Lily Ludlow may have been a duke’s mistress and never his wife—Carlisle’s death before his duchess’s had rendered that dearly longed-for goal of hers unattainable—but she was a lady to her core. She knew how to dress, how to conduct herself, and she had the biggest, most giving heart he had ever known. She also sang like an angel, but that was another talent entirely.
As if his thoughts had materialized her, there his mother stood, alongside his butler, Keynes. She wore a golden-yellow day gown, her dark hair streaked with gray, her warm brown eyes sparkling with unabashed delight as they met his.
“Clayton, my darling,” she greeted, rushing forward with her signature exuberance and enveloping him in a perfumed embrace. She kissed his cheek. “I cannot believe my eyes. And you have brought company for me. Oh, how lovely.”
She extricated herself and cast a curious glance toward Ara.
He stiffened, hoping she would not prove as discerning in this instance as she so oft was. “Mother, I present Her Grace, the dowager Duchess of Burghly, and her son, the young duke. Your Graces, I present my mother, Mrs. Ludlow.”
Though she had never married, she had adopted the Mrs. before her surname many years before, in an effort to distance herself from the scandal she had once been embroiled within.
His mother beamed at Ara. “Such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Duchess.” Her attention turned toward the lad, and her welcoming smile faded. She flicked a questioning glance to Clay before pasting the smile back on her face. “And you as well, Your Grace.”
Bloody hell, she had seen the resemblance. Of course she did. The lad was his image, from his dark hair and tall, skinny body to his long blade of a nose, slashing cheekbones, and too-wide jaw.
“The duke and his mother will be our guests for the next fortnight,” he forced past lips that had gone dry. Damn it, how had he forgotten how very shrewd his mother was? How had he ever imagined bringing Ara and her son—rather,theirson—here to Harlton Hall would work?
But she said not a word of her suspicions. And once again, of course she did not, for his mother was a consummate hostess. She had spent her entire life being reviled for who and what she was—first as a songstress, then as the mistress to a duke. Such a woman, it seemed, could either harden with bitterness or turn her sunshine outward, sending her rays over everyone in her presence. Mother had always chosen the latter.
She sent the lad a mischievous wink. “Oh my, how fortuitous. You see, the cook just made lemon and chocolate tarts, and there is nothing I love more than nibbling on some lemon tarts and telling stories. You do not happen to enjoy lemon tarts or stories about knights and dragons, do you, Duke?”
For the first time since his arrival, the lad grinned. “I love lemon tarts and stories, Mrs. Ludlow.”
“How wonderful. My son always preferred lemon tarts to the chocolate ones when he was growing up. I don’t suppose you are the same?” She placed a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “I am so dreadfully happy you like stories, as I have not had a young man eager for my stories in years. Would it be acceptable to you, Your Grace, if I took the duke into the kitchens so he may sample the lemon tarts whilst you settle yourself? Cook does make the most divine tarts, and I promise I shall have him returned to you in no time.”
Ara nodded stiffly, her expression uncertain. “As long as that is what Edward wishes. Traveling does have a way of wearing one out, and I suppose the reward of a tart would not be remiss.”
“Shall we, young Duke?” his mother asked the lad.
“I should like that,” the lad said quietly, sounding younger than he looked. Sounding like a boy who had suffered far more pain, fear, and loss than he should have at his tender age.
Clay watched his mother and his son disappearing from the main hall, bemused.
Ara turned to him, her violet-blue eyes cool and assessing. “I shall oversee the unpacking of the carriages.”
“No,” he denied softly before turning to the ever-efficient butler, who hovered nearby. “Keynes will oversee the unpacking while I escort you to your chamber. Will you be so kind, Keynes?”
The butler bowed. “It will be my pleasure. Welcome to Harlton Hall, Your Grace.”
The matter settled, Clay hastily conferred with his men about their posts before proffering his arm to Ara once more. “Come, Your Grace. I shall show you to your chamber.”
He was aware that taking Ara to a chamber—any chamber, anywhere, on any day, at any time—was a dangerous prospect for him indeed. How he wished the anger and resentment still burning in his gut for her had a dousing effect on his raging lust. Alas, it did not, and though they walked in silence, a respectable distance between them, everything in him screamed with the need to haul her into the first empty chamber he could find and kiss her senseless. To finish what they had begun with their frenzied passion at Burghly House.
He hated what she had done to him, to them, and most of all to their son. And yet there was an undeniable part of him that would always feel she was his. She was the first woman he had ever loved—indeed, the only woman he had ever loved—and nothing she did would change that. His heart had once beat for her, and it remembered still.
“This isyourhome,” she observed, a bite of accusation in her tone as they walked beneath the carved stone galleries of the main hall and ascended the grand stair.
“Aye,” he agreed, slanting a glance in her direction. Her cheek was pale, her lush mouth drawn thin with what he could only presume was disapproval. Did she fancy herself too good to stay in his bloody home? “Harlton Hall is mine.”
As are you, something inside him said. But he had never felt such a primitive possession for this home and its sprawling acres as he did for her. He ignored the voice. He damn well never should have kissed her. His weakness was spreading like a weed that began as one seed and soon took over an entire garden with its promulgation.
“You should have made me aware before our departure,” she said lowly. Angrily. “I would never have agreed to come here.”
Irritation blended with resentment and unwanted lust. On the inside, he was a sick stew of uncontrollable emotions, all caused by one woman. They reached the top of the stairs and he ground his jaw down, quickening his pace so he could sooner deposit her in the chamber and rid himself of her disturbing presence.
“You were almost murdered in London,” he reminded her tightly. “Harlton Hall—where no one will expect you to be—is the safest place for you until the Home Office has some answers about who is behind the attack.”
“Why did you not tell me you were bringing me to your home?” she snapped, stopping in the upstairs hall and turning on him.
