A Duchess by Midnight (12 page)

“Have you calmed yourself?” he asked. When Clara nodded he slowly loosened his grip, allowing her to tumble awkwardly off the side of his lap. Righting herself, she quickly shook out her skirts before scooting to the far edge of the seat.

“How did I get here?” she asked, taking in her surroundings with wide eyes.

They were in one of the largest, most opulent carriages she’d ever seen let alone been inside of. Gleaming mahogany trim lined the walls. Thick velvet cushions the color of ripe peaches covered the seats. The floor was carpeted. The windows covered with thick curtains that had been parted down the middle to reveal a glimpse of the passing scenery.

Clara turned her head and caught flashes of rolling green and clear, endless blue. They were still in the country then. But hadn’t it been raining? She seemed to recall rain. Great buckets of it falling from the sky. She remembered other things too. The sharp
crack
of something breaking. Poppy’s high-pitched scream. A horse’s frantic whinny.

Her memories were fragmented into pieces, like pages torn out of a book. There were words missing. Sentences. Entire paragraphs of blankness.

She could only assume one of those missing paragraphs included how she’d ended up here of all places, separated from her maid and coachman and in the company of a man whose mouth she knew but whose name she did not.

“You mean you don’t remember?”

The skepticism in his voice grated on Clara’s already tender nerves. Of course she did not remember! Why would she be asking him if she did? All she knew was that one moment she’d been in a carriage headed for London and the next she was in a different carriage heading for heaven only knew where.

“Where are my shoes?” she asked, peering down at her bare toes.

“I threw them out,” the stranger replied matter-of-factly.

Clara’s mouth dropped open. “You threw them
out
? Why would you do something like that? They were the only shoes I had!”

He regarded her without expression. “They were filthy.”

“Which is why I would have cleaned them, not thrown them away!”

“I will buy you a new pair.”

“I do not want a new pair. I want my old pair!” In the back of Clara’s mind she recognized that arguing over shoes was rather silly considering she still had no idea where she was or where she was being taken, but it was the
idea
more than anything else that struck a chord deep inside of her. The idea that this perfect stranger had made a decision for her that he had no right making, even if it was about something so inconsequential as a pair of shoes. Would she
never
be free to make her own decisions? Perhaps her shoes had been dirty and old and badly in need of repair, but they were
hers
. Hers to wear and hers to discard when and
if
she so chose.

“I’ll buy you ten pairs just like them then. Although I suspect we’ll have to pry them off the feet of beggars.” He was silent for a moment, gray eyes intent as he studied her face. “Do you truly not remember what happened to you?”

Digging her fingers into the soft edge of the seat cushion, Clara wordlessly shook her head.

“Your carriage overturned in a ditch. You were by yourself when I found you.” His mouth twisted into something that vaguely resembled a smile. “You said you couldn’t leave the horses behind.”

Clara blinked. Even though she did not recall that exact conversation, it
did
sound like something she would say. “And then?”

“And then I carried you to my carriage. You hit your head which is probably why you do not remember much of the accident or what happened after.” His gaze slid to her hairline, prompting Clara to tentatively reach up and brush her fingertips against a rather large and painful lump protruding from the top of her forehead. “You slept through the entire night and nearly half of the day. Since your breathing was steady I saw no reason to wake you. We stopped at a local village but the doctor was out on call which is why I am bringing you to my personal physician in London. We should arrive in three to four hours.”

He was taking her all the way to
London
?

“No,” Clara said with so small amount of alarm. “We need to stop and go back. Poppy–”

“I left word at two separate inns that you were under my care. Your friend should have no difficulty finding you.”

“But what about–”

“I also sent someone to fetch your horses,” he said, anticipating her next question. “They will be brought to a local stable yard and kept there until further notice. No harm will come to them. I assure you.” Something in his gaze shifted and softened as he watched the myriad of emotions flicker across her face. Reaching between them he gently took her hand, thumb brushing across the delicate ridge of her knuckles. “You are safe, Clara.”

The words, so simply and honestly spoken, touched Clara’s heart. When was the last time she had felt truly safe?
Not since Father left and never returned
, she realized with a dull, familiar ache that resounded deep inside of her chest. And now here she was, away from the only home she had ever known, in the company of a man she knew nothing about, and she actually
did
feel safe. For the first time in a long time she felt protected. For the first time in a long time she felt as though she were worthy of
being
protected which was, at least to Clara’s mind, a very important thing indeed.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“You are welcome,” he said gruffly.

His gaze fell to her lips and Clara’s stomach muscles tightened in breathless anticipation of another kiss. Having tasted his mouth once she yearned to do so again. She knew it was wicked of her. Sinful, even. But surely something that felt so good couldn’t be entirely wrong.

There was a connection between them. Clara might have thought she’d imagined it had their paths never crossed again, but she felt it as strongly now as she had then. Something was pulling her towards him. Something light and heavy all at the same time. She knew he felt it too. She could see it in his eyes. In the dark flicker of awareness whenever he let down his guard and the faint dilation of his pupils when he looked at her lips.

Her lashes quivered down towards her cheeks when he lowered his head, but at the last possible second he abruptly pulled away and turned to face the window instead, leaving her staring at his tense shoulders in bewildered frustration.

What a conundrum her brooding rescuer was! Kissing her senseless one moment, demanding she never set foot on his property the next. Growling at her like some sort of half-tamed beast. Holding her cradled against his chest as though he never wanted to let her go.

Which was the
real
man? She suspected even he did not know, or if he did he had somehow forgotten. One thing was for certain: there was more to him than met the eye.

Yes, he was undeniably handsome and roguishly charming (when he wanted to be) and quite wealthy if his clothes and carriage were any indication. But there was sadness there as well. Oh, he kept it well buried beneath his cynicism and his biting remarks and his temper. So well hidden she doubted most people ever dared to look beneath the surface. But it was there. She was sure of it, for she harbored the same sadness deep inside of herself.

They were like two wounded birds, she and him. Life had been cruel to them in unimaginable ways. It had broken their feathers and snipped their wings. It had knocked them out of the sky and left them reeling on the ground. But when he kissed her…when he tangled his hands in her hair and held her against his chest as though he never wanted to her go…she finally knew what it felt like to fly. 

Thorncroft did not
speak another word until they reached London. He couldn’t even turn his head and look at Clara, not when he knew that if he did there was a very high chance they’d soon find themselves in a compromising position.

Her dress, wrinkled beyond repair and still damp in some places, left little to the imagination, especially once she had removed his coat. The color had slowly returned to her cheeks, leaving them warm and rosy. Her wild hair glowed like fire against her smooth ivory skin, tempting him to reach out and wind a tendril around his finger just to see if it felt as hot as it looked. Even unkempt and bedraggled and bruised she was a great beauty.

And an even greater innocent.

He had not made the common mistake of confusing enthusiasm with experience. While the sheer intensity and passion of their kiss had caught him completely off guard, he’d known the moment that he claimed Clara’s mouth with his own she had never been kissed before. A lesser man might have taken advantage of that fact. A lesser man might have done far more than kiss her. But Thorncroft was not a lesser man.

Short-tempered and brooding, yes. At times even cruel. But the sort of man who would prey on the innocence of a young beauty? No. He wasn’t that.

Or so he told himself which was why he had not let his ardor get the better of him despite the open invitation he’d seen in Clara’s bright, inquisitive blue eyes. Because she did not know what she was asking for. Not really. If she did she would have been running in the opposite direction as fast as her legs would carry her, not calmly sitting beside him watching the buildings around them grow taller and taller as they traveled deeper into the city.

Struggling to find a clear path through the crowded London streets the carriage slowly and steadily made its way towards Grosvenor Square where trees with small white blossoms lined the sidewalks and the houses were set back behind iron gates and manicured lawns. Eventually the driver guided the exhausted team of horses to a halt in front of a large four-story house with a rooftop terrace, crisp white shutters, and a front balcony overlooking Hyde Park.

It was not Thorncroft’s largest residence in town, but it was his most private. Until he sorted out precisely what to do with one Miss Clara Witherspoon it would be an ideal place to keep her. The last thing he wanted – or needed – were prying eyes and wagging tongues which was precisely what he would get if anyone knew he was keeping a young woman under his roof.

“We’re here,” he said shortly.

“
This
is where you live?” Clara asked, her eyes rounding to the size of two silver shillings as she leaned across his lap in her effort to look out the window. His jaw tensed when he felt her small palms press against his thigh, fingers sinking into the hard knotted muscle. “It’s enormous!”

“It’s a house,” he said through his teeth. Damn her. How was it possible that even after being drenched in the rain she still smelled like strawberries? Fresh and ripe and plump for the picking.

“An
enormous
house.” Bracing her weight on one hand she tilted her head back and smiled up at him. “You know, you haven’t yet told me your name. Should I try to guess it?”

Seeing her smile – her brilliant, unassuming, spontaneous smile – was like seeing the first ray of sunshine after a dark, stormy night. It hit him like a punch in the gut, robbing his air of lungs and his mind of thought. He stared at her blankly as she began to rattle off names in alphabetical order and it wasn’t until she’d gotten all the way to Harrison that he managed to shake himself free of the spell she’d cast upon him.

“Thorncroft,” he managed. “You may call me Thorncroft.”

Clara sat back. “Just Thorncroft? That’s rather unusual, isn’t it?”

He was saved from explaining himself when the door was suddenly opened by a footman formally attired in dark gray livery with yellow piping. Even though he rarely frequented London, Thorncroft still kept a staff at all of his in-town residences regardless of how often he visited. Selected for their work ethic and attention to detail all of his employees were of the top tier and were paid handsomely for their services... as well as their discretion.

The footman did not bat an eye upon seeing Clara seated beside Thorncroft. Instead he merely slid a wooden step into place, opened the door and a bit wider, and greeted his employer with a courteous, “Your Grace.”

“Your Grace?” Clara echoed as Thorncroft helped her down from the carriage. “Does that mean–”

“Yes,” he said curtly. He slanted her a discreet sideways glance to gauge her reaction as he escorted her up the short brick walkway. In his experience, women usually responded in one of two ways once they learned of his title and the wealth that accompanied it. They either threw themselves at him – a reaction he’d found vaguely amusing when he was a young lad of eighteen – or they dissolved into a giggling, blushing caricature of their former selves.

“I have never met a duke before.” Her expression thoughtful, Clara paused at the bottom step. “Are they all as prickly as you, or do you find yourself to be an exception?”

Thorncroft blinked. Behind him the footman wisely muffled a snort of laughter.

“I do not mean any offense,” she added quickly. “It’s just that… well… you
do
seem rather ornery at times and I cannot help but wonder if all dukes are predisposed to an irritable nature.”

“Come on,” Thorncroft growled as he took her by the elbow and pulled her the rest of the way up the steps and through an arched doorway. The sooner he had her back in his carriage and on her way to wherever it was she was going the better. He did not have the time nor did he have the temperament to deal with an impertinent fairy princess who saw nothing wrong with blurting out whatever thought happened to pop into her head. He was accustomed to people respecting him. Sometimes even fearing him. He was
not
accustomed to a small sprite of a woman with tangled red hair and doe blue eyes telling him he was prickly and irritable.

“
Oh
,” Clara gasped suddenly, causing Thorncroft to tense and spin towards her, his dark gaze darting over her head as he searched for any signs of immediate danger.

“What?” he demanded. “What is it?”

“Everything is so
high
.” With eyes full of wonder she tipped her chin back and gazed up at the vaulted ceiling that towered a good twenty feet above their heads. It was an architectural marvel; one that had persuaded Thorncroft to purchase the house the moment he stepped through the front door. Of all his residences this one was the smallest, but he liked the clean lines and understated elegance. It was decorated sparingly. A sofa here. A table there. Just enough to make it comfortable for when he came to visit but not so cluttered that it looked lived-in.

“One of the maids will show you to a guest bedroom where you can bathe and change into clean clothes,” he said dismissively. “When you are finished a doctor will be waiting to examine you.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a housemaid, dressed in the same gray as the footman, materialized from seemingly out of nowhere and greeted Clara with a small, shy smile.

“This way, my lady.”

Clara glanced back over her shoulder as she followed the maid up the winding staircase and Thorncroft, feeling a bit cowardly, made it a point to look in the opposite direction. Feigning sudden interest in a painting hanging on the far wall he walked briskly across the foyer, needing to put as much literal – and figurative – distance between himself and his unexpected houseguest as possible.

The damn chit is tying me up in bloody knots
, he thought with a scowl as he studied the large hunting scene complete with horses, hounds, and a sleek red fox disappearing over a distant hill. Katherine had never tied him up in knots. No woman had. He had always known what they were going to say. How they were going to act. What they were going to do. But Clara didn’t
say
or
act
or
do
anything she was supposed to. The woman was a damn puzzle. One he should have had no interest in solving. She was a common housemaid, for God sakes. A maid who cleaned chamber pots by the stream and kissed perfect strangers with wild abandon and conducted herself with all the bearing of a young queen.

Who
was
Clara Witherspoon? Where had she come from? What the devil did she want?

Before their time together came to an end he had every intention of finding out.

“What can you
tell me about Thorncroft?” Picking up a sponge that smelled like roses, Clara brought it up one arm and down another, languidly covering her sun-kissed skin in frothy white bubbles. Warm water lapped against her collarbone as she sighed in blissful contentment and sank lower into the claw foot tub. When was the last time she’d been able to do something as simple and luxurious as take a bath?

She could not remember.

“You want to know about the duke?” There was a faint note of censure in the maid’s voice as she stepped up to the side of the tub and carefully laid a thick white towel down over the curved edge. She was a pretty girl, albeit a bit plain-faced and of average height and build. Her hair – what could be seen of it beneath her white cap – was brown, as were her eyes. The only thing of note about her appearance was a mole high on her left cheek. “We are not allowed to gossip, my lady.”

“Gossip is fiction,” Clara said with an airy flick of her wrist that sent bubbles floating up into the air. “I want fact. He saved my life, you know. Or at least I think he did.” Her brow furrowed. “I cannot seem to remember. But I
do
remember that he kissed me.”

“His grace
kissed
you?” The maid’s brown eyes shot wide, giving her a mousy appearance. “Are – are you certain?”

“Certain if he kissed me? Yes. I do recall that much. He is a very good kisser. Or at least I think he is. I’ve never been kissed before,” she confessed. “So I do not have anyone to compare him to. But I imagine if I did he would be top of the list. Do you know if he kisses many women?”

“Not for the past seven years,” the maid blurted before she could stop herself. With a tiny gasp she covered her mouth with both hands and stepped away from the tub. “I – I should not have said that,” she whispered between her fingers. “Please do not tell his grace, my lady.”

Clara frowned. She did not like the fear she saw in the maid’s eyes. To her mind, no human should be afraid of another no matter how great the disparity in their social standing. Did Thorncroft intimidate his staff on purpose, as Lady Irene did, or by accident? She hoped it was the latter. The duke struck her as a callous sort of man, but not one who was purposefully cruel.

“I won’t breathe a word,” she said reassuringly. “I promise. I’m merely curious.” Her mouth stretched into a rueful grin. “I always am, I’m afraid. My curiosity has gotten me into more trouble than I care to admit. What is your name? You can call me Clara if you like. It suits me much better than my lady, I think.”

The maid’s hands slowly fell away from her mouth. She even managed a shy, hesitant smile. “Emily.”

“Emily that is a lovely bracelet you’re wearing. Is it from an admirer?”

The maid immediately grasped her wrist, covering the silver bangle that had caught Clara’s eye. “No.” She shook her head once. Twice. Three times. “It was… it was given to me by my mistress. I really shouldn’t be wearing it.”

“Why not?” Filling the sponge with water Clara raised it above her head and closed her eyes as soap ran down through her hair. “It’s beautiful. If I had a bracelet like that I would wear it every single day.”

“He would not be happy if he saw I was wearing it.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Clara’s eyes popped open. “Thorncroft?”

The maid bit her lip. “Yes.”

“Why ever not?”

“I – I shouldn’t speak of it.”

“Come now.” Clara’s smile was sweet and cajoling and irresistible, even to a maid she’d only just met. “I have already promised I will not say a word. I know it is terribly intrusive, but I can’t help but want to know more about him.”

Emily fiddled with the ties on her apron. “Did he really kiss you?”

“He did.” Clara knew she probably should not have been sharing such intimate information with a woman she hardly knew, let alone one of Thorncroft’s own servants, but she felt a connection to the shy, timid maid. It was the same connection she felt with Poppy and Agnes. A recognition of sorts, as though they’d met before. “And I must confess I wish he would do it again.”

“Because he is a duke?”

“No,” Clara said, genuinely surprised Emily would even ask such a question. It did not cross her mind that a woman would try to get close to Thorncroft solely because he was a duke. For her his title was secondary. Given that she’d never had any use for her own, why would she care about his? “Because I thoroughly enjoyed it and I think he did too, although I imagine he’d rather cut off his own hand than admit as much. He’s so very gruff! I don’t believe I have ever met a man so ornery in all my life.”
Nor one so handsome
, she added silently. Scooping up a handful of frothy soap she pursed her lips and blew lightly into her palm, sending little bubbles floating up into the air. “Although I suspect he has a reason to be. I can see it in his eyes. Do you know what that reason might be, Emily?”