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Chapter 12
Carried Off by the Storm
A knock came upon the door.
Damn it, Edward. What have you done?
These were the thoughts that came upon him the second he awoke with a groan, though he could not remember ever falling asleep. All he remembered was lying in bed in the inky darkness of his room, staring at the ceiling and worrying that he had ruined everything he had spent his life working for.
And before that, walking through the empty house, seeing a hundred ghostly flashes in the darkened corridors that he thought might be Clara.
And before that…
I never had any idea I was capable of feeling that way, Edward thought with a gulp. While he had had his share of dalliances with girls from time to time, none of his furtive adolescent fumblings had ever provoked a reaction like what he experienced late that night.
That was no mere lust, and Clara is no ordinary woman. Sitting on the side of his bed, he rested his head in his hands and blew out a shuddering sigh, feeling the embers of the experience still burning within him, rekindled by the memory. If my other steps into the realm of sex were a drizzle of rain, that kiss was a typhoon, a mighty tempest threatening to wash me away. I have never been so removed from rational thought in my life—all my responsibilities, all my worries were so completely obliterated during that moment.
Something frightening reared its head within him. All at once, Edward felt filled with terror that he would never feel so good again, despair that he had wasted all his life not feeling like this, anger at knowing what he had been missing for his whole five-and-twenty years of life.
Yet through all the confusion, one thing was absolutely, transparently clear:
More than I have ever wanted anything in this world, I want to kiss Clara again.
The knock came upon his door again.
“I’m awake, thank you,” he called to whoever had been sent to rouse him. He heard footsteps walking away from the door of his bedchamber, then he shook his head roughly as he stood and walked to the window. Bleary-eyed, he pulled open the curtains and winced at the mid-morning sunlight pouring into his bedchamber. He fumbled for his pocket watch and saw that it was already eight o’clock.
Damn. I’d best hurry so I don’t keep His Grace waiting for his breakfast.
Edward rushed through his morning routine, irked that he had slept as late as he had. There was much to be accomplished today, he knew—Mr Svenungsson was away visiting family for the week, so the task of giving Christopher’s lessons fell to him. Besides which, there was all the usual family business to take care of, accounts that needed to be sorted, invitations that needed replies, banks that must be written to.
Yet no sooner had these thoughts occurred to him than they were pushed out of his mind entirely by the memory of the night before. Edward struggled to keep his mind straight, saying out loud in a quiet voice a dozen different reasons he could not let himself be so preoccupied, a thousand reasons he could never pursue that terrifying desire.
“She had been drinking, and it was late. She had had a very emotional evening. She did not know what she was doing.
“She was only showing her affection for my help these last weeks. It meant nothing to her, surely.
“Clara is the object of so much vicious gossip already. Pursuing her could only make matters worse for the poor girl. For her own sake, I need to keep these urges private.
“The last thing I need is a romantic relationship, especially with someone of such scandalous birth. Can you imagine the complications that would follow the St. Georges if their guardian were caught in a compromising position with the Duke’s illegitimate sister?
“And I have too much on my plate already to even entertain such notions. Helping Christopher learn his role as Duke, managing the affairs for the estate…I have no time for flirtations at the moment, that much is without question.”
Each statement was true, or at least reasonable enough to be plausible. Yet each was equally unequipped to erase the image from his memory. By the time he had gotten around to shaving he found he was indulging yet again in the memory of every scintillating facet of their kiss, as though he were studying the intricate contours of some rare jewel.
Would it be so bad, really? some part of him began to ask. Maybe Fletcher was right. Maybe it would not be completely unacceptable for me to take care of my own wants, for a change…
“Ow!”
Edward pulled the razor back to reveal a drip of red on his cheek. “Watch what you’re doing, you fool,” he muttered, dabbing away the blood and washing off hastily. “You can’t well afford to take off your head because you’re lost in a flight of fancy.”
For a half-second, it seemed to Edward that this was an ill omen of some kind. But he pushed the thought away, dismissing it as ridiculous superstition, and moved along to dress himself and rush down the corridor to breakfast.
Keep the matter out of your head and you should be able to manage everything just fine, he said to himself with each quick footstep. As long as you can avoid thinking too much about Clara, you should be able to move past this whole affair without embarrassing anyone before long. Just keep your head about you and everything will be fine.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Your Grace, only I—”
Edward stopped and took in the scene before him. The Duke’s private dining room was a small affair, but a grand one, well decorated with antique family portraits and tapestries. The long oaken table seated perhaps twenty, and today the tall chair at the head was empty. All of them were, in fact, save for one at the end that faced the door through which Edward had entered, which was occupied by a sleepy-looking, blushing Miss Clara St. George.
