty musk of him. His pulse pounded. She flicked her tongue over its steady throb.
He issued a low sound of need. “Minx. You must not or we shan’t make it to our destination.”
That simply would not do.
