The Rusticated Duchess (8 page)

He met the pale green pools of her eyes, the colour so piercing it reminded him of the shallowest clear water in the lough. They met his gaze fearlessly now, but his soul had already absorbed her panic, and the kernel of rage that had formed inside him at her unexpected vulnerability bloomed into understanding.

Gloria shouldn’t have responded to him with fear. His audacity, his demands to be told all though no acquaintance truly existed between them, had been beyond arrogant. She ought to never react in fear. She should have been angry. Offended. She should have smacked him.

Someday, his dream self swore, she would smack him. When she looked at him angrily, she would be confident in her power and her place in the world. Gloria should, and would be, he thought, gloriously angry—and gloriously passionate.

As his dreaming self watched, Gloria lifted her hands to her hair and began to pick out the pins that held it to her scalp. Lazily, dreamily, his hands drifted below his nightshirt and gripped his cock, his palm tugging and rubbing on it to relieve the sudden ache. Her golden tresses began to fall in long waves over her shoulders, the last inches of her curls teasing the tips of her nipples and sliding down to bounce against her womanly stomach.

He growled in delight. Was her hair truly so long and luxuriant? The scent of sweet pea once again rose in his brain as he affirmed his inward question. In her parlour, a heavy impressive mass of golden curls had been secured to the top of her head—far too much hair for it to be shoulder-length. His hand rubbed a little more quickly, rhythmically, as her low whisper became a husky siren song.

Clare woke in the early dawn to find his sticky hand still soothing his flaccid, relieved staff. He stared in disbelief at the evidence in his bed, drew in his breath and snorted inelegantly. Seeing her, kissing her, demonstrating her unsuitability hadn’t worked in the least. All it had done was awaken a protective urge he distrusted. Even worse, he had behaved in an overbearing, paternalistic manner she’d have had every right to flee or fight.

On that thought came the notion that she very well might have fled. He’d given orders that he was to be awakened if anyone had come upon the cottage. He hadn’t said a word about what to do if the entire household decamped.

Before he even realised what he was doing, Clare was on his feet. He’d make sure she was where she was supposed to be, then break his fast and plot his afternoon constitutional. One way or another, she would tell him her story.

Chapter Five

Gloria did not sleep well. She told herself that she was worried, that her restlessness had been caused by Clare’s threats and insinuations, but by morning, she curled up beneath the coverlet, stared at the canopy and admitted the truth, at least to herself.

She ought to be working out what to tell him—truth or not—but she hadn’t even considered it. Gloria was thinking about the kiss.

Marital relations with March had never been better than merely tolerable, much as her mother had gently warned her was likely. Sadly, merely tolerable had been achieved on the nights Meriden was most sotted. The smell of cheap, stale liquor had always been on his breath, while softer touches or emotions had never figured into the act. Still, when insensibly drunk, he’d fumbled and had been unable to be vicious.

But he had not drunk himself to oblivion every night. On those nights he had been sober enough to deliberately tumble her, he had also been deliberately brutal, as if he had been exacting his pleasure from her pain. Gloria had belonged to him by law, March had said on their wedding night and repeated over the following months, and she would spread her legs when he chose. He’d chosen that first night, and made a regular point of it whenever the house had been still and he’d returned from whatever revels he’d graced through the evening. He’d taken especial delight in waking her from sleep and laughing at her startled angst, and had made a point of coming to her still cloaked in the cheap perfumes that his whores had left on his skin. The acrid smell of tobacco and alcohol had been inescapable in his presence, and March had been outwardly amused by her revulsion. It had not taken long at all for Gloria to learn to lie as still as possible and wait him out.

Once pregnant, Gloria had tersely informed him there was no need to risk the health of his heir when his mistress was readily available. At her request, Lennox had installed a bolt on the inside of her bedchamber door, where she’d stayed each night with her maid. March had sneeringly informed her that she’d better be prepared to submit to his ‘attention’ as soon as the doctors gave permission. He’d laughed and promised her that
he
would greatly enjoy it.

The few seconds she had spent with Clare had been a world separate from any sensation March had ever created. March’s touch had frozen her to stiffness and disgust, while Clare’s firm grip had been compelling, but not violent or rough. Instinctively, Gloria had known after the first terrified moment that she could pull back and end the exchange, that Clare would not have forced the intimacy upon her. The memory of March’s heavy breath and stale odour had been erased as she’d inhaled the rich, well-tended leather of Clare’s overcoat and a lingering aroma of lime and spice that clung to Clare’s skin.

Even more fascinating—more deserving of her attention—was her physical reaction to Clare’s kiss. The touch of Clare’s lips had fascinated her and left a tingling awareness on her mouth and down her spine that she’d never before experienced. Gloria had wanted, even desired, to seek closer shelter in his arms, to offer up more than her passive lips. He’d wanted more, too. He’d been regretful when he’d pulled back, denying himself something he wanted in deference to her physical comfort.

She’d barely been able to think of anything the rest of the day. Her abstraction had drawn the attention of the staff, especially once Colman had told his tale to all the others. Mrs Pitcher and Mrs Sinclair had hovered, as if inviting her confidences. Brody had glowered, despite her deliberately serene expression. Mr Pitcher and Matthew had—together even—approached her before the evening meal and asked if she’d like to go for a drive on the morrow instead of walking.

Gloria didn’t want to go for a drive. She wanted to know if a kiss could comfort her instead of terrify her. She wanted to know how his bare hands would react with skin other than her jaw and chin. She wanted to know how much more of that electrified tingling would run down her spine when his lips touched hers more firmly.

She didn’t want to have to tell him a damn thing in return for the privilege, either. In fact, kissing him again seemed like a much better use of their time together than reliving the sordid story of her marriage, March’s death and the subsequent vindictive gossip, lawsuits and danger.

Nevertheless, after a late breakfast and some time with her son, Gloria retreated to her bedchamber to think and pace. She had to know if he was interested in kissing her again. She’d never admit how imperative it felt to have that affirmation, though, because it would give him leverage over her—something to reserve until she surrendered all he wished to know. Gloria remembered clearly his demand to be told the particulars of her life, and she had no doubt he was capable of making himself a pest if she couldn’t walk a fine line between enough information to satisfy him and little enough to keep them safe.

What did one wear on a cold outing with a gentleman?

Even as she thought the question, Gloria’s answer seemed obvious. She’d wear her muddy walking boots and the gown with its ruined silk hems, wrap herself up in her black velvet cloak and hood and hope for the best. Gloria would have much preferred walking boots in dark blue and lined with fur, below a walking dress in a hue of vivid sea blue and topped with a dark blue wool overcoat, with fur at the neck and collar. Her head would be covered with a hood of white swansdown and a complementing wool scarf would be wrapped about her neck. But no, she was confined to black weeds, with months still to endure in that dismal colour.

Gloria tried to envision how to arrange a private rendezvous indoors, but couldn’t conceive of Colman allowing her more than a few bare minutes alone with Clare. She couldn’t call at the castle, even with Mrs Sinclair in tow. Still, she knew it was possible to conduct a secret life under the nose of servants and family. Her mother had managed to do so for decades before Winchester had discovered Johna and Lennox in an unmistakably intimate encounter in the music room at the rear of Winchester House. Surely Gloria could manage two or three assignations before Clare left Killard Castle for his other holdings.

Exploring with Clare seemed the only way she’d ever know if Abigail’s gentle lectures on the subject months earlier had any truth for her. “If you weren’t disgusted by March’s inconsideration,” Abigail had said kindly when they’d retreated to Gloria’s bedchamber and compared marriages and pregnancy, “you’d feel pleasure when he touched you, so much that you sought out his company. If he cared for you and your happiness, he’d have made sure you weren’t in pain. It can be an amazing experience, and one you’d want to often repeat.”

Gloria had stared at the bolt on the door and rubbed her expanding womb. “You married a stranger. How do you know?” she finally had asked her sister.

The expression on Abigail’s face could have lit the room and was enough of an answer. Even so, she’d said quietly, “Meriden may have been a stranger, but he was a stranger who cared about my
enjoyment
of it more than his own. And now? Now he’s not a stranger, dear. He’s Charles, my dear mate who is more passionate about my happiness and safety than he cares for his own.”

Gloria had never expected to find out for herself if Abigail was right. It had been enough to be relieved from the unsavoury obligation, as it were. She had no desire to seek out more. Nevertheless, she was still pondering that conversation when she went to leave the house and found herself followed by two very determined ex-soldiers, both grim-faced. Her gaze went from a belligerent Colman to Brody, who was as stubborn as Gloria herself. She shrugged and pointed out, “One of you must stay with Eynon. It is not a choice. Those are your orders from Lennox.”

“We should keep you inside,” Brody said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Gloria raised her fine brows and lifted her chin, but was hardly going to back down. “You are not my keeper, Brody Jenson,” she stated clearly and frowned down Colman as well. “Nor are you. The pair of you were ordered to defend me if necessary—not to confine me.”

The two men looked at each other and Colman sighed. “I will be staying with his lordship then, my lady,” he announced. “This time.”

“And you will stay back.
Out
of hearing range.”

Brody frowned but kept to her side as they left the front door and stepped out of the gate. He waited as the gate closed and grunted when she turned towards Killard Castle. “You can’t,” Gloria told him peevishly. “Keep to my side. Stay at least ten paces behind me.”

“And what would I tell wee Lord Eynon, then, when he asks about his mother in a few years? ‘Aye, my lad, I knew your ma. I was watchin’ her when she was snatched up by a deceitful blackguard of a man’.” Brody’s voice was tired, but reached her clearly as he subsided to a mutter. “We just want to keep you safe.”

Gloria knew his intentions were honest, as well as in line with Lennox’s orders regarding her, but she was almost ready to believe Clare was not the enemy. In fact, she was very much tempted to tell Brody to head home as soon as Clare stepped from the shadows of the castle walls, though she knew Brody would never agree. With the admission between them that they shared a sire, even though he refused to name the man for some reason, and Clare’s unexpected entrance into their existence, Brody appeared on the verge of an explosion in temper.

Gloria did not have to like his actions or words, and in another situation Gloria would have found a way around his stubbornness with no more than a blink of the eye. But she was not in another situation. Her current life did not permit for dismissing or contravening her own staff or that of her father-in-law’s, however justified by their insubordination.

She heaved a great breath, straightened her already stiff back, and marched on.

Clare hung against the wall and watched the woman who had been Lady Gloria de Rothesay pace around the curve in the road. The servant with her was not the bulky overgrown soldier who had accompanied her the previous two days. Instead, she was closely followed by the one who’d been in the parlour with Clare as he’d waited—the one whose eyes matched Gloria’s orbs in hue and shape. Clare paused and watched. Neither spoke, but Gloria did not seem disturbed by the close company of her companion, who trailed her much more closely than the usual guard.

Clare would have wagered money in that moment that her companion was not a mere footman either.

Indeed, he saw Clare before Gloria did, and openly glowered.

Gloria’s beaming smile—quickly subdued under the glare of her guard—more than compensated for the lack of encouragement by her attendant. Confident now of his welcome, Clare presented his arm, delighted when she took it and smiled up at him. “So courteous of you to walk with me again today, my lord,” she murmured, so low he could barely hear her words.

“The companionship is entirely my pleasure.” He gestured along the road. “Perhaps if you’d like to continue, we could stroll in the Castle gardens, hibernating as they are, before heading back to your cosy, warm parlour.”

Gloria’s eyes lit with pleasure. “A proper garden?” she clarified, not even sparing a look for the man who now stomped behind them.

Careful not to rattle her before it was time, Clare asked Gloria about a few of the recent bits of gossip from Westminster that his father had shared in his last letter. She was not surprised, but rather quietly amused, which told him more than she might have suspected. Gloria’s intelligent and perceptive questions betrayed familiarity with the personages involved, even though he was more recently apprised of political and social news, so the details were left to him to recount through his father. Clare grasped that Gloria moved within the upper echelons of political society, despite her unhappy marriage and recent childbirth.