lara stared at the carriage awaiting her, the knot of dread within her growing ever more intricate and insistent. Beyond, the standard bustle of the outdoors was as familiar as ever. Carriages, horses, clattering, thumping, creaking, a cacophony of smells and sounds. The London fog had decided to reassert itself with a sudden vengeance, and it cloaked the tops of the elegant mansions lining the street and fell about everyone’s shoulders like a cloying ghost that couldn’t be escaped.
Her fingers tightened on the earl’s arm as they stopped to say their formal goodbyes. Impossible to believe that she was now this notorious, handsome man’s wife. That he was her husband. That they were well and truly…
Married.
There. She’d thought it, a small word for such a frightening state. Clara experienced none of the joy that a new bride must ordinarily feel. Instead, she felt the heavy weight of the band he had slid upon her finger as though it were a manacle. She had bound herself to a stranger. The vows they’d spoken had not seemed as impermanent as she’d expected them to, and there was no denying the fact that she was now, in the eyes of God and man, the Countess of Ravenscroft.
The wedding breakfast had been a truly somber affair. Her father had worn an expression akin to a man attending the funeral of a loved one. Her stepmother had been dreadfully ill, sitting at the table ashen-faced, pushing about her food with her fork without actually eating a morsel of it. Lord and Lady Thornton, the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, Mr. and Mrs. Levi Storm, and Lady Bo were in attendance as well, in an assortment of London friends and family. They’d all done an admirable job of feigning ignorance and promoting a false sense of cheer.
And now here she stood, Lady Ravenscroft in name but most assuredly never deed, about to say goodbye to the life she’d known for the last five years. She hadn’t accounted for this moment and its bittersweet finality, for the oddity of being trundled into a carriage with the earl as though they were setting off into a life together.
“You will treat her well,” her father said to the earl now, his tone one of threatening menace.
“Of course I will,” Ravenscroft assured him, his charm easy and practiced. But he sent Clara a look that she couldn’t quite read. It was searching. Questioning, almost. Heated. “My wife will want for nothing.”
Clara flushed, not liking the way his stare made her feel or the glint of desire she recognized there. Lady Bella, still looking wan, spared her by pulling her aside and hugging her. “Be happy, darling Clara. That is my fondest wish for you.”
“Thank you.” She returned her stepmother’s hug with true feeling.
Lady Thornton stepped in next. “He has a good heart,” she told her, sotto voce. “Don’t be fooled into thinking otherwise.”
But Clara wasn’t interested in the earl’s heart. She wasn’t interested in him. In fact, she scarcely intended to spend a fortnight with him before booking her passage back to America. She was sure the dissolution of their brief marriage could occur with a solicitor working on her behalf.
“Of course,” she said weakly, feeling as ill as Lady Bella looked. She’d never counted herself a liar, and standing before so many people she cared for and respected, engaging in an outright falsehood, shamed her.
Bo embraced her then, throwing her arms around Clara and hugging her as though it was the last embrace they’d ever share. And perhaps it would be, Clara had to admit, if neither of them crossed the Atlantic in the coming years. She returned her friend’s enthusiastic clasp.
“You must tell me everything,” her friend whispered into her ear. “Everything.”
Clara shook her head. There wouldn’t be anything to tell. “I will see you soon, dear friend,” she said simply. She’d do whatever she must to see Bo before she left. Bo was the very best friend—indeed the only friend—Clara had ever made in England.
Ravenscroft held out his arm for her again, watching her solemnly. His glorious dark hair was hidden beneath a hat, and he was every inch the dashing rake from head to toe. He was so beautiful to look upon that she nearly lost her breath for a moment. It was as if the whirlwind of fashionable London around them stopped, and all she could see was him. The notorious Earl of Ravenscroft. Seducer. Hedonist. Her husband.
“My lady,” he said softly. “We should take our leave now.”
Yes, she supposed they should. Her final embrace was for her father, who hugged her wordlessly. She breathed deeply of his beloved, familiar scent. Clara didn’t care that it wasn’t done to show emotion or to embrace those she cared for on the street. She was her own woman now, and this was just the beginning of being who she was, of following her own rules, of living her life unapologetically.
“Father, I love you.” She admired him. She disagreed with him. But he was a good man. Imperfect, but good.
“And I love you, my girl.” He leveled another glare at Ravenscroft, who watched their exchange with interest. “Never forget, Ravenscroft.”
“Not bloody likely, old boy,” the earl drawled before raising an imperious brow. “Lady Ravenscroft?”
Lady Ravenscroft. The title sank into her conscience like a stone. Clara half expected to turn and find another, some august, lovely lady who would do him justice. Someone who wanted to be his countess, a born-in-the-purple aristocrat who didn’t intend to flee him at the first opportunity.
I am not she, Clara wanted to say.
But instead, she took his arm and allowed him to lead her to the brougham. She stepped up and inside the vehicle, settling herself on the squab and trying to quell her nerves. She noted the carriage’s fine, Morocco leather. Ivory damask lined the interior. This was not the same, tired conveyance he’d traveled in before, a clear sign that his fortunes had changed.
The two hundred thousand pounds he’s asked for.
Her father’s angry words echoed in her mind, a sharp reprimand. The earl was not a man who ought to be trusted. They had much to discuss. Ravenscroft entered the carriage and settled himself at her side, crowding her with his large body. The door slammed closed.
Suddenly, the brougham felt very small. His cologne teased her senses. Her gaze settled on his muscled thigh, brushing against her skirts. A reckless urge to touch him struck her. He was her husband. She could press her palm to him, absorb his heat through the fabric of his trousers. Such a foreign notion, the liberty to do as she wished. But no, she would not touch him. She had no desire to touch him. It must be the newness of her status that prompted her wayward compulsions.
Clara turned to the window. The gathering of well-wishers still stood in a half-circle, watching their departure with grim expressions. She waved one last time as the brougham lurched into motion. It was done. She’d gained her freedom.
“‘O mistress mine where are you roaming’?”
The soft, low words skittered over her skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake. She looked away from the family and friends growing smaller and farther away with each clop of the horses’ hooves. The earl watched her, his eyes probing, his expression unreadable as he removed his gloves. She hadn’t expected him to recite Shakespeare, but then he seemed to have an innate skill for surprising her.
She wouldn’t speak the next line to him. O stay and hear, your true love’s coming. Clara swallowed, collecting her jumbled emotions, tamping down the unwanted warmth that threatened to steal over her. “Soon enough, I’ll be roaming to Virginia.”
“Newly wed and already prepared to flee, little dove? I can’t be as bad as all that, can I?” He took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a kiss that was hot as a brand, even through her glove.
She would have tugged her hand from his grasp but he held fast. “Your reputation precedes you, my lord.”
He grinned, his touch sliding to her wrist. He caught her glove with his teeth, and removed it in one fluid motion. “Call me Julian. I’m your husband now, after all.”
Julian. It suited him. A strong name, equal parts bold and leonine. Becoming more familiar with him than necessary would not be wise. She’d already allowed him far too many liberties.
“Not truly,” she insisted. He must not be allowed to forget the nature of their union. “Ours is a temporary joining, my lord.”
“It needn’t be.” His bare fingers tangled with hers. “You could remain my countess, little dove.”
The contact and the solemnity with which he undermined all her intentions jolted her. “I have no wish to be your countess.”
But her breathless tone belied her words. Even she had to admit to herself that she was not entirely immune to him, for here she sat, watching as he took the tip of her index finger and gave her a wicked little nip. And the thoughts swirling through her mind had nothing to do with boarding a vessel bound for her homeland and everything to do with the debauched things he would do to her body if she but allowed him.
He sucked her finger, his hold on her wrist light enough now that she could escape him. “Pity.” His tongue trailed a slow path to her knuckle. He bit again, catching the smallest bit of her skin in his even, white teeth.
Those teeth were as beautiful as the rest of him. It was unfair for a man so jaded with sin to be as handsome as he. She inhaled, a current of desire pooling between her legs like molten honey.
Clara snatched her hand away before he could weaken her defenses with any more of his lurid games. “The true pity would be to mire ourselves in an unwanted marriage the same as so many other men and women before us.”
His direct gaze sparked with sensual promise. “Never think you’re unwanted, little dove. Not for a minute.”
How easily he could tempt her. She must never underestimate him, must harden her heart and her intentions. “We wouldn’t suit, my lord. I don’t like cynical reprobates who cozen my father out of two hundred thousand pounds.”
“Ah.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Were we not meant to split your dowry evenly? One hundred thousand apiece, no?”
She frowned. “You also requested stocks.”
“Curious little dove.” Idly, he stroked the satin brocade of her skirts, his finger tracing the rose pattern set against a backdrop of vivid blue. “If a man must sell himself, his price ought to be high enough to make it worthwhile.”
She couldn’t argue with his logic or stop tracking the mesmerizing progression of that lone finger. With a fluid grace, he trailed it to the center of her skirts, not stopping until he was directly above the juncture of her thighs. Layers of fabric were the only barriers between them. Inexplicably, she recalled how it had felt before when he’d slid his hand beneath her skirts. When he’d stroked her, told her that next time he’d use his tongue instead.
She had to keep her mind on practical matters. Drat it all, what had he said? She tore her attention from his wicked, wandering finger and looked back to his handsome face. He watched her intently, in that piercing way he had.
“I didn’t buy you, Lord Ravenscroft,” she forced herself to say with a cool hauteur she didn’t feel. “I bought my freedom.”
“What if they could be one and the same, Lady Ravenscroft?” His eyes dipped to her mouth and she felt it with the force of a caress.
It was as if he sought to seduce her by slow torture. Small touches, nips, and licks, the heat of a stare, the suggestion of his sensual mouth. The air in the brougham seemed stifling. How could he render her so helpless with such little effort? There must be some flaw in her character, some absent moral girding that he exploited. Her heartbeat quickened. Surely it was not merely him.
“You mustn’t call me that.” Her tone was prim as any governess but inside, she raged with fever. He was making her hot. Weak. Dizzy.
He opened his hand, fingers splaying over her skirts in a possessive gesture, and pressed down. She felt him through her many layers, as if he claimed her and taunted her all at once. Just barely, she suppressed the need to tip her hips as if she were seeking him.
“What mustn’t I call you, little dove?” Dark amusement colored his voice.
He knew the effect he had on her. Of course he did. She thought of the first night she’d come to him in his study, how he’d been entertained by her, how he’d toyed with her. The rattler was back, coiled and ready to strike.
“Lady Ravenscroft,” she snapped, irritated with herself for her damnable weakness. Why had she not prepared herself better? Why had she ever imagined she could manage a man like the Earl of Ravenscroft? “It’s a mantle that ought to be reserved for your true wife. I’ll not wear it for long.”
He leaned into her, so near she felt his hot breath on her lower lip. “Do you know the only thing I’d prefer you not wear for long, darling?”
She tried to escape him, put some distance between them by tilting her head back against the carriage walls. But the brougham was designed to be an intimate vehicle for two passengers, and there was only so far that she could go. “This is most improper, my lord.”
With his free hand, he touched the chiffon ruffle that edged her décolletage and fell in a cascade between her breasts. “This dress, little dove. I want to peel it off your luscious body, strip off all your undergarments. I want you naked and beneath me. Does that shock you?”
Of course his frank words shocked her. But they also intrigued her. They also sent tiny tongues of fire licking through her just beneath her skin. Naked and beneath him. Her limbs felt heavy, her entire being sparking with need. “This is a marriage of convenience,” she reminded him. “In name but not in deed.”
The pad of his thumb brushed the base of her throat. “Fucking you would be most convenient.”
There it was again, that filthy word. Ridiculous that it affected her. He was depraved. She should be properly appalled. Disgusted. Instead, a fresh onslaught of molten heat blossomed through her, beginning between her thighs and radiating everywhere. Even the tips of her ears felt hot. She imagined every part of her, from her head to her toes, flushed pink.
“You agreed to my bargain.” If only her mouth weren’t so dry as she reminded him. If only he didn’t make her so weak.
Slowly, he rubbed a circle of fire on her bare skin with his thumb. “I agreed to marry you, love. Nothing more.”
“But of course you agreed to my terms.”
Ravenscroft considered her, still far too near for comfort. “I professed your ruination. I orchestrated our nuptials. But I never, not even for a moment, promised never to bed you, little dove.”
She thought back to their conversation on the night they’d met. To her great shock, she couldn’t recall him ever promising to obey her terms. He’d been adamant, in fact, that he wouldn’t wed her at all. Until her father had arrived, and Ravenscroft suddenly declared that he’d ruined her.
She stilled, an icy sensation streaking through her. How had she failed to realize he’d never actually agreed to her terms? She had no vow, no oath, no written arrangement. Not a single reassurance. And yet, like the lamb bound for the proverbial slaughtering, here she sat, Lady Ravenscroft. How thoroughly he had routed her. Now she was exposed, vulnerable to enemy forces.
Clara felt even more scattered than before. She mistrusted him. Part of her was angry that she had allowed such a clever manipulation. Part of her still longed for his lips upon hers. “Are you saying you intend to force…relations upon me?”
He grinned, flashing his teeth again. “Never.”
Relief washed over her. She exhaled.
His next words set her back on edge. “Fair warning, love. I’m skilled in the art of persuasion.”
There was no doubting his meaning or his intentions. But she was a Virginia girl, and she wouldn’t be cowed by any English rake, no matter how pretty his face or tantalizing his touch. She tipped up her chin in defiance. “Fair warning, Lord Ravenscroft. I’m equally skilled in the art of shooting.”
He laughed, the sound as pleasing to the ears as he was to the eyes. Mellifluous and low and alluring. “So you’ve warned before, Lady Ravenscroft. I can see you’re in your papa’s bloodthirsty mold. Where is your pistol, darling? Perhaps I ought to disarm you now before it’s too late.”
Tucked into her trunks, but she wasn’t about to tell him where. Let him wonder, the scoundrel. How dare he wed her with every intention of seducing her? What else did he plan? To refuse an annulment? Keep her from returning to Virginia? Claim all her dowry for his own?
“You’ll never know,” she told him, catching his hands in an attempt to keep him at bay. “What else do you intend to do now that we’re wed, my lord? Has this been nothing more than a game to you?”
His expression sobered. “You’re not a game to me, little dove.”
“Call me by my name then.” When she would have disengaged from him, he tangled his fingers in hers, refusing to release her.
“Clara,” he said softly in his proper English vowels as though it were a precious word to him. Or maybe a vow. And then, again. “Clara.” He raised both of her hands to his mouth for a kiss to each. A third time. “Clara Elizabeth Ravenscroft.”
“Clara Whitney,” she countered. The mere utterance of her name in conjunction with his felt somehow just as intimate as his hand up her skirts.
“Not any longer.” He turned her hands over, kissing each palm, and she realized for the first time that one of her hands remained gloved and the other bare. He’d swept her away so easily she’d failed to notice. “You’re mine now.”
If only his possessive proclamation didn’t stir some weakness within her. “I’m my own.”
“No.” He leaned into her at last, kissing the side of her neck. “You’re most definitely mine,” he said against her skin. “I’ll take great pleasure convincing you of it.” Another kiss, a dart of his tongue over the sensitive place just beneath her ear before he nipped her lobe. “But for now, we’ve arrived.”
She became aware of her surroundings all at once. The brougham no longer swayed and rocked. How long had they been parked? Mortification sunk into her, heating her cheeks all over again.
“Come,” he said. “See your new home, Lady Ravenscroft.”
She didn’t bother to correct him.