e strode down the hall, away from her, and a hollowness filled her breast. The grim disquiet of mourning infected her. She felt for a moment as if she watched his funeral procession, as though this was the last time she’d ever see him. And she couldn’t see his beautiful face, that wicked smile, the knowing light in his eyes. She didn’t even have so much as a lock of his hair to remember him by.
He couldn’t leave. Not now. Not ever. Her hands groped toward him but her body felt strangely heavy, as though her arms were held down by half a dozen unseen hands. Her legs too were stymied by something. She looked down for a moment to find her skirts sinking into brackish water. The hallway had turned into a sea.
Julian floated away from her, effortlessly gliding into the far shadows while she remained trapped, unable to follow. She tried to call out to him, but no sound emerged from her mouth.
Julian, she wanted to say. Julian, wait!
But all that left her lips was an animalistic noise of fear. Desperation coursed through her. He was leaving her, headed straight into the dark web of the dangers that had already attempted to claim him.
To kill him.
But she would not allow him to die. By sheer force of will, she escaped from the rushing sea waters, and they receded abruptly, giving way once more to the hall and its familiar, threadbare carpet. She gathered her soaked skirts in her arms and ran to him, attempting to stay his progress, to keep him safe. Finally, he was within reach. Her hands clawed through the air but she couldn’t touch him. She watched in horror as he pitched forward.
He tumbled down the curved staircase, end over end. Horror stole her breath. She tried to scream as she chased down the steps after him. His descent was too quick, and she too slow. By the time she reached him, he lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.
No! She clutched at him. There was so much blood. Everywhere. Red and copper-scented just as she remembered, hot and sticky on her hands. My God. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t bear it…
Clara woke with a start, disoriented, a terrified scream strangling her throat.
“Clara?” Julian’s low voice, gentle with concern, pierced the haze of half-wakefulness muddling her mind.
Sweet relief washed over her. It had all been a horrible nightmare. Awareness pierced the panic that immobilized her. He was safe, thank God. Alive and warm and here with her, his big body radiating heat into hers beneath the bedcoverings. Her hands fluttered to his broad shoulders, clutching him. Vital and real and more handsome than ever.
It occurred to her then that neither of them wore a stitch of clothing, their naked skins pressing together. The realization dashed some of her shock away, replacing it with remembrance of the wicked things he’d done to her. She drank in the sight of him, feeling simultaneously hot and cold. Cold from the awful dream. Hot from the man hovering over her.
He cupped her face and swept an errant curl from her brow. “Was it a nightmare, little dove?”
“Yes.” She still reeled from the aftereffects, the rational part of her knowing none of it had been true —a mere affectation of her mind, which had been so troubled ever since the attempt on his life. “A horrible one. You were…” she trailed off. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words aloud.
“I’m here.” He gathered her to him, folding her against the hard sinews of his chest as if she were a small child who needed solace. “I’m here now.”
His unprecedented tenderness made her want to weep. It was a side of him she’d never seen. Hadn’t known existed. But the ugliness of her dream still tore through her, leaving her stomach knotted, her mouth dry.
“You don’t understand.” She pressed her face into his bare skin, breathing deeply of his divine scent, cologne and man and something that was undefinably him. “There was so much blood, just like when you were attacked.” She swallowed against a sob as emotions she’d kept firmly at bay threatened to emerge. She would not cry, would not be weak. Not now, not after what they’d shared.
He’d made love to her. Taken her maidenhead. She’d fallen asleep afterward, lulled into a peaceful, sated slumber by the intense pleasure he’d shown her. How disparate that she should wake again plagued by the violence that had befallen him.
Because fear was an angry beast, hammering inside her chest. Reminding her that whoever had tried to take his life would try again. He wasn’t safe. And perhaps neither was she. Those chilling realizations curled inside her heart like vines fashioned of ice. And after today, she was inextricably bound to him in the most permanent sense. No longer did she intend to leave him or annul their marriage. Something shifted inside her as she clung to him, foreign emotions sliding into place like the pieces of a puzzle. She feared for him.
And what of Virginia? A voice inside her asked. What of her dreams of returning to her homeland? Of her desire to live her life on her own terms? Would she sacrifice everything for a man she still scarcely knew? How could she bear to remain in a society she deplored for its inflexibility and unwillingness to accept change?
The questions clamoring to life within her mingled with the fear, chilling her even more. In her emotion-charged response to his attack, she’d forgotten to consider how she—with her rebellious nature and defiant spirit—could possibly be a true countess. If he expected her to develop a sudden affinity for proper manners, needlework, and vapid conversation, he’d be doomed to disappointment. She had every intention of pursuing her cause in England the same as she would have in Virginia. Women everywhere deserved the right to vote.
He seemed to sense her inner turmoil, for he withdrew to look down at her, an equally uncharacteristic sadness darkening his eyes and expression. “I’m truly sorry to be the cause of your nightmares, little dove.”
But he wasn’t the cause of the panic flashing through her now. What had happened to him was. She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself, but the sight of him bloodied and laid low would haunt her forever. It had changed her irrevocably, and she was ill equipped to manage the aftereffects.
She held the bedclothes to her chest, seeking to put a mind-clearing barrier between them, and struggled to give voice to her misgivings. “It isn’t you that’s the cause. It’s what happened to you.”
His jaw hardened, but he grazed a finger over her cheekbone, belying the tenseness of his posture with such gentleness. “I’ve had enemies before, and yet here I am.”
“Enemies who attempted to smash your skull in?” she demanded, the rawness of her emotions colliding with the reverberations of her dream. He had yet to acknowledge the seriousness of what had occurred. He had nearly been murdered, for God’s sake. Before his own home. Beaten senseless, his broken body left to bleed out on the streets.
He flashed a wicked grin, ever his enigmatic self, and caught her hand in his, guiding it to the healing wound on the back of his head. “Not smashed, love. See? Perfectly intact, if ever it indeed was.”
She was grateful his wound had not been as grievous as it could have been and that he had not suffered infection or worse. But he seemed determined to tone down both the severity of his attack and the danger facing him. She meant to point as much out to him, to dress him down with precise words of condescension.
Instead, she allowed her emotions to once more get the best of her. “Do you not think whoever tried to kill you will realize he failed and try again? What if he succeeds the next time? What then?”
His grin turned wry and he released her hand. “Then you’ll be free to return to your beloved Virginia, won’t you? Perhaps you ought to relinquish your wifely concern. It seems my demise would do you a good turn.”
No it most certainly would not. The thought of him gone from her life forever—of the world without his engaging wit, magnetism, without him—seemed the most egregious thing imaginable. “How can you be so flippant about your own life?”
“Come now, little dove.” He trailed a finger over her collarbone, studying her in that penetrating way of his. “Am I meant to sit about crying in a corner? Don’t mistake just who it is that you married. I’m a man who has devoted his life to not giving a damn about anything, especially not my own worthless hide.”
Her heart gave a pang in her chest at hearing him speak about himself in such terms. What could have happened to him in his life to make him feel so contemptible? Perhaps it was the newness of the intimacy they’d shared. Perhaps it was the result of finally acknowledging she couldn’t turn away from the path she’d chosen. She’d sealed her fate when she’d lain with him. He’d seen, touched, and kissed her everywhere. He’d been inside her, had spent his seed within her. Even now she could be carrying his child.
The thought sent an odd, tingling warmth pervading her entire body. She stayed him when he would have trailed his touch lower, over the aching curve of her breast. She searched his shuttered gaze, wishing she could see within their blue depths an inkling of his innermost thoughts. “You are not worthless.”
His expression hardened, a grim cast calling the angles of his features into relief. “I was a whore. There’s no need to mince words or pretend. That is who I am, a man who sold his body and his soul. That is who you see before you now, the man who used his pretty face to assuage the ruin his bastard of a father left him in. You cannot do the things I did, Clara, and give a damn about yourself. And I cannot undo them now. They’re forever a part of me.”
She recognized the emotion coloring his voice for the first time. Not just scorn directed at himself, but shame. He was embarrassed by the things he had done to keep penury at bay. Clara wanted to weep for him, but she knew that would only shame him further.
Instead, she held his face in her hands as he had so recently done to her, relinquishing her hold on his hand and the bedclothes she’d primly attempted to pull between their naked bodies. “You did what you needed to do. You kept your sisters well taken care of. You kept your home. Stop punishing yourself for the past.”
Freed of her staying grasp, his hand was once again at liberty to continue its wicked travel. He cupped her breast, making her nipple pebble into his palm. His gaze lowered to her mouth. “Watch yourself, little dove. You make it sound as if you care.”
His words hit her with the force of a blow, for they pierced the confusion and emotion muddling her brain and made her recognize the truth for what it was. She did care. Of course she cared for him. If she wasn’t careful, in fact, she could love him.
How stunning. How terrifying. She’d never contemplated falling in love with the Earl of Ravenscroft. He was wicked and sleek and beautiful and altogether dark and dangerous. But he was also good. He cared for his sisters. He had been gentle with her, had taken pains to inflict as little pain on her as possible. Perhaps he could learn to care for her in time as well.
Her heart hammered in her breast and she wondered if he could feel it. “I do care,” she told him, tamping down her pride. For he needed to hear it from her now. “I care for you, Julian.”
“Ah, a common neophyte mistake, confusing lust for something else.” He rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger with expert attention. “Soon you’ll learn the way of things.”
She ignored the bloom of heat his ministrations sent directly to her core. He could not deflect her so easily. “Why do you think I’m here now?”
He tugged on the hardened bud. “Because I excel at fucking. Let me show you more, love. I’ll make you come with my tongue alone. I’ll sink it deep inside you and find a secret place you never dreamed existed. It’ll make you go wild.”
Traitorous heat slid through her, wetness and hunger pooling deep within the flesh he’d so recently claimed. It would be so easy to give in to him, to allow him to pleasure her and close her mind to the dangers surrounding them. To only feel, to bask in his seduction and forget all else. But that would be weak and wrong, for he meant so much more to her than his undeniable prowess. There was a physical pull between them but there was also something else. Something deeper and stronger.
“No.” She would not allow him to dismiss her feelings for him. To suggest she’d change the course of her entire life merely because he was a skilled lover was an insult to the both of them. “I’m here because I care. For the past few years, I’ve devoted my life to returning home. Everything I’ve done—every scandal and worry I’ve caused my family, every madcap plan I’ve devised—has been with one goal in mind. To return to Virginia and the land I love. I never strayed from my course. I never intended to have anything more than a marriage in name only with you. But then I saw you bloodied and broken, and I realized that I couldn’t bear to lose you. I care, Julian. Do not dare to insult me by suggesting I’m too naïve to understand the difference.”
There. The words left her in a great rush, before she could rethink them or attempt to lessen her admission of the extent to which he had made her fall beneath his spell. Her chest heaved. He hadn’t stopped toying with her nipple, but the rest of him remained oddly still. She was reminded again of her early impression of him. A rattler. Sleek and powerful and ready to strike. His gaze, formerly pinned to her mouth, met hers at last. She couldn’t read the emotion simmering in the fathomless blue depths.
His silence made her flush. She felt as though all of her was displayed before him along with her body, her weaknesses and faults, her every desire and longing, before him to judge. She’d never felt such a depth of feeling, such a confused, wonderful and awful mixture of hope and dread pent up within her. He could cut her down with a word. He could render her mindless with a touch.
So much hung between them.
“Say something,” she demanded at last. “Have you no response?”
“You’re so very young,” he said at last as he released her nipple and his hand skated lower, over the curve of her belly to the bud of her sex. His fingers worked over the sensitized nub, playing her as he would an instrument. “So innocent.”
Damn him. How dare he condescend to her now, after she’d just bared the bewildering contents of her heart to him? But even as she resented him, her body responded. Her legs fell open, her body arching into his knowing touch. A breath hissed from her lungs.
“Not so innocent,” she reminded him.
He slicked wetness over her seam, parting her folds to stroke her gently. “Still innocent.” He kissed her then, with slow tenderness before withdrawing, his breath a hot curtain over her lips. “And sweet. So damn sweet. I want you all over again, little dove.”
The stubble of his whiskers pricked her palms. She still held his face trapped between her hands, almost as if she could not let him go. The fear fueled by her dream licked at her. The chasm she’d felt at losing him was a ghost inside her that refused to leave. Why couldn’t she release him? He was safe, flesh and blood before her, his skin branding hers. She wished she knew the answer.
“You toy with me,” she accused him without the heat she’d intended.
“Others perhaps. Not you.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Don’t be so serious, Clara mine, or I’ll have to take your frown away the only way I know how.”
He took her breath. His finger slid inside her slowly, and despite the sore tenderness of her flesh, a flare of desire sparked to life. She wanted him too, but his potent skills of seduction wouldn’t dissuade her from her cause. He seemed as determined to dismiss her admission as he was to lure her back into another round of lovemaking. Why? Surely there was a reason for his calculated avoidance.
A thought occurred to her then. “Has no woman ever cared for you before?”
He paused, an indecipherable expression flashing across his face. Beneath her palms, his jaw hardened and clenched before releasing. “Clara.” His tone was a warning. Stern. Fierce.
Could it be that no one—none of his purported legion of lovers—had ever shown him tenderness? Had they all treated him as a commodity they’d bought to amuse their selfish whims? She had to know. “Julian, tell me. I’m your wife. I deserve an answer.”
He withdrew from her and returned to the nub hidden within her folds, the one that seemed to jolt live electricity through her body whenever he touched her there. Now was no different. She jerked against him, unable to help herself.
“Here is your answer.” He increased his pressure and his pace. Pleasure rippled through her entire being along with need. She grew closer to the precipice of her control, her body a tightly coiled spring ready for release. “This is what I’m worth. You bought me with your dowry. Use me however you like. Fuck me, if you like. Let me fuck you.”
His vulgar words touched some wicked part of her she hadn’t known existed, sending a new rush of moisture between her thighs. Faster and faster his fingers moved over her, knowing somehow precisely where and how she longed to be touched, even before she did. He took her mouth and this time, the kiss was hard and uncompromising. This kiss plundered. It was as if the gentleness he’d shown her had been stripped from him. She had pushed him too far, and now he returned the favor, edging her ever nearer to the shattering bliss she knew he could bring her.
“Anything you want, little dove. Anything you want. Take it.” He nipped her lip. His mouth moved hungrily over her jaw next, then to her throat. He nibbled there, all the while circling the center of her pleasure, giving her just what she wanted. What she needed. He bit her earlobe, licked the hollow beneath it. Her quim ached. Her body trembled. All the while, she refused to release him, holding him as if she could forever anchor him to her this way.
She meant to utter a protest. A staying sentence. Something intelligible. But all she managed was a moan. The hazy fog of desire suffused her mind. She could scarcely think. Damn it, he was besting her at her game of wills, and she was helpless to stop him.
“Take it,” he urged hotly into her ear. “Spend for me, love.”
She climaxed almost violently, arching into his hand, crying out her pleasure. Her hands fell from his face at last, moving to his bare shoulders, so strong and sleek beneath her touch, clutching him to her. She wished she could absorb him into her, take him so completely inside that he could never leave. A choked groan left her against her will. Clara gave in to the delicious ricochet of gratification, of abandon, and for a moment she forgot what she’d meant to do. What she’d meant to make him admit.
He rose above her, his glorious body naked and aroused, and held his cock in his closed fist, stroking up and down the hard shaft. She watched, sure her cheeks flushed scarlet with embarrassment, unable to look away. Surely he didn’t intend to…mercy, he jerked his hand over himself, meeting her gaze without an inkling of shame.
“You’re sore,” he bit out. “I’ll not take you again this night. Tomorrow, I’ll fuck you, Clara. I’ll fuck you again and again.” His hand moved faster, mimicking the actions of lovemaking.
Her fascinated gaze traveled over him, taking note of every detail, from the beautiful strain of his muscled body to the strong trunks of his thighs to the very part of him that called her attention the most. A bead of moisture seeped from the head of his cock, and she licked her lips, wondering what it would be like to run her tongue over the small indentation, to taste him as he had her.
“Fuck. When you look at me like that, I want to stick my cock in your pretty little mouth.” The shocking admission seemed torn from him.
Shocking but also arousing, for Clara couldn’t help but imagine him doing so. Would she like such a depraved act? Yes, her throbbing body told her, she would. And then, as she watched, his body stiffened and he cried out, his seed spurting from him and landing across her belly.
“Anything you want, little dove,” he repeated, his voice hoarse and breathless. “But goddamn you, don’t mistake this for caring. This is fucking, and that is all I have to offer you.”
Before she could answer him, a discreet tap sounded at the door.
“Damn it to hell,” he cursed, hauling himself away from her and going in search of his dressing gown. “I warned them all that anyone who dares to interrupt me on this day will be sacked.”
His anger was like a pail of cold water being tossed upon her scorching flesh. Was he angry more at her or at himself? That was the question, though she found precious little comfort in it. A shiver went through her, leaving her covered in gooseflesh. She snatched up the bedclothes as her shield, watching him wordlessly as he donned his robe. His seed remained upon her belly, slick and warm, a reminder that she was his but that he was not yet hers. If ever he would be. No woman before her had ever shown him kindness. Of that she was now certain. And the realization produced a dreadful combination of anger and sickness.
The Marchioness of Thornton’s words about Ravenscroft on her wedding day returned to her mind. They’d been spoken not so very long ago, but for all that had come to pass they may have been a lifetime ago. He has a good heart. A good heart did indeed beat within him. But she would allow him this retreat, for their lives had been vastly different before they’d met and hers, while far from perfect, had certainly left her with fewer scars.
“Cover yourself, madam,” he ordered her, his tone cool. He’d gone to the door, his back to her, his form still and stiff as the formality of his words.
Yes, he had withdrawn from her entirely now. Although perhaps some of his reserve was due to the presence of the servant on the other side of the door. She made certain her modesty was firmly intact. “I have, my lord.”
He opened the door just a crack. “This had bloody well better be important, Osgood. Something along the lines of the goddamn house about to burn to the ground, or an invading army here to storm the front door.”
Clara strained to hear the butler’s response.
“My lord, it grieves me to interrupt you and for that I heartily do apologize. But, we’ve a situation. I’m afraid it’s her ladyship’s father. He has arrived and he refuses to leave until he’s had an audience with you.”
Her father was here. It had been days since she’d last seen him, and she realized for the first time just how much she’d missed him. Why, she’d even missed Lady Bella and she’d certainly missed her sweet little sister, Virginia. How had she ever thought she could leave any of them? They’d become as much a part of the fabric of her life as anyone she’d ever known. Just as Julian had. The unwanted thought gave her pause.
“Damn it to hell. Thank you, Osgood. I’ll see him in my study. That will be all.” And with that, her husband slammed the door in his butler’s face.
He turned back to her, his countenance even stormier than it had been before.
“Father is here?” she asked, though she hardly needed him to confirm what she’d just heard for herself. “I’ll come with you, Julian.”
“Not now.” His tone, much like his gaze, had gone frigid. “It appears Mr. Whitney has asked for me. I’ll indulge him by meeting him. Ring for your maid and tend to your toilette. You may see him afterward.”
And then, without a further word, he disappeared into his dressing room, leaving her to stare after him, wondering if she’d won the battle between them or lost the entire war.
For precisely the third time in their abbreviated familial acquaintance, Julian found himself squaring off against Jesse Whitney in his study. He felt rather reminiscent of a pugilist at the moment, simultaneously attempting to defend himself and identify his opponent’s weaknesses. The man was a menace who didn’t give a damn for proper etiquette. Not only was it bad form to call on newlyweds until it became known they were receiving, it was bloody well terrible to demand an audience with a man upon being informed his lordship was not at home.
Particularly when the reason for his lordship not being at home was a naked and beautiful wife in his bed, sweet and warm and wet and willing. Damn everyone and everything but her to perdition. But he could not think about her now—about all they’d done and had yet to do—as he faced her father, for Christ’s sake. For they had just begun, he and his little dove.
Now, however, there was another matter he needed to face. And that matter was an irate, unreasonable father who should have had the courtesy and the grace to recognize his daughter was now married. They did not require further interference. Julian damn well didn’t require further interference. He vastly disliked being made to feel as though he were a stable boy who’d made off with the daughter of the house. Even if—his noble lineage aside—that was all too close to the mark.
Julian raised a brow, pinning Whitney with a withering look. “I don’t see a pistol this time, old boy. Could it be you’ve one secreted in your waistcoat?”
Clara’s father favored him with a scowl that would have scared the devil. “Go to hell, Ravenscroft.”
The man hated him. Julian couldn’t entirely blame him. If a blackguard with a reputation as bleak as his would have absconded with his own daughter, he’d feel the same. But he didn’t yet have a daughter, and Clara was his in every way now. The mere thought was enough to send a sharp bolt of lust straight through him.
He tamped it down, forced his ardor to cool. Jesus, could he not regain control over himself? Was he nothing more than a ravening beast? If Whitney could see the wicked thoughts plaguing him, the poor chap would expire of apoplexy. Either that or leap across Julian’s desk with every intention of throttling him.
The notion wrung a grim smile of amusement from him. For all that Clara distracted him, he still enjoyed goading her father. “One must admit that hell does indeed seem my inevitable destination.”
Whitney’s hands clenched into fists, the only show of his rage beyond his thunderous expression. “I’d love to send you there. Don’t doubt that for a moment. But it would seem I’m not the only one. Common fame has it that you were attacked several days ago, and that the villain intended to murder you.”
Blast. He’d been hoping to keep that particular ignominy from wagging tongues. “I was,” he acknowledged. “Tell me, Whitney, did you hire someone to kill me?”
His wife’s father threw back his head and laughed as though Julian had just delivered the finest sally. It was his turn to clench his fists as he waited for the man’s loud humor to subside. Truly, how had a small and blindingly lovely creature like Clara ever been borne from the big, rough-hewn brute before him? It boggled the mind.
“I’ve warned you enough that you ought to know, Ravenscroft,” Whitney said at last, having quelled his vociferous glee. “I served four years in the Army of Northern Virginia. If I wanted you dead, I’d do the deed myself and you damn well wouldn’t be here smirking at me, gloating over my failure to bash in your skull, because you’d long be a corpse.”
A bloodthirsty bastard was Clara’s sire. Julian could have admired him for it, but since the bulk of his murderous intentions seemed to hinge upon Julian himself, he deemed it wise to refrain.
He kept his tone steeped in sarcasm. “Forgive me if I remain suspicious, Mr. Whitney, particularly in light of such an entertainingly murderous soliloquy. What shall I tell Clara, do you think, when she enquires about our audience? That her papa isn’t responsible for my bludgeoning because he assures me I’d already be floating in the Thames if he but wanted it?”
Whitney’s face reddened and Julian knew a moment of satisfaction at provoking him. Clara had accused him of fashioning everything into a game for his own personal entertainment, and perhaps she wasn’t so far off the mark.
“You do amuse yourself don’t you, you son-of-a-bitch? You’ll say nothing of the sort to Clara. As long as my daughter assures me she is happy, I don’t wish you ill. Make no mistake that I do expect an audience with her before I leave today.” His glare gained intensity. “The moment she isn’t happy, you’ll have cause to fear me. But what concerns me now is her safety. If you’ve lunatics attacking you in the street, how can Clara be safe?”
The question abruptly dashed his diversion. It was, after all, a question that he had refused to allow himself to ponder. For he was selfish. He was greedy. He wanted Clara by his side. In his bed. In his bloody arms. He damn well never wanted her out of reach.
“Clara is not in danger.” At least, he had no reason to believe she was. For it certainly seemed that the miscreant who’d laid him low had only been interested in his demise and not anyone else’s. Of course, it did stand to reason that if a madman was targeting him, the bastard could lash out at those closest to him as well. The notion sent a chill through him.
“But you are, Lord Ravenscroft,” Whitney noted, all but saying Julian’s thoughts aloud. “And if you are in danger of further assassination attempts, how can you imagine that she might not be in danger as well? What would happen if the villain who assaulted you returns to finish the deed here in your home? What if Clara is in the way? What if she’s attacked? I know you’re a heartless blackguard but even you must care for her wellbeing, at least in whatever capacity you can manage. She’s your wife now.”
Whitney said the last as though it still made him faintly ill. Yes, Clara was his wife now. She was his, damn it, in every sense of the word. And he would protect her however he must. “No harm will come to her while she’s in my care,” he promised, relenting and taking pity on Whitney. After all, at heart, the wily bastard was only a father who loved his daughter.
And Julian could relate in a basic sense.
For somehow, Clara had made him experience something he’d thought he was no longer capable of feeling: emotion. Jesus. The realization hit him with the force of a blow to the gut, knocking the wind from his lungs, leaving him reeling and confused. He cared, goddamn it.
He cared for her.
That was the sensation expanding in his chest, the knot in his gut each time he looked upon her, the need to keep her from fleeing to Virginia, to touch her, to take her. All of it. Perhaps she’d hooked him, stupid fish that he was, from the day she’d stepped into this same study, bringing her warmth and her orange-scented loveliness with her.
No one would hurt her, he vowed inwardly. No one.
“Naturally, I care for her wellbeing. I’d do anything to protect her,” he elaborated curtly.
“Forgive me if I cannot merely accept your assurance, Ravenscroft,” Whitney drawled. “How can you keep her safe? You’ve nothing here but an old butler and a handful of servants for fortification. Have you even a weapon?”
Of course he didn’t have a bloody weapon. He wasn’t an American vagabond who invaded the home of a peer of the realm, waving a pistol and threatening to do him bodily harm.
“This isn’t war, Whitney,” he said gently. “We live in a civilized world. What would you have me do, hire a phalanx of soldiers to guard the damn door?”
“You need to be prepared.” Whitney scrutinized him, appearing to take his measure and making him want to squirm in the process. “I’ve lived through war, my lord. Man can be a savage when life requires it. I’ll never forget that. Whoever wants you dead will try again. Don’t make it easy for him. Don’t put Clara in danger.”
“I would never put Lady Ravenscroft in danger,” he said coldly, for Whitney’s words had affected him more than he cared to admit. Christ, how could he be so selfish? So stupid? He’d hire every brawny, willing man in London to protect Clara if need be. But he couldn’t bear to part with her. Couldn’t countenance the thought of sending her away as Whitney seemed to imply he ought. “Believe of me what you like, Mr. Whitney, but know that I hold your daughter in the highest regard.”
Clara’s father stared him down, seeming to attempt to judge the veracity of his words. Before he could form a response, the study door opened unannounced. The subject of their conversation sailed over the threshold in an elaborate afternoon gown of deep, riveting navy silk trimmed with gold cording.
From her elaborately styled braid to her hem, she was faultlessly elegant, more beautiful than any lady he’d ever before seen. To look upon her, he’d never guess she had so recently been nude and sated in his bed. He shouldn’t have been so coarse with her and well he knew it, but he’d been consumed, too caught up to control himself. Her cheeks were flushed, the sole sign of any discomposure on her part.
“Father,” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with a vibrant affection that would have made him jealous indeed had she addressed any other man.
He was so distracted by drinking in the sight of her that he nearly forgot to stand. Damn it, what was wrong with him? He stood a full half minute after Whitney swept from his chair and met Clara halfway across the study, clasping her to him in an undignified embrace that spoke to the depths of his love.
Julian fought the urge to look away from the unabashed display. He was not familiar with such unfettered emotion and it made him deuced uncomfortable. He was quite certain that neither his mother nor his harsh bastard of a father had ever treated him with a tenth of the adoration Clara’s father so freely showered upon her.
“Clara darlin’.” Whitney’s drawl was infinitely more pronounced as he stepped back, appearing to remember himself. He surveyed Clara as if inspecting her for a sign of ill treatment. “Are you well?”
Clara’s gaze slipped to Julian’s for a moment, and he felt the clash as keenly as he would her touch. The glittering depths of her blue eyes spoke of the abruptness of their last meeting in his chamber. He had been cold to her. Had spilled his seed on her as if he were no better than a rutting animal. And she—regal, elegant, and lovely—she had accepted his every act. She had not questioned. Had not railed against him.
Had he told her all he could offer her was fucking? Suddenly he wondered if it were true. For how could she inspire such fierce feelings within him, the likes of which he’d never known? No other woman had ever made him feel the way Clara did: possessive, bewildered, helpless but to bask in the brilliance of her presence.
He’d never know what his wife read in his expression. Jesus, he liked to think she could read nothing at all, that he wasn’t a book pried open for her thorough inspection. But whatever the case, she turned back to her father with the air of a woman who had reached a decision.
“I’m very well, Father.” She bestowed a beatific smile upon Whitney and embraced him yet again. “How are you and Lady Bella and Virginia? I must confess that I’ve missed you.”
He felt like an interloper in his own home as he awkwardly watched the tableau before him. Never had he even heard his wife speak with such a soft, lilting drawl. And she’d yet to acknowledge him, a slight that was perhaps unintentional but nevertheless unmissed.
“As I’ve missed you, my dear daughter.” Genuine emotion marked Whitney’s low voice. He stepped away from her then, clearing his throat to ward away what sounded like deep sentiment.
By God, was the devil…weeping? Julian found himself straining closer, longing to see the pistol-wielding, threat-issuing American brought to his knees. And wasn’t that the best bloody joke of them all, one man laid low by Clara hoping that his nemesis was as well?
Hellfire, he was a wreck. Perhaps the blows he’d taken to the head had rendered him prone to madness. Yes, surely that was the explanation for the confounding round of emotions churning through him now. Emotions. From a man who’d believed he no longer had the capacity to sustain them. What irony.
“Oh, Father.” Clara said in soft tones, her smile warm and indulgent. “I’m not far from you here. You’re always welcome in our home. Is that not true, Lord Ravenscroft?”
Her vivid eyes pinned him once again, bringing him back into the conversation as though he’d just stepped into the room for the first time. He gathered his faculties, took a breath. It wouldn’t do to appear undone or affected before Clara. And most especially not before her violent hound of a father. He was the Earl of Ravenscroft. He’d fashioned apathy into an art form.
“Of course, my lady.” He kept his tone as mild as possible given the wildness of his inner thoughts. With great effort, he smiled at Jesse Whitney, who watched him now with the careful air of a man who’d just spotted a rattler in his path and sought how best to distract him to avoid being bitten. “Mr. Whitney, we would be humbled if you and Mrs. Whitney would join us for dinner in the upcoming weeks. Lady Ravenscroft will send a formal invitation, of course.”
The pleased smile Clara sent his way was worth the pride he had to swallow to invite the man to dinner. There was something about Jesse Whitney that went against the grain. The man didn’t like him, didn’t trust him. Part of Julian couldn’t blame him. Part of him wanted to prove him wrong.
“We would be happy to accept I’m sure,” Whitney said easily, sparing Julian half a glance before looking back upon Clara. “Clara, daughter. Might I have a word alone with you?”
Clara’s eyes swung from him to her father. Julian felt his face settling into a familiar mask. Here was a new experience. No one had ever before forced him to vacate his own study, threadbare and dilapidated though it was. Indeed, he’d come frighteningly near to being evicted from the entire home, but that danger was now a thing of the past. Still, he supposed there was a first for everything, and being dismissed from his inner sanctum was certainly that.
“My lord?” she asked, her gaze questioning. Probing. Seeing more than he damn well wanted her to see.
The truth of it was that she didn’t need to ask him permission. He was not her bloody gaoler. Unable to keep the twist of self-derision from his smile, he bowed with as much formal elegance as he could muster. “Of course, my lady. Pray excuse me. I find I’ve important matters to attend elsewhere.”
Another bow and he stalked from his study, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. But just as soon as he asked himself the question, he’d already acquired the answer. Clara. His little dove. His wife, damn it. She’d changed everything. She’d even begun to change him.
But one thing remained the same. Her oaf of a father could still bloody well go straight to hell. As he stalked from the chamber, Julian comforted himself with that thought.
Clara tried not to flinch at the sound of Julian slamming the study door. She wished, not for the first time, that she was able to read his shuttered expression and grim gaze with absolute certainty. She thought she’d seen a hint of concern, a spark of caring. Along with something else. The rigid set of his jaw bespoke…what? Irritation? Dissatisfaction?
So much of Ravenscroft remained an enigma to her. At the moment, he was doing his best to keep her at arm’s length. But persistence had always been one of her best qualities. She could meet his determination with some of her own.
Her father’s beloved face drew her attention from her husband’s abrupt departure. Lines of apprehension carved grooves in his forehead and bracketed his mouth. She wondered if he remained this grim as a result of her marriage.
He dispelled her curiosity by breaking his silence. “Clara, tell me the truth. Are you happy? Ravenscroft does not treat you with disrespect, does he?”
Once again the specter of Julian’s reputation had returned. She wanted to rail against the unfairness of it, that others’ judgments of him should always be colored by his past. Somehow, she’d acquired an inexplicable sense of defensiveness on her husband’s behalf. She longed to banish the sadness she sensed in him forever.
Clara met her father’s gaze now unflinchingly. “I’m happy, Father. Truly. Lord Ravenscroft has been a model husband.”
Well, perhaps not entirely a model, she inwardly amended. To be sure, they had much yet between them that would need ironing. Perhaps even mending. Her reaction to Julian confused her as much as the man himself did. She had never known a man as dangerous to her inner balance. He’d had her hopelessly off kilter from the moment she’d entered his study and he’d approached her, as cagey as any predator. She didn’t know where she stood. Didn’t know what the future held in store for them.
But despite all that, telling her father she was happy was not prevarication. For with Julian, she felt as happy and at home as she’d ever been in England. Being his wife would not always be easy, but it was the path she’d chosen. The path that was right for her. She didn’t regret her decision, and she knew that in time they could find happiness together.
Her father’s lips compressed into a tight line of disapproval, as though he weighed his next words. Perhaps he’d anticipated an outpouring from her of how miserable she was in her new role. His undisguised distaste for Julian had not gone unnoticed. She’d been hoping he may have softened. But he had not. He wasn’t brandishing a pistol on this occasion, but his mien was forbidding enough without it.
“Our doors are always open to you,” he said at last. “Should you desire to leave him, Clara, you have a home with myself and Lady Bella.”
His obvious displeasure and distrust of Julian nettled her on her husband’s behalf. “Thank you, Father, but why do you insist on believing that I made such a great error of judgment that I shall need to one day retreat back to you?”
Her father made a sound of exasperation deep in his throat. “Forgive me if I believe you acted impetuously in your decision to marry a known blackguard who compromised you so that he could eliminate his debts with your dowry. He knew I’d consent to nearly any of his terms to save you from ruin and see you settled, the blighter.”
Guilt settled over her, heavy as a boulder. How had it not occurred to her that part of her father’s poor opinion of Julian was due to her subterfuge? She had to tell him the truth, to unburden herself.
Clara placed a hand on her father’s coat sleeve in an imploring gesture. “Father, there’s something I must confess to you. Marrying Lord Ravenscroft was my idea.”
Her father’s brows snapped together. “The hell you say it was. Don’t try to protect him, darlin’.”
Ah, if only she were half the angel her father imagined her to be. But she was not. She was wicked and willful and rebellious. Impetuous too. Lord have mercy, it seemed she had not many virtues in her possession at all if she were to truly consider the matter.
“I’m not trying to protect him,” she told her father gently, almost in the tone she’d use to inform someone that a death had occurred. For she feared his reaction to her full revelation. He would be angry and hurt. Disappointed in her. But regardless, she must tell him everything. “Coming here to his home that night, attempting to be compromised, it was all my idea. I’d never met the earl before that day but I knew of his reputation, and I thought he’d make an excellent foil for my plan to return to Virginia. I offered to pay him to marry me and then annul our union and let me go home.”
Her father’s face went ashen. “Damn it, Clara, tell me you’re lying. Why the hell would you do something so foolish?”
Yes, she had to admit, her actions had been foolish indeed. How naïve of her to ever imagine she could’ve made a man like the Earl of Ravenscroft do her bidding. “You told me you wouldn’t allow me to return to Virginia, that even after I’d reached my majority you wouldn’t settle a penny on me. I didn’t want to remain here. It seemed the best means of circumventing you.”
“If all this is true, why not tell me? You could have spared yourself so much.” He waved his hand in a broad, encompassing gesture. “You could have spared yourself this. If I’d realized you wanted to go back to Virginia so much you’d shackle yourself to a devil like Ravenscroft, I’d have sent you there myself.”
His angry words gave her pause, but she didn’t believe for a moment that he would have mildly acquiesced to sending her to Virginia on her own. He was too protective of those he loved. “Julian is not the devil you think he is, Father.”
“Yes he damn well is.” His face contorted. “Did he or did he not compromise you that night? I saw the two of you with my own eyes, Clara. His conduct was not that of a gentleman.”
Perhaps not. She winced. “He didn’t…that is to say, I allowed you to believe he had lured me to his home and compromised me because it facilitated my objective. If I had told you the truth, you wouldn’t have allowed me to marry him.”
Her father shook his head, clearly trying to force his mind to accept everything she’d just told him. There it was, her secret laid bare. She was not a good daughter. She wasn’t sure she knew how to be. But she did love her father, and she did care for her husband, and she knew a rush of relief at confessing the truth.
“That lying whoreson.” His tone had grown positively murderous now. “He looked me in the eye and told me there was a possibility you carried his child. Fed me some tripe about you two falling in love and then demanded two hundred thousand pounds and a hundred thousand in North Atlantic Electric stocks. By God, don’t tell me you’re too blind to see that man for the fortune hunting vulture he is.”
Clara had no excuse to offer. It seemed that she and her husband were not so very different. When they wanted something, they were dogged in their perseverance. “He’s not a vulture.”
“I’m taking you home with me. This is insupportable. The blackguard dares to put you in danger, keeping you here while someone is out to kill him.” He clenched and unclenched his fists. “I’ll spare the villain the trouble and kill him first. I’m of half a mind to gut him like a hog for his manipulations.”
Lord. This was fast unraveling. “I don’t want to go home with you, Father.”
“I don’t give a goddamn. I’m your father and it’s my duty to protect you, especially if you refuse to protect yourself.” His blue gaze snapped with fury.
“I won’t go with you,” she denied again, for she was where she belonged. Nothing in her life had ever felt so simply, preciously right. Yes, there was no other word for it except one. One she’d refused to think up until this moment as she faced her father’s paternal wrath and protectiveness.
One simple and terrifying word. An emotion as powerful as it was bewildering.
“I’ve fallen in love with Lord Ravenscroft,” she blurted. “I won’t leave him.”