Page 38 of The Untamed Heart

“No,” she said resolutely. “He would not, and I would never… never allow it. I would rather go to the workhouse.”

If anything, Alex’s face became even more severe.

“That will never happen.”

Clara let out a little laugh, which sounded rather more desperate than amused. “I wish I could have your confidence.”

“You may, for I will not allow it.” He spoke briskly, with the air of a man who was never questioned, whose word was law.

“Y-You?” Clara stammered in confusion.

He nodded. “I would see you safe, Clara, if you needed help. You never need fear the workhouse.”

Clara gaped at him, uncertain what to feel. “That is most kind of you, Alex,” she said carefully, aware of the compassion with which he made the offer, though that he pitied her made her squirm with misery. “I am aware of your generosity, for you have been kinder than I have any right to expect—even from a friend. But I am not your responsibility, and… people would talk.”

“People may go to the devil, if you think I would see you live in penury when I could help you with such ease!” he snapped.

“Forgive me, but that is not your decision to make,” she said quietly.

He glowered balefully at her. “You’d rather starve than accept my help?”

“I would rather make my own way than tarnish both your reputation and mine. For you know what people would say. They would think me… your kept woman.”

Her cheeks burned with humiliation, but somehow, she got the words out.

“I hardly think so,” he snapped, and then stared at her in horror. “I did not… I did not mean—”

Clara swallowed down a knot of misery, for it was quite apparent what he meant. No one would believe the Duke of Hawkney would choose a plain, dowdy little creature like Clara Halfpenny for a mistress. Well, that was perfectly true. Blatantly obvious, in fact. It did not stop her heart from feeling raw and exposed, as if he had uncovered a secret she had never admitted, even to herself.

She got to her feet, knowing she must leave now, before she disgraced herself with a show of misery that would embarrass them both.

“I… I beg you will excuse me, your grace. I’m afraid my aunt will be wanting her nuncheon. I’m sure you can see yourself out. Good day.”

Clara hurried from the room. She thought she heard him call her name but closed the door with a resolute snap and made her way back to the kitchen, knowing this time he would not follow.

Chapter 11

One Bad Pear

Enroute to St Mary’s Cray, Kent, 25th September 1816

Sheringham touched a delicate finger to his swollen cheek and winced. Turning a baleful eye upon his travelling companion, he folded his arms. “How are you not dead yet?” he demanded.

“Well, I’m quicker than you, clearly. I ducked,” Lucius said with complete unconcern.

“There would have been no need to duck if you’d not been so appallingly difficult.”

Lucius slouched back in his seat, a slightly mutinous set to his aquiline features. “The man was an unmitigated fool.”

“Compared to you, I don’t doubt it. We are all mere acolytes before the greatness of your intellect, Lucius, but could you have a care for us lesser mortals? We do have feelings, you know, and you stomp about on them without so much as a by-your-leave,” Sherry said with, perhaps, more heat than was deserved.

Not that he meant this incident alone. The man had been an annoying lout, not to mention aggressive and obtuse too.

They had only stopped to ask instructions to the mill. It was not their fault that the fellow was three sheets to the wind and thought the world should follow in the steps of those Frenchies and chop all preening aristos’ heads off.

All the same, Sherry would not be sporting a bruised cheek and swelling eye if Lucius had an iota of tact or patience. His devastatingly sharp tongue had dismembered the belligerent yokel with the skill of a surgeon’s scalpel until the fellow’s only recourse was to tear their heads off himself.

Lucius’s dark brows tugged together, and he looked up at Sherry, his expression oddly vulnerable. “Feelings,” he said darkly.