Nothing But a Rake by Bridges Abigail

Author:Bridges, Abigail
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Historical
Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2022-07-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Saturday, 20 August 1825

Beckcott Hall

Half past one in the afternoon

Radcliff brought word that luncheon would not be served in the dining room. Instead, by orders of the countess, everyone would have a tray brought out—Clara and Honora would eat in their bedchambers, the earl in his study. With only the three of them remaining in the house, this was not an uncommon occurrence, although it usually occurred by happenstance, not an edict from Honora, who, apparently, had a bit of a headache.

Clara received the news with gratitude. She had dozed only fitfully, her mind still churning over and over the events of the night before, and she certainly did not feel up to facing her mother over food. But she still found the simple fare Radcliff brought to her room hard to swallow, despite her hunger. Her restlessness made her pace, seeking some understanding of all that had happened. The encounter with Michael in the barn had left Clara both exhilarated and exhausted, mentally and physically. Clearly he had wanted her—the way he touched her left no doubts about that. And she definitely wanted him—he stirred in her a heat, a pure desire she had barely dreamed about. In his arms she found not only passion but comfort. A comfort and passion she had replayed several times during the night as her thoughts about Michael and the duke began to clarify.

But Michael’s reluctance to continue with their affection plagued her. It felt as if it were about more than the interruption of Rufus and the stable boy, more than the risk of discovery.

It was about the duke. Wykeham. The despicable man had become a Sword of Damocles over every aspect of her life—her future, her family, and now Michael’s plans. As she went over every minute detail of the past few days, her mind had determined one crystalline fact: she had to find a way out from under that sword.

She continued to pace back and forth, lips pursed, the image of the simpering noble prancing through her mind just as he had through the Scotch reel with her mother. The smug look on his face haunted her, telling her he had already won, already conquered her.

No. She would not have it. She might not ever have Michael in her bed, but she would be damned if the duke ever ended up there, lording his conquest over her the rest of her life. The prospect of those long winter evenings in the North were evolving from a nightmare into a vision of a torturous hell. Clara felt everyone else’s plans swirling around ever tighter—her father’s, Michael’s, her mother’s, the duke’s—a strangling noose.

Clara stopped pacing, her chest tight, her breathing shallow. She grabbed the edge of her escritoire, forcing herself to take long, deep breaths. Calm, she needed to be calm. After a few of those inhalations, Clara picked up the tray from her escritoire and set it on the bench at the end of her bed. She returned and pulled out two pieces of foolscap as she settled in the chair.

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