To the devil. Perhaps he ought to rein himself in a tad. It wouldn’t do to become so enamored of her before he even knew her, for Chrissakes. “Mr. Whitney, allow me to be blunt for a moment. You don’t want your daughter to marry me, and I perceive this courting nonsense as an attempt on your part to stop the nuptials from taking place. However, I am, you’ll find as you grow to know me better, an amenable bloke at heart. I propose, therefore, a détente of sorts. I will do as you wish in return for your written oath that the wedding will carry on two weeks hence. Our lawyers will discuss the specifics of the agreement, I trust.”
Whitney nodded, regaining a modicum of his civility. “Clara claims to love you, and if there’s anything I know about my daughter it’s that no one, not even the Lord, can stop her from accomplishing something she’s set her mind to. I’ll not stand in the way, but as a father I must protect her reputation as best as I may.”
An odd sensation overcame Julian then, reminiscent of the way he’d felt when his mother had instructed one of the footmen to drown poor Alexandra’s favorite puppy as a punishment for being cross with her nurse. He still recalled the sound of his sister’s mournful howls. Three years old, poor lass. Pity. He supposed that was what he was experiencing just now. Pity for the father coming to terms with letting his daughter go to a notorious reprobate who he feared had only ruined her to gain a fortune.
But he hadn’t ruined her, not truly. Nor was he marrying her with the sole aim of securing her dowry, though that had certainly been the factor that had influenced him to sell himself one last time. He wouldn’t lie to himself about that. Part of his motive was mercenary. Part pure lust.
Wouldn’t do to think about that now, for he’d just allowed himself to be roped into a fortnight-long betrothal. Courting. Observing the proprieties. Fuck. When was the last time he, Julian Danvers, the seventh Earl of Ravenscroft, had been respectable?
“Draw up the papers,” he said, standing, uncomfortable with himself suddenly. Uncomfortable with the lies he’d perpetuated and the way he had so effortlessly and carelessly manipulated not only the man before him but also his beautiful, innocent daughter. “Draw up the papers, and it shall be done.”
Perhaps it was time to find his whisky.
* * *
Clara had drunk far too much wine at dinner the night before. Had it been three glasses or four? Five or six? It little mattered now, for the end result was the same either way. Her father had made his announcement. Her fate was sealed. She’d almost heard the clang of the prison doors thundering shut on her right there in the dining room. Her glass had been waiting at her hand, filled with a deliciously mind-numbing claret, refilled by an efficient footman whenever she drained it. Which, as it had turned out, had been often.
Unaccustomed as she was to indulging too heavily in spirits, she felt as though an entire regiment of soldiers had marched across her head while she’d slept. Pity that she felt so wretched, up before dawn with a mouth as dry as Virginia dirt in August after a month without rain. She pressed her forehead to the glass pane of her bedchamber window, absorbing its coolness. She was heated, flushed, and she didn’t know if it was down to the aftereffects of the wine or the terrifying fate she’d so stupidly chosen for herself.
Both, more than likely.
She wasn’t getting the hasty wedding she’d expected after all. No, not precisely. Instead, her father had somehow brazened it out with the earl, the results of which meant she was to be courted for a fortnight to make a case for their love match. Paraded before the society her father had embraced—the society she herself found so affected and silly—as though she were an ornament from the hunt.
The street below was beginning to wake. The grim, seemingly inescapable London fog was fiercely thick this morning, overtaking everything beyond her window so that all she could discern were some splotches of light and the dash here and there of a liveried carriage. Perhaps it was the hour when gentlemen returned from their clubs or from their mistress’s beds. All Clara knew was that it wasn’t an hour she would ordinarily be awake.
Courted. Her stomach roiled at the thought. She’d suffered enough pomp and pageantry the last few years. Finishing school, etiquette lessons, dancing instructions, her comeout, introduction to the queen… It had been endless, strict, laden with rules and tricks, wolves in sheep’s clothing. And now, just when her escape had seemed within reach, she was to be delayed by a courting, of all things. It may as well have been a hanging for all she looked forward to it.
What madness. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d become mired in something far larger than she’d ever planned. She’d imagined a quick marriage, her coffers filled, the freedom to do whatever she wanted. It would have been a tearful farewell with her father and Lady Bella, for she truly did care for them. But then it would have been off to the place where she belonged, the place that called to her heart in ways she had never been able to convince her dear father of. Your home is in England now, he’d counter to her every complaint. You will find this country’s appeal in time.
But she hadn’t. Time had passed—years had gone by—and she still disliked almost everything about the country in which she’d found herself unceremoniously mired. She’d committed nearly every act of rebellion she could dream up, short of simply running away, in an effort to dislodge her father from his stubborn determination to keep her in a place that was cold and rigid and dreary.
She turned from the window as her maid arrived, fresh-faced and irritatingly chipper. She brought Clara’s correspondence on a tray along with some tea. Clara seated herself at her desk as was her morning ritual and riffled through the letters while Anderson attended to her coiffure. A slashing scrawl caught her attention, and somehow she knew the owner of that bold penmanship. It seemed he too had risen early. As if it were him touching her and not a mere scrap of paper, warmth unfurled within her belly, and her fingers tingled.
Little dove,
Your father has convinced me—N.B. said convincing transpired sans the use of any firearms—that we must do our best to appear honorable and respectable for the next fortnight. I’ll call this afternoon. Dare I trust you’ll be at home?
Yours,
R.
Clara stared at the scrap of paper in her hand and realized she was smiling. Oh, he was a charmer, the rake she’d chosen for her mad plan. She’d do well to guard her heart against him. Catching her lip between her teeth to quell her unwanted reaction, she took up pen and paper to fashion her response.
Lord Ravenscroft,
While I’m gratified to hear my father didn’t threaten your person upon this occasion, I’m afraid I won’t be receiving callers.
Sincerely,
Miss Clara Elizabeth Whitney
She received a response just after breakfast, under the watchful eyes of her stepmother and the Duchess of Devonshire, who had paid a call on her social rounds. Feigning disinterest, she slipped the note into the pocket of her morning dress as though she weren’t enjoying their game of cat and mouse. She longed to read the contents of the note but dared not seem too eager. Nor did she wish to arouse the suspicions of Lady Bella any further.
The duchess and Lady Bella continued chattering about the duchess’s ball, which was to be held the next night. What music was to be played, what refreshments—certainly not any aspics, which the duchess deplored—but plenty of champagne, who was to be in attendance, etcetera, etcetera, and all rather boring stuff to Clara. A footman interrupted their lighthearted banter shortly, bringing with him a large arrangement of stunning white lilies.
“For Miss Clara,” the young fellow intoned.
Lady Bella directed him where to place the flowers before inspecting them. “Quite lovely, Clara.” She turned to the footman. “Was there not a note accompanying them?”
“I’m afraid not, my lady.” He bowed and exited the room.
Clara didn’t require a note to know who had sent them. The earl.
“Perhaps the answer is in
your pocket, my dear,” the duchess observed shrewdly, never one to mince words.
Clara fished the note from her pocket with reluctance, opened the envelope, and found once again a missive marked with his bold scrawl.
Dearest C.E.W.,
I never said he didn’t threaten my person. Merely that he didn’t use a firearm. Something very much like ‘Do you want me to kill you after all?’ I’ll call at 3.
R.
Lord in heaven. She was smiling again. Realizing she had an audience, she folded the note, marshalled her lips into a rational line, and cleared her throat. “No, I’m afraid this note is from Lady Bo. Perhaps the lilies were sent here in err.” She stuffed the note back into her pocket for good measure.
“Pish,” the duchess dismissed, waving her hand in the air as if combatting an irritating fly. She was animated, bold, beautiful as a butterfly, and older sister to Clara’s dear friend Bo. Once, Her Grace had acted as Clara’s chaperone at a country house party where Clara had unabashedly run her quite ragged. They’d forged a camaraderie of sorts, with the duchess taking Clara under her wing. Of course she could see straight through Clara like a window pane that had just been washed. “If you wish to keep your secrets, you may. But the smile upon your face is quite telling, dear girl.”
“Our Clara fancies herself in love,” Lady Bella revealed with a grim air as she searched Clara’s face, perhaps for a sign of repentance. Or madness, perhaps? One shouldn’t presume to guess.
Some part of Clara—the wicked part—still sometimes found the blindingly beautiful English rose her father had married a rather irritating interloper. In truth, Clara was the interloper, and perhaps that was the real issue. She’d never, from the moment she’d first stepped ashore in England, felt as though she belonged. Their world had already existed without her, and hers without them.
“I don’t fancy myself in love,” she lied, not without compunction. But she’d told the tale so many times that it came more naturally now. “I am in love. I sincerely hope to make a love match with the earl.”
Knowing her stepmother and the duchess as she did—the two could not have been closer had they been sisters born and raised—Clara was certain that the duchess was privy to what had transpired. Ah, well. It seemed there were never any well-kept secrets in London anyway, and soon she would be far, far away from this nonsense.
“A love match with Ravenscroft?” Tia inspected her with keen interest. “I’ve known him for years, and I’ve never known him to be the sort who charms young ladies or entertains them in his study at midnight. If you were a widow or a wealthy married woman with a husband who turns a blind eye to peccadilloes, I would believe your story. But you’re too young for him, too sweet, too…innocent.”
Innocent she was not. She recalled all too well what the earl had done to her. What he’d said to her. Part of her wanted it again. Wanted more. No innocent lady would have such a response to his depravity. But here was a rather salient piece of information. The duchess and her husband-to-be were acquaintances.
“You know Lord Ravenscroft?” Why hadn’t she realized that? “What precisely do you know of him?”
“He is a charmer and a flirt, but I do believe he has a genuine heart. He was quite good to my sister Cleo, and they remain friends.” Tia paused, appearing to choose her next words with judicious precision. “You are aware of his reputation, I trust?”
There it was again, the ever-present reminder that the earl was a wicked man. And he was, for she had experienced his skill firsthand. “His past is not my concern, Your Grace.”
“Ah,” was all Tia said, and Clara couldn’t shake the feeling that her abbreviated response said far more than anything else could.
“It is not too late to turn away from all this, Clara,” her stepmother entreated. “You can change your mind. The damage has not yet been done. Don’t be at home if he calls today.”
“I will be at home.” Clara was firm, unrelenting. If anything, Lady Bella’s heartfelt persistence swayed her in the opposite direction of her intent. “Her Grace says that he has a generous heart. Does that not mollify you?”
Lady Bella pursed her lips as though she’d tasted something sour. “Not in the slightest. A generous heart does not excuse a blackened reputation. The earl is a scoundrel of the first order. How I wish you would see he’s not the man for you.”
“I can see why you’d be drawn into his web. He’s deadly handsome, I’ll own,” the duchess continued. “But dear Clara, don’t forget that surfaces can be deceiving. Bitter scars can hide beneath the most beautiful of facades.”
Clara didn’t care to hear any more of their well-intentioned guidance. She had a singular pursuit now, and that was marrying the earl so she could gain her freedom. It would seem that if she had any hope of either of those two things occurring, she needed to play the game her father had devised for her. She needed to be courted.
* * *
Julian arrived at the Whitney residence precisely at three, buttoned up, jaw freshly shaved, smart waistcoat, rakish hat, looking for all the world like a gentleman intent upon wooing his lady. In short, he’d been ready for a proper courting. Or rather, as proper a courting as a man who’d fucked half the ladies of the Upper Ten Thousand for his supper could manage.
But he’d been met by a harried Lady Bella who’d informed him there was a family matter—urgent, her mother suddenly ill and in need of attendance—that would prevent her from acting as chaperone. A lady’s maid would not be sufficient. The bloodthirsty Mr. Whitney was not at home, leaving no way for Julian to see Miss Whitney. She was so very sorry, but could he possibly call another day when the dowager marchioness was not ailing?
So he’d done the gentlemanly thing, bowed and apologized, offered his sincere hopes that the fierce old curmudgeon that was Lady Thornton would prevail. He’d gone back to his carriage, but as he drove along, he’d seen the strangest thing. A lone woman hurried along the street, head down, dressed in the first stare of fashion though she clearly sought to be unnoticed, a large hat tilted to conceal her face. He recognized that form, even though he’d held those lush curves in his arms but once. She turned and he saw her face.
Damn it all to hell, she was a troublesome one.
He instructed his driver to stop and alighted, closing the distance between them with easy strides. “Miss C.E.W., can it be you?” He kept his voice carefully low and intimate as he drew alongside her, touching her elbow lightly.
“Lord in heaven,” she exclaimed in her airy drawl. Surprise mingled with alarm on her beautiful, expressive face. “You gave me a fright, sir.”
What the devil was she thinking, sneaking away from her home with no chaperone, in the midst of the day? Did she truly believe no one would see and recognize her, that she wouldn’t ruin herself? That there wouldn’t be hell to pay? The girl’s temerity knew no bounds. She was either slow-witted or possessed of tremendous audacity. Though, to be fair, she had stolen her way into his study at midnight and proposed to him—that alone suggested audacity of a most unbecoming and tremendous sort. The sort he quite admired, in fact.
But none of that meant that he was going to allow her to ruin his plans to wallow in her dowry and thoroughly debauch her after she’d become his countess.
“Come,” he said in his most authoritative tone. Clearly, she needed his aid before she committed any more egregious sins. And wasn’t that a laugh, the Earl of Ravenscroft looking after a lady’s reputation? “Into the carriage with you.”
“I can’t go anywhere with you.” Her eyes were wide and bluer than the clearest country sky.
“You can and you will.” He cast a glance around the busy street. It was only a matter of time before they were both recognized. “For your sake, little dove, get into the carriage. I’ll take you safely back home.”
“I’m safe enough.” She cast a pointed look toward her reticule, which bulged in most peculiar fashion. “I carry a pistol with me always. I’ve done this many times before.”
Damnation. He had no doubt that she had. Perhaps she was as much of a cutthroat at heart as her dear papa. “Into the carriage. You cannot run about the streets of London unchaperoned. Mr. Whitney was most firm in his stipulations.”
She frowned at him, her eyes sparkling with mulish heat and her chin tilting in the air. “What business is it of yours whether I run about the streets? I’m my own person, my lord.”
“Of course you are, little dove, but you are also to be my wife. You’re under my protection now.” As he said the words, he couldn’t resist touching the tip of her stubborn chin.
He felt her warmth through his gloves, and the scent of her, orange and musky and dazzling as sunshine, slammed over him. It was delightful, intoxicating. She was intoxicating. The notion that he was now her protector oddly aroused him—the juxtaposition of his life of sin with her purity made him harder than a randy youth with his first woman. Right there on the street.
To hell with it. If he didn’t gather his wits and her both, he’d be doing something rash. Like taking her maidenhead in his carriage. It had its appeal, of course, but there was something delicious about waiting, about making her his in good time. No woman he’d bedded had ever been his, whether in heart or in status, and he rather liked the notion of her being the first.
“Lord Ravenscroft, I’d like to be on my way,” she prattled now, oblivious to the mayhem her beauty and bold naïveté wreaked upon him.
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t think so, my dear.” Without relinquishing his grasp upon her elbow, he hauled her toward his waiting carriage and the relative safety of the privacy waiting therein.
She balked, tugging back and attempting with all her might to resist. But he was stronger than she, and trundling her into his carriage was a small matter indeed. He quietly instructed his driver to take several laps around the neighborhood before returning her to her father’s home. After all, he reasoned, who was he to turn away such a gift from the fates?
Heart’s Temptation Series Books 4-6 Page 32