Chapter Fourteen
Clara sat at her library table with paper, ink, and pen. She tried to plan the next edition of Parnassus.
It was not going well. Her mind dwelled elsewhere, not on the mix of essays and articles that might appeal to women readers.
While she ate her dinner, a few hard truths had presented themselves. They demanded attention and contemplation, and since she could not remove them from her mind, she faced them squarely now.
First, Theo had seen her with Stratton and drawn conclusions that were not warranted. She would be lucky not to find her grandmother placing an engagement announcement in the papers before the week was out.
Second, while the two of them had not attracted much attention, they had been seen together. After spending time with each other at Brentworth’s party, rumors were bound to start.
Third, she had learned the history of their families’ old feud, and in telling it Stratton had blamed her father far more than his. She thought that ungallant. If he had not kissed her, she would have pointed out how unfair his interpretation had been. Only he had, and once more caused her to forget too quickly why she was not supposed to like him or to accept his company and how those rumors of his seeking revenge might be true and might even touch on her family.
Four—she sighed heavily when she admitted this—unless her astonishment led her to misunderstand, or unless Stratton spoke in poetic euphemisms, she had all but given him permission to do things to her that she had never realized men did to any women, least of all women like her.
Finally—she sighed again, at her lack of good sense—she might have also allowed him to think she was agreeable to an affair. Which she was not. A kiss now and then was one thing. An affair would be too delicious—no, not delicious! Where had that word come from? Rash and dangerous, that was what it would be.
She repeated those two words again in her mind. She focused on them. She pictured herself explaining that to him. Except he looked magnificent in her imagination, that little smile forming while she disabused him of that entire notion. Then he interrupted her with a kiss, and a hundred sparkles of excitement enlivened her in that fantasy. And in reality too, where she sat on the chair.
She got hold of herself and forced her attention again to her blank paper. She picked up her pen and dipped it, determined to do more this evening than swoon over the Duke of Stratton. She had allowed too much familiarity, and look where it had brought her. To secretly relishing just how dangerous a man could be.
* * *
Adam prowled his house, pacing through its immense chambers and halls. His banyan billowed behind him. He had unbuttoned it because its warmth smothered him. He felt no night chill, even with many of the windows open. Rather the opposite. A discomfort like a fever tormented him.
The heat burned in his head more than his body. Erotic images and impulses lodged there. Nothing had dispelled them. Not reading. Not burying himself in estate accounts. Not itemizing what he had and had not learned about the intrigue surrounding his father’s death.
Immersing himself in those details had been a desperate, futile attempt to break Clara’s hold on him. Everything indicated her father had added fuel to the fire of those rumors and possibly started them himself. The dowager may well have urged him on. Her current belated efforts to forge a peace all but said so.
He still cared about that, furiously so, but thinking about Clara kept interfering with the righteous anger he had carried back from France. Her blind loyalty to her father, seen again just this afternoon, mattered now, even if it had not at first. When he first decided to pursue her, it had been an impulse born of lust and revenge, an oblique way to prod old enemies by taking possession of that family’s most privileged and prized daughter. Now he envisioned her hurt if he discovered things that impugned the late earl.
Duty, duty. He chanted that word in his mind when he found himself making excuses for not doing what he needed to do, all because of a woman. He could not ignore that the more he knew her, the more she weakened his resolve. Who would care if he let history lie buried? Not his mother.
His strides took him to the gallery outside the ballroom. Moonlight streamed in the long windows on one side of the long hall, giving form to the benches and plants and framed images. He walked down its length beneath the gazes of ancestors until he came to his father’s portrait. He had not sought out that painting, but he stopped when he saw it.
He and his father did not look much alike. Adam took after his mother more. His father had been thoroughly English, with a long, full face and intelligent eyes. He wore a white wig in the portrait, and a vague smile. He had looked nothing like that the last time Adam saw him, and it was that last view that remained vivid in his memory now. Perhaps if his father had known what a pistol ball to the temple did to a body, he would have chosen another way.
Duty, duty. He could not turn back, of course. Acknowledging his duty did not banish thoughts about Clara or even cause him to weigh his choices rationally. He strode on, pacing through the night, fighting a battle that he knew a man almost never won, against the urge to possess a woman he desired.
* * *
Not for the first time that night Clara broke out of sleep and into wakefulness. She twisted in her bed, pulling the sheet and coverlet this way and that, turning on her side. While she thumped her pillows, her eyes opened for a moment. Yellow and silver light pooled on her bedclothes. Fully awake now, she looked at her window. The drapes were drawn back, and light from both the moon and the square’s streetlamps filtered in like fairy dust.
She thought she had seen Jocelyn close the drapes. Apparently not. Annoyed by her maid’s carelessness, she hopped out of bed and padded over to do it herself.
“Do not. With no lamp, I will not be able to see you if you do that.”
Her hand clutched the drapery while her body froze in shock. She pivoted. Stratton sat in a chair across her chamber, as relaxed as if he owned the house. In fact, it appeared he had been sitting there some time, from the way his legs stretched out and the manner in which he rested his head on one bent arm’s hand.
“What—How did you get up here?”
“Your housekeeper let me in. I knocked, she arrived at the door in dishabille, and with one look she turned and brought me up. She was good enough to point to your door before continuing to the next level.”
“What bizarre behavior.”
“She seemed to think you expected me.” He drew in his legs and leaned forward while he shrugged off his frock coat.
“She just started today. I will have to explain to her in the strongest terms that—” Bits of her conversation with Mrs. Finley that morning interrupted her thoughts. The bits about discretion and important people visiting, even at unusual hours. No one was more important than a duke. Nothing required discretion more than an unmarried woman’s affair with a man.
The duke now unbuttoned his waistcoat. Panic thumped in her heart.
“The housekeeper made a mistake. The household—my maid—”
“Your maid saw me too. I looked up the stairwell while she was peering down.”
“Oh, dear heaven.”
“Neither she nor the housekeeper seemed shocked by my arrival. Only you do.” He removed the waistcoat and set it on top of the frock coat on the chair by her writing desk. “Do you want me to leave, Clara? If you do, say so now, before I finish undressing. It will be very annoying if you become a coward after I am naked.”
Naked.
He waited. She stared. How hard could it be to say yes, I do want you to leave? Very hard, it turned out. Because most of her did not want him to leave, and the rest was not sure.
He bent and removed his boots. He stood. “You look lovely in the moonlight. Ethereal. All silvers and grays.”
She looked down at herself. Unless she was mistaken, that light made her thin lawn nightdress transparent. She did not know if she appeared ethereal, but she suspected she looked almost naked herself.
She resisted the impulse to pull the drape around her. She did not care for the way he used that word coward, as if sending him away showed a lack of character instead of admirable restraint. A respectable woman deciding to remain respectable was not a coward. She was careful and sensible and—and—She sighed, because the excitement singing through her refused to hear the old, predictable lessons about good sense and every other boring word ever used to discourage pleasure.
All the same, she would have to stand her ground, almost naked though she was, and do what she must. To have him in her own bedchamber, her own bed, was beyond dangerous. It was insanely reckless.
She looked up to explain that to him, confident that he would understand like the gentleman he was. Just as she did, he pulled off his shirt, and suddenly she forgot what she intended to say.
* * *
Clara just looked at him, her eyes wide with excitement and fear. It had occurred to him, when she woke and he saw her shock at his presence, to give her one kiss and retreat. Except she did look lovely and would look more beautiful once he removed that cap. Nor did she scream or order him to leave. Instead she watched him, so obviously of two minds that he guessed the debate in her mind.
It was the cap that told him for certain that she did not feign surprise at seeing him. A woman anticipating a man’s arrival in her bedchamber would never wear that. The fool of a new housekeeper had drawn conclusions that Clara herself had not. He had been delighted by the mistake before he knew it to be one. The idea that she expected him, welcomed him, and made arrangements to receive him banished any indecision. He had almost taken the stairs three at a time.
He went over to her and took her into his arms. “You have not spoken. I am here because of a comedy of errors, but it must still be your choice if I stay.”
She placed her palms flat on his chest, then laid her cheek on the skin between them. The fine lawn on her bed dress offered little barrier to the feel of her body beneath his hands and arms. Her soft, sweet warmth entered him and soothed the restless discontent he had lived with tonight.
“You must be gone before five.”
“I will be gone well before.”
“You must tell no one. You must swear it. And you must promise to die before you tell my family.”
“Die?”
She looked up into his eyes. A spark of the Clara he so admired shone brightly amid others that reflected her enchantment. He could feel her arousal. But she had not abandoned herself. “Yes, die. They are not to know.”
“I so swear.” He would probably swear to anything right now.
She stretched up and wrapped her arms around his neck. She gave him a small kiss. “Then I have decided I will not be a coward, as you put it so ungenerously.”
“That was my hunger for you trying to tip the balance in my favor.”
“I know. It worked.”
He plucked off the cap. Her hair tumbled down. He stretched his fingers through it and held her head to a kiss that had waited hours to be released. The ferocity of his desire burst hot and hard. It threatened to conquer him. He had to force control so he did not ravish her then and there.
He unbuttoned the top of her nightdress until it gapped enough that he could ease it down her shoulders and arms. She huddled against him to hide her nakedness. He pushed the dress over her hips, then lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.
She pulled the bedclothes up as soon as he laid her down. He settled next to her. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head.
He eased the bedclothes away. “Then don’t do that. I want to see you.”
She closed her eyes as he peeled away her shield. He left her like that while he stood and removed the rest of his garments. The sight of her lying there had his mind burning.
“It is said the French are very good at this,” she said.
“I am half English.”
“Perhaps you should speak French, so as to call on that half.”
“I do not think I will be speaking much. My mouth will be too busy.”
He rejoined her and braced on one arm while he caressed her neck and down her chest between her breasts. Already their tips rose hard and high.
Her own hand stroked his arm. She looked up at him. “Do you really intend to do all those things you spoke of this afternoon?”
“Not all of them tonight.” He would not have the patience.
“That was very bad of you. Very scandalous.”
“And yet you did nothing to stop me. Not one gasp. Not one word.”
“I was too shocked.”
“It looked to me like you were fascinated.” And aroused. Definitely aroused. He would never have gone so far if not for that. He palmed both tips lightly.
She gasped. “Oh! That feels even better without clothing.”
He made sure she learned just how much better. He caressed her breasts until she moaned with pleasure, then lowered his head and used his tongue and mouth.
Wildness claimed her so quickly she must not have fought it at all. Her passion inflamed his own. Erotic images plagued him, but he kept enough sense to know this was not the night for them.
He stroked to her legs, then pressed his hand up between her thighs. Joyful shock rang out in her cries. He explored her moist softness while he continued arousing her with teeth and tongue. Lost to the sensations, she parted her legs more and told him with her begging sighs that she wanted more when his caresses increased her pleasure.
Raw hunger broke free in him. Nothing less than thrusting inside her would satisfy that need now. He gritted his teeth and stroked the places that would force her to her release if she permitted it. He heard her climb in her cries and felt it in her body’s movements. He also felt her fear. He pressed his mouth to her ear and told her to let go. She did, embracing that oblivion with a scream.
He moved to take her. Her arms rose to clutch him. He leashed enough sense to go slow at first and learned that was a damned good thing. He held himself back so he did not hurt her further while desire howled in him. He silenced that primitive voice long enough to know the calmer pleasure of the feel of her encasing him. He stroked long and slow while he could, but eventually the need for completion defeated him. Release came like a cataclysm. It pitched him into dark silence where no other senses existed and where utter peace waited.
* * *
Having experience with many women, Adam knew better than to fall asleep the way his whole body encouraged. Instead, as he emerged back into the world, he rolled off Clara and pulled her into his arm by his side.
It behooved him to say something as soon as his mind would cooperate. Experience gained him nothing there, however. This was a first time for her, which made it his first time too, in a manner of speaking.
Clara was ready to talk even if he was not. For reasons he never understood, women turned chatty at such times. She was no exception.
“That was very nice,” she said. “It did not hurt nearly as much as I expected.”
“That is good to know.” The nice part pleased him. The not hurting part relieved him. It seemed to him he might have hurt her, now that a few memories infiltrated his mind.
She rose up on her elbow and looked at him. “I know gentlemen are supposed to feel guilty when they have been with innocents, but I trust you do not.”
“I do not feel guilty at all, since I intend that we will marry.”
“See? There is that guilt, even if you deny it. Well, I absolve you.”
“Clara, I already proposed. Remember?”
“You did not really propose. You did not mean it. It was an easy, safe proposal because you made it to a woman who never intended to marry. I am only saying that I do not want you now making it serious out of guilt.”
“It is not guilt. Although, considering what just happened, there really is no choice now.”
“Of course there is. Do not pretend that honor now requires it. You knew I was a virgin yet did not restrain yourself. More to the point, you knew I was a virgin who would not marry you even after we did this.”
He would not insult her by saying he had known nothing of the sort. The odds had been about even on the virginity question. She was the kind of woman who might have taken a lover out of curiosity if nothing else.
She may have just done that with him.
“So we are agreed. No guilt, and also no obligations,” she said.
He agreed to nothing. There was time enough to argue about it another day.
That topic finished to her satisfaction, she nestled in beside him again. “I know why you really left England. I know about your father.”
He had barely put his mind back together, and this turn in subject took him aback. “What do you know?”
“How he died. You must have been very sad.”
“I was more angry than sad. At him. At his reasons.”
“I know about those too. The reasons. It all sounds most unfair to me.”
“What do you know?” he repeated, carefully.
“Bits and pieces only. About the rumors. I heard some jewels played a role.”
He made great efforts to keep his tone casual and not pointed. “Who told you that?”
“Lady Hollsworth, at the garden party.”
It had been a mistake not to force a conversation with Hollsworth. A mistake to put it off.
“I know nothing about any jewels. I think she misspoke,” he said.
“Perhaps.”
Nothing more came for several minutes. He dared allow himself to begin falling asleep.
“I have thought since I first met you that you carried a darkness in you,” she said, pulling him awake again. “Something that made you brood. Just now, while we were together in pleasure, I was spared even the slightest touch of grief for the first time in six months. It seemed to me that perhaps the darkness lifted in you too, for a while. If so, I am glad.”
It had lifted, in ways it never had in France no matter whose bed he shared. That she had noticed impressed him. That she was glad for it touched him.
She required no confirmation that she was correct. Having said her piece, she was done. She nestled beside him, silent in her contentment, not even demanding more conversation.