Chapter 4

4

CLARA

N ot expecting Sam's push, and with her hands bound, Clara had no way to stop herself from falling. She went careening over the edge of the stone dais and into the duke and his associate.

The duke caught her and stumbled back, arms holding her against him as he found his footing, supported by the other man.

The duke pulled his head back to look down at Clara. "Are you hurt?" His dark, worried eyes searched her face under a pair of thick, knit brows. After being surrounded by dirty men, rank with the smell of spirits, her senses swam with the welcome scent of cedar and soap. An impulse to bury her head in the duke's crisp traveling coat presented itself to her.

She nodded as the utter humiliation of her situation descended upon her like thick fog. And yet, fog would at least have hidden her. There was no hiding in this market square. All of her shame had been laid bare for the entire village and the duke to observe.

Her bound hands sat against his chest—an unforgivable intimacy. Heaven only knew what she smelled of, so she quickly pushed off his chest and stepped backward. His arms released her, but his gaze still searched hers, settling for a moment on the gash on her cheek. It had come when she had fallen in the struggle with Sam and Thomas. John had apologized, but he had not stopped them from taking her to the square.

The duke's eyes moved to the halter around her neck. His jaw hardened as he lifted it over her head and handed it to his friend.

His gaze traveled next to her bound hands.

"Allow me," he said softly, taking her hands and working at the knot between them.

"Allow me ," said the man beside him with a quick, inscrutable glance at the duke.

The duke hesitated, then stepped back, but Clara didn't miss the little tic in his jaw.

The rope fell away, and Clara rubbed at her wrists. "Thank you," she said, torn between gratitude and humiliation.

What would happen now? The duke had bought her. For a single guinea. That was what she was worth to him. It was what she was worth to John now that she had no more money to finance his vices.

What would the duke do with her now? He had saved her from the old man whose gaze had made her skin crawl, but for what purpose? His eyes seemed kind, but it could be difficult to differentiate between genuine kindness and the sort with ulterior motives. John's kindness may have been genuine at first, but Clara would always wonder if he had married her with the intent to use her money. As for Lord Redgrave, the husband of her past mistress, his sweetness had shattered the moment she had rebuffed him.

If this duke had such nefarious purposes in mind, there would be nothing she could do but run—and pray to heaven he didn't see fit to come after her as the other men had.

Raised voices met her ears, and Clara sought out the source. Mr. Trumble was having words with John in front of the inn. There was no hiding John's state now—and Clara had no desire to. She had done everything in her power to protect him, and how had he repaid her? He had sold her for money he would spend before the next day dawned.

She was under no illusion he truly meant to buy her back. The moment he had money, he would use it for his true priorities.

"What do you mean to do with me?" Clara asked tersely.

The duke's brows snapped together. "Do with you?"

Her gaze flitted to his, and uncertainty filled her.

"I meant to free you from those men," the duke said, but there was an edge to his voice that made her cheeks fill with heat. She had offended him.

"Thank you," she said softly, not meeting his eye as much from abashment as from deference.

"Is there somewhere we can take you?" the duke asked.

Clara shook her head. She had nowhere to go. Papa had died shortly after helping her acquire her position as lady's maid, and she had never known her mother.

"Is there anything we can do to help you?"

She shook her head again. It was a lie, but her pride was still smarting.

"Here." He took his purse from the other man. "I gave the innkeeper money to thank you for what you did last night, but something tells me you may not receive it." He pulled out another guinea. Taking her hand with the soft leather of his gloved ones, he set the guinea inside.

"We should go, Your Grace," the duke's associate said as the intermittent raindrops began to fall more frequently .

"Wait," the duke said. "Your cheek."

Clara covered the injury with her hand. "It is nothing."

He looked uncertain of this. "You are certain you will be well?"

She nodded.

"Very well." With a small sigh, he turned and walked toward the awaiting carriage with his friend.

Clara stared at the gold coin in her dirty hand. A guinea was six weeks of wages. But what would she do with it? What could she do? She had been dismissed as a lady's maid and had no reference to offer another employer. Her time at The Coach and Lantern had been too short and tumultuous for Mr. Trumble to be willing to provide one.

She glanced at the duke again as the two men drew nearer the carriage, and a hint of panic settled in. She had only been in this village a few weeks and had spent most of it trying to manage John. Strangely, the duke now felt like her only friend in the world. He had bought her out of a desire to free her, he said. That was not something to be taken lightly or easily dismissed. Another man of his position or title would have expected something from her in return.

No, not something.

Everything.

He must have an enormous staff, with maids coming and going regularly. His wife must employ her own personal servants too. Why not Clara, then? To have a position in a fine household with an employer she could respect was better than any other option she could think of.

She squeezed the guinea in her fist, then ran toward the carriage, where the duke's head ducked into the chaise.

"Your Grace!" she called as he disappeared and his associate climbed in after him.

The man on the steps paused, then backed down. The duke's head reappeared in the doorway, his gaze searching until it found her.

She hurried toward the carriage, shielding her face from the rain with a hand as her heart thudded against her ribs.

The duke's associate watched her with his lips pressed together, but she ignored him.

"What is it?" the duke asked, concern etched into his brow.

Clara hesitated, but this was no time to lose her nerve. "Have you need of a maid?"

The duke stared. "I…" He seemed to be at a loss for words.

"I work hard, Your Grace," Clara said, eager to make her case before he could deny her. "I have worked in a fine household as a lady's maid before. I can cook and clean." She lowered her eyes, realizing Sam had said something similar in his attempt to sell her. "I know how to conduct myself."

"Your Grace." His friend's tone was full of disapproval and incredulity, and the gaze he squared the duke with was clear: her presumption was beyond the pale.

Clara's cheeks filled with heat. "Forgive me," she said. "It was a silly…" She didn't bother finishing, but turned away, intent on putting as much distance between herself and this miserable village as possible.

"Wait."

She stopped in her tracks, but she didn't dare show her face, for her eyes were burning and filling with tears.

"Come back," the duke said, and she could hear the creak of the carriage steps as he came down them again.

Clara swallowed, blinked rapidly to dispel the tears, then turned toward him again.

"Your Grace," the other man repeated. Was he capable of forming any other words?

"Edmund," the duke responded in a kind but firm voice. " Please."

Edmund nodded, but the way his mouth pinched made it clear he was having a difficult time containing what he wished to say.

"What is your name?" the duke asked.

Clara hesitated, for she was still unused to her married name. She hated it more than ever now, but her maiden name was that of a thief. "Clara," she said. "Clara Quinn."

"And you said you have experience as a lady's maid?"

Clara nodded, wishing she'd had a moment to wash her face, rearrange her hair, and put on a fresh apron, for she looked fit for nothing but sweeping chimneys today. If only he could have seen her a year ago, hair curled under her cap while she wore the gray muslin day-dress Lady Redgrave had given her from her own wardrobe when she no longer wished for it. If only he knew just how valued she had been by her mistress.

Until everything had crumbled.

"Sadly, a lady's maid is not one of the servants I require in my employ," the duke said with a little smile.

"But surely the duchess does," Clara said. "Or perhaps an under-maid."

"Undoubtedly she would if she existed."

Clara's mouth opened wordlessly. She had assumed the duke was married. It was only reasonable, for he was, well, a duke, not to mention handsome and kind besides. Weren't dukes meant to be old, portly, and full of gout?

"So, no," the duke continued. "I do not have a need for a lady's maid."

Clara lowered her head and nodded, the hope she had felt slipping away as quickly as it had come.

"However…"

Beside the duke, Edmund shifted his weight and turned his head to the side, looking as though words might burst forth from his mouth at any moment .

The duke continued, "I do have a seemingly constant need for housemaids. If that is a position you can accept, I can offer it to you."

A housemaid. In a duke's household.

It was not a lady's maid, but it was nothing to sneer at. It was certainly better than being a maid at The Coach and Lantern—if such a position was even an option now.

Edmund's foot tapped on the ground, but Clara ignored him. If the Duke of Rockwood thought her fit to employ, what did this other man's opinion matter? She would prove herself soon enough.

"What do you say?" the duke asked.

Clara couldn't help a smile. "Yes, Your Grace. I will gladly accept it. Thank you."

"You needn't thank me," he replied. "It is not charity I am providing. You will earn your keep and your wage. You will soon find that employment at Rushlake requires a great deal of walking."

"I enjoy walking, Your Grace," Clara said, eager to reassure him that he would not regret his decision.

He smiled and stepped up the stairs to the chaise again. "Then you will love Rushlake. Will five minutes be sufficient to gather your belongings?"

"More than sufficient, Your Grace." She had few things to her name now.

But she had work.