Page 5 of Forever Her Bachelor

St. Clara nodded, his fist clenched at his side, body vibrating with the force of his anger. Taking a deep breath, he compelled himself to follow Bollingbrook out of the office. He was desperate to pay off their debts.

They didn’t say a word to each other as they strode out of the gaming hell to the line of carriages waiting for their owners. Once they stood in front of their carriages, St. Clara watched his friend turn toward him.

“I won’t allow you to pay my debt. I could ask Lady Pembury?—”

“Don’t you think you owe her enough?” St. Clara asked of the woman that was his friend’s benefactor. She had been using Bollingbrook’s financial ruin against him for years, allowing her to control the man.

“One more thing would not matter. I could convince her to give me the funds … for a price.” He shrugged his shoulder like it was of no consequence.

St. Clara shook his head, the cool breeze running through his hair. Too bad he had abandoned his hat in the carriage. “No.”

“Then you know what you have to do.” Bollingbrook’s voice carried over the wind that whipped around them in the cool night air. “I would tell you to marry any chit, but I think we both know who you really want.”

Words failed St. Clara as his oldest friend walked toward the carriage that carried the Pembury signage. He warred with himself; Pippa had not said more than a few words to him over the years. He had always assumed it was because of his father’s objection to the match. As a young man, he had admired hisfather, abided by his rules, and cherished his opinion in all matters except one.

Miss Pippa Price.

His friendship with Pippa was the one thing he cherished as much as his relationship with his father. Continuing their friendship was the only time St. Clara had ever disobeyed him. Now, nine years later, he wondered if he could finally do what his younger self had wanted all along: marry Pippa and make her his duchess.

Stepping into his carriage, he sat back on the aged leather, avoiding the multiple tears in his seat. The carriage would be one of the first things he replaced once he had the funds. Bollingbrook’s words were like sour milk in his mind, festering and lingering long after their usefulness.

There was nothing he could do about Pippa. She’d chosen to marry Summerset. Running his hand over his face with a grunt, he could hear his father’s voice in his sickbed.

“I’m just glad you didn’t marry that girl.”

Not the last thing his father had said to him, but it was the one that St. Clara had always remembered. Because even then, St. Clara had wanted to run next door and beg her to be his.

Now, he knew he must move on with his life. She was marrying Summerset, and St. Clara would marry the first respectable lady whom he laid eyes upon.

The empty streets of Mayfair passed by the small carriage window as the team of four galloped to his home. It was always strange to see London after the Season had ended. Even at that late hour, the streets would overflow with carriages leaving one soiree or another. He loved the peacefulness of London after all of society had returned to their country homes. It was the only time he felt as if he could finally breathe.

Rubbing his hand over his face, St. Clara realized his drunkenness had abated while he conversed with Reaper. Now,it returned with a vengeance. The inside of the carriage began spinning. He needed to sleep the day away. The discovery that his childhood friend was engaged to a monster had tipped St. Clara to the breaking point.

The carriage jolted to a stop, and St. Clara breathed a sigh of relief that he would soon be in the comfort of his own bed. Stumbling out, he nodded to his coachman, Randall, before heading toward the door which his butler held open for him.

Before he could take another step, the Marques of Heartford’s crest on a carriage caught his attention as it pulled in front of the Wayford’s residence next door where Pippa lived with her aunt and uncle. She must’ve spent the evening with Julia, Lady Heartford, who was a close friend of hers as well.

All logic left him. There was nothing but need. He needed to see her, to make sure that marrying Summerset was what she really wanted. They had been friends a long time ago, and then they were more before they were nothing.

Pippa Price, the once brilliant girl next door, emerged from the carriage, placing her delicate hand into the footman’s proffered one. Sweat formed at St. Clara’s neck where his cravat was suddenly feeling tighter. His steps did not falter as he drew closer. The distance between their houses had never seemed as great as it did that night.

Pippa thanked the footman before she looked over at St. Clara, their eyes locking on each other. His breath left him as it had always done when he was a boy and captured in her hazel gaze.

Taking in her attire, he admired the blue evening gown and the small shawl covering her creamy shoulders. Dark brown curls were pinned up high on her head, revealing a long, sensual neck.

“Good evening, Kitten.” The nickname fell so easily from his lips. Although he was aware of how much she loathed it, nothing would ever stop him from calling her that.

Her nostrils flared. Getting a reaction out of her had become a game to him. After years of friendship, the silence of the past nine years had wounded him greatly, even with his part in their separation.

Now, he realized that allowing his father to send him to the Continent had been the greatest mistake of his life.

The frosty night air swept around them as if they were the only two people left in the world. And dear God, did he want her. The past did not matter; nothing mattered but their future. Every rejection, every coarse word, every time she ignored him did nothing to quench the fire that had always burned for her inside of him.

Her calculating gaze took him in from head to toe, and for the hundredth time, he believed himself unworthy in her presence. The memory of their past was ever present in his mind. Her breathing increased, and her lips parted for air. Good. He was affecting her just as much as she affected him.

“Stop calling me that. I’m not your Kitten anymore.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion at first but cracked slightly at the end of her sentence.

He stepped closer to her. “You will always be my Kitten.” He took one of her gloved hands in his own. “You know that.” The heat of her skin scorched him through his gloves.