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.
Chapter 8
The butler’s mien was as grim as Clara felt on the inside.
By the glaring light of day, the Earl of Ravenscroft’s home on Curzon Street showed itself to be even shabbier than she’d first realized. The carpet was thin and outmoded. The wallpapers were faded. Even the window dressings looked like embarrassed spinsters trying to hide themselves in the corner of a ballroom so no one would notice how gauche they were. From the dour butler to the furniture from last century—which desperately wanted a polish—the whole place was in need of a woman’s touch.
Some other woman’s touch, she reminded herself. She could provide the coin but she had no intention of lingering and toiling over the threadbare Aubusson. He couldn’t force her to remain. She was now a woman of her own means, and as soon as she could extricate herself from the earl’s hedonistic clutches, she would.
Introductions were performed to the frightfully skeletal staff. Notably absent from the ragtag grouping of servants was the housekeeper. At long last, Clara and Ravenscroft settled in for tea in the drawing room with his sisters, who had not joined them for the wedding ceremony or breakfast.
Lady Alexandra and Lady Josephine were dressed in tepid gowns that looked as if they’d been chosen by a grandmother or elderly aunt. Hopelessly out of date, they would have been all the rage a generation ago with their enormous crinolines. Someone ought to take them shopping, find them proper gowns.
Not me, she reminded herself sternly. She had other, far more important plans. Home. Virginia. Gaining the vote. Ravenscroft seated himself at her side, an unwanted distraction.
“We’ve had the greatest excitement here this morning whilst awaiting your arrival,” Lady Josephine informed them breezily as they settled in for tea.
It wasn’t precisely the words of welcome or congratulations—however misplaced—that Clara had anticipated. The earl’s sisters appeared just as unpredictable and unconventional as he.
“The chamber maid was caught with a footman in the library,” Lady Alexandra announced. “Their embrace was not chaste.”
Clara almost spat her tea all over her gown. She didn’t put stock in English airs, but she knew what was done and what was not done in polite company. Finishing school and Lady Bella had made certain of that. She stared at the earl’s sister, who met her gaze without flinching, almost as if she were taking Clara’s measure. Inspecting her mettle.
“Lady Alexandra,” Ravenscroft rebuked. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Clara couldn’t quite restrain the laugh that bubbled up within her at his displeasure. At last the dissolute man had a weakness. “I’m sure that his lordship will handle the matter with aplomb.”
“There are almost no servants to speak of here, so I doubt he will sack the maid for who will empty the chamber pots? Julian hasn’t even the coin for a housekeeper,” Lady Alexandra continued lightly. “But I suppose you’ve changed that, haven’t you?”
“Lady Alexandra,” the earl repeated, his tone degrading into a growl of displeasure. “Have a care for your tongue.”
Clara studied Lady Alexandra. They were nearly of an age unless she missed her guess. She recognized something of herself in the red-haired girl before her. Rebellious. Trapped in a place she didn’t belong.
“I do hope we can be friends during my time here, Lady Alexandra,” she suggested. “Lady Josephine.”
“Oh, I’m sure you shall be like another sister.” Lady Alexandra’s tone was steeped in sarcasm.
Clara had heard whispers that the sisters more than likely had different fathers, which made sense now that she saw how different they were in appearance. Lady Alexandra was flaming, tall, bold. Josephine was tiny, dark, lovely. It would be a difficult thing, navigating this snobbish society with the hallmarks of their mother’s sins obvious for all to see. Clara felt a kindred sense of pity for them both. She too had lost her mother, and her mother had not been as good a woman as she could’ve been either. Clara herself was a product of her mother’s sins.
“One can only hope,” Clara returned with as much warmth as she could manage when Lady Alexandra pinned her with the sort of glare one might reserve for one’s greatest enemies. She understood now his sisters’ absence at the nuptials.
“Oh yes, we shall be the greatest of friends,” added Lady Josephine.
Ravenscroft muttered something beneath his breath that sounded like an epithet. Clara hid her smile behind her teacup. At least he was finally off his guard. These sisters of his were true trouble. He’d have his hands full managing their respective comeouts.
“Julian tells us we’re to have dowries now since he’s married such a great heiress,” Lady Alexandra said next. “Thank you so much, Miss Whitney. Your marriage portion will do wonders to strip away the stink of Julian’s reputation.”
There it was again, reemerging like an apparition: the earl’s black reputation. For a silly moment, Clara almost defended him to his sister. Then she recalled that perhaps no one knew better than she just how well-deserved his reputation was. She focused instead on the intentional slight Lady Alexandra paid her. Clara tamped down the urge to correct her, for she’d just had an argument with the girl’s brother in which Clara had claimed not to be Lady Ravenscroft at all.
In tr
uth, she was. She had married the earl. He was not as honest as she would’ve foolishly liked to believe. But she was Lady Ravenscroft, at least until she could legally shed the title and her marriage both. And she intended to do just that posthaste.
Ravenscroft wasn’t as inclined toward good will, however. He slammed down his teacup with such force that its contents splashed everywhere. “By God, Lady Alexandra, you will treat my countess with the respect she is due.”
Lady Alexandra blinked, schooling her features into an innocent expression. “Pray accept my forgiveness, Lady Ravenscroft. I meant you no insult.”
Clara knew insincerity when she saw it. Little wonder the earl had scarcely mentioned his sisters to her. She smiled sweetly at the fiery viper. “Of course you have my forgiveness, dear. You needn’t fear I’ll cause too much of a disruption for you all. I won’t be here long.”
“Indeed?” Lady Josephine’s interest was piqued. Her eyes narrowed upon Clara. “Where shall you be going, my lady?”
He hadn’t told them. The revelation caused another stab of suspicion to niggle its way into her mind. She turned to the earl, who met her gaze, unflinching. No, he had not told them at all, which was the reason for their defensiveness. They didn’t like a stranger entering their fold, disrupting their lives. But if he hadn’t been truthful with his own sisters regarding the vagaries of their arrangement, it could only imply one awful thing.
Her world crumbled about her with aching clarity. He meant to keep her. The scoundrel had never intended to allow her to return to Virginia. She’d planned her escape and all the while he’d been planning her entrapment.
I agreed to marry you, love. Nothing more.
The devil. Her stomach churned as the implications hit her with the force of a hurricane. Ravenscroft held her stare, making no move to defend himself or dissuade her from her assumption. He raised a brow, as if to challenge her.
“My lady?” Lady Josephine prodded into the awkward silence that had fallen over the drawing room.
Clara settled her teacup into its saucer with an unladylike clatter and stood. “Perhaps you ought to ask Lord Ravenscroft, Lady Josephine, for it would seem he knows far better than I. If you will excuse me, I really am quite tired after all the excitement of this morning and I must retire.”
Ignoring the startled expressions of the earl’s sisters and the watchful gaze of the earl himself, she fled the chamber. It was only when she reached the main hall that she realized she hadn’t a clue where she was retreating to. She was in a stranger’s home. A stranger who had deceived her. Hugging her arms about her middle, she stopped and pressed her back against the wall, closing her eyes.
* * *
Julian watched his new wife scurrying from the drawing room in a flurry of navy and rose-patterned skirts. Damn it, he’d bungled things badly. She didn’t even know her way around their home and yet she was so desperate to flee him that she dashed away as if the devil himself nipped at her heels. And perhaps he did, for Lord knew the thoughts running through his mind ever since Clara had first appeared in his study had been anything but angelic.
He’d hoped to give her time to adjust, to seduce her into seeing the merits of being his countess. But when she’d realized he’d left his sisters uninformed about the nature of their union, he’d known the moment the pieces of the puzzle had come together in her mind. He wouldn’t lie to her. He respected her far too much for further pretense.
“Your new bride hardly exudes the air of a lady who is thrilled to be married,” Alexandra observed, interrupting his troubled thoughts.
“She rather seemed in a hurry to remove herself from your presence,” Josephine added.
He gritted his teeth and glowered at his irksome sisters. “You will mind your manners about her. Treat her with respect, and if you’ve bloody well got any of it in you, kindness. Lord knows she deserves all that and more.”
His sisters stared at him as if he were an insect pinned for their study. Damn them, he didn’t appreciate their cheek. Or their vulgarity. Or their appalling lack of tact. And he damn well didn’t appreciate being observed, for he couldn’t shake the impression that he’d revealed more of himself than he’d intended. Perhaps more of himself than he even knew existed.
“I didn’t dare believe the scandal sheets when they proclaimed this a love match,” Alexandra said.
“But it is a love match, isn’t it?” Josephine asked.
“One sided, or so it seems.” Alexandra’s tone was wry.
Jesus. It most assuredly was not a love match, as love was a finer emotion he never cared to experience again. Lust, however, was another beast entirely. Naturally, he couldn’t share that bit with the meddlesome duo before him.
“Where the hell are you getting scandal sheets?” he demanded instead. “I forbid you to read such tripe.”
His sisters beamed at him. Alexandra clapped her hands. “This shall be great fun, shan’t it Jo?”
Julian growled. “If you continue to refuse to behave, I’ll send the both of you to a convent to live out the rest of your years.”
His threat issued, he stood and took his leave of them, determined to find his wife. He’d already tarried too long in an effort to correct their infernal behavior. It didn’t take him long to locate Clara. She leaned against the faded damask in the main hall, looking as if she held up the entire weight of the wall with her small shoulders. How young she appeared suddenly. How defeated. Her eyes had been closed, but they flew open when she heard him approach.
“Clara.” An odd sensation settled heavily upon his chest. Surely not remorse?
“What do you want, Lord Ravenscroft?” Resignation underscored her words.
She was asking about more than just this moment in the hall. She didn’t merely wonder why he’d followed her. She wondered why he’d married her. Why he’d allowed her to believe he’d load her aboard the first Virginia-bound vessel she could find after they wed. Why he’d never once corrected her when she reminded him their marriage would be in name only. Why he had her dowry in his coffers but no intention of letting her go.
It was simple.
He wanted her.
From the moment she’d appeared in his study wearing that monstrosity of a hat, blustering and offering herself to him like a feast for a starved man, he’d been drawn to her. She was a beauty, but it was more than that. She was innocent, sharp-witted, brave to a fault. She smelled of summer and her body was meant for sin. Meant for him. But Clara Whitney was not the sort of lady he could have. At least, not if he’d been entirely truthful with her.
And so, he hadn’t bothered to disillusion her. He’d made clear to her that he desired her. His intention to seduce her had never been a secret. The rest, however, had been facilitated by his silence. He wouldn’t regret his actions now, but neither did he like the defeated wariness in her expression.
He closed the last of the distance between them. “Need you ask, little dove? I want you.”
When he would have stroked her cheek, she flinched away from his touch. “You cannot have me.”
Stubborn woman. Julian braced a hand on the wall above her head, trapping her. “I already have you.”
“Not truly.” Defiance flashed in her blue eyes. “I could return to my father’s home now.”
“How will you get there, love? I’ll not be the architect of your retreat.” He couldn’t resist tracing her jaw. Her skin was softer than silk, purer than cream. “Will you walk? Hire a hack? Perhaps you’ll send for dearest Papa and he can barge in here bearing a six-shooter. Then you’ll cry to him about your innocent intentions to dupe him into settling a marriage portion on you so that you could defy him and flee to Virginia.”
A flush tinged her cheekbones. His barb had found its mark. No, they were neither of them innocent in their little drama. If she hadn’t been bold enough to thwart her father’s good intentions for her, she’d never have landed herself in her current predicament. But that was Julian’s good fortune.
“You dare to take me to task when you tricked me into marrying you?” Her voice was cold, cutting.
He took exception to her accusation, but it didn’t stop him from sliding his hand around her nape. “I didn’t trick you. You assumed I’d accepted your offer. In truth, I never agreed to anything except marrying you, and even that matter was settled with your father.”
She captured his wrist, staying his hand when he would have sunk his fingers into her lush tresses. Her anger was a pulsing, heated thing between them, as palpable as the desire. “You deliberately misled me.”
“In this instance, Lady Ravenscroft, I daresay you misled yourself.” He leaned closer, drank in the scent of oranges. Thoughts of everything else—his skeletal staff of servants, his interfering sisters—fled him.
“I’m going to Virginia whether you like it or not, my lord. You cannot keep me prisoner here,” she insisted, but her voice suggested she was not as unaffected by his proximity as she pretended.
She bloody well wasn’t going to Virginia. He grew tired of arguing the point. His lips took hers in a long, slow kiss. She opened for him, her body yielding as her mind would not. She tasted of sweetness and tea. He wondered if she would taste as sweet everywhere and somehow knew that yes, she would.
When he withdrew from her soft mouth, he stared down at her, lust thundering through him. Every part of him longed to claim her now. To carry her upstairs to his chamber, lay her on the bed, and sink home inside her. But he wanted her more than willing. He wanted her to come to him.
“You’re not my prisoner, Clara.” He kissed her again. “You’re my wife.”
She shook her head, denying it. “I don’t belong here, my lord. With my dowry—”
“Your dowry is mine,” he interrupted, lest she think to reclaim her fortune and leave him. “All two hundred thousand of it, to be judiciously spent upon the refurbishing and upkeep of our homes and estates, in addition to our living expenses. Your settlement is yours by law to dispense with as you wish. Ten thousand per annum and North Atlantic Electric stock, I believe.”
Heart’s Temptation Series Books 4-6 Page 38