Page 54 of Distracting the Duke

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said angrily, closing herself off from the pain and the shame, as she’d done a thousand times before. “You’ve gone way beyond the pale this time, Ulvercombe.”

He dropped his hands immediately and gazed at her, his eyes glinting like polished steel. “Forgive me,” he said stiffly. “The last thing I wanted was to offend you.”

She dashed a hand across her tear-filled eyes. Why did he have to be so reasonable, so polite? She wanted to rail at him, to fight with him, to throw things at him. Anything to release this corrosive mixture of lust, humiliation, and anguish that overwhelmed her.

She stifled a sob and stumbled toward the door of the study.

But he was there before her. “Clara—”

“Please move aside,” she said with a gulp.

“Not when you’re like this,” he said. “I can’t let you go. Come here. I’ll just hold you. Nothing else, I promise.”

It was a command, not an offer. And she succumbed.

Strong arms pulled her into his embrace, and a hand pressed her head against his shoulder so he could rest his chin on her hair. He did nothing further, didn’t attempt to stroke or soothe her, still didn’t try to kiss her.

After a while, she allowed herself to relax against him, letting him hold her in his secure embrace. His warmth seeped into her, but this time it was a different kind of warmth. She sensed he wanted nothing from her, that he was only giving, not taking.

Had Simon ever held her like this? Perhaps in the first golden days after their wedding, before his true nature emerged?

No, she couldn’t recall any such moment. She’d just been a possession to him, an article to be used and discarded, like a soiled handkerchief.

And he’d truly made her feel soiled. The bestial acts he’d expected her to perform…

Oh God. Surely, the duke knew nothing of those…

Or when she hadn’t pleased her husband, the hideous hours locked in the filthy closet, where she could hear the rats scuttling and gnawing in the walls.

No. She’d told no one of these things, not even Philip. She’d just hugged herself and rocked in silent agony when Simon had finally released her, her own bruised arms her only comfort.

She quivered, gulped down a silent sob at the memories, and reached up to grasp Ulvercombe’s lapel, clenching her fingers tightly in the soft cloth.

He held her closer. “I’m here. I’m not going to hurt you. You can trust me.”

If only she could! But it was too late for her, much too late. Her trust had been thoroughly shattered, and she didn’t think she could ever get it back.

True, Ulvercombe had kissed her more than once, and she’d enjoyed it. But beyond that…

She would never dare. Could never dare.

Yet…he wasn’t kissing her now. Or doing anything else. And he’d promised not to try. What harm would it do to cry out her sorrows on his broad shoulder?

What would he think, if she did?

That she was giving in to him? Or that she was weak and unworthy of his regard?

She blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears. She released his coat and eased out of his embrace.

“Clara? Won’t you look at me? Can I do nothing to help?”

Eventually, she raised her eyes to his. “I have wounds that can’t heal,” was all she was able to say.

His eyes darkened, and his expression softened. Her heart stilled. She didn’t think he’d ever looked quite as beautiful as he did at this moment.

His hands found hers. His grip was warm, firm, and comforting. “Clara,” he said, and there was an odd shakiness in his voice. “I can help you heal. Let me do something that will ease both our suffering. Let me make love to you.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven