Bound By Temptation

by Lavinia Kent

  It was Peter’s turn to answer. “You flatter us, and I can assure you there are many moments when we do not act with such accord.”

  “But those are the moments that prove how strong you are together,” Clara responded. “I can remember from my own marriage. When Michael and I fought, I always knew that no matter how strong the disagreement, it did not affect the soundness of our relationship. I see that with you.”

  “You are—” Violet began before a voice from behind interrupted.

  “Violet, I am so pleased to see you. St. Johns, Lady Westington, it is a most delightful affair.”

  Clara felt a thousand butterflies rise and take flight as Masters’s deep voice wrapped tight about her. He stepped from behind Peter’s broad frame.

  “Mr. Masters.” Clara nodded to him, afraid that her voice would break.

  “Brother, I am surprised to see you,” Violet answered, her back so stiff she might have been an iron pole. Her welcome was not warm, but neither did she turn away.

  “I found myself desiring company now that I have returned,” Masters replied. He addressed Violet, but his gaze had returned to Clara.

  Clara watched as Violet started to say more, to ask about Masters’s trip, and then Violet caught his stare. She followed the line of his gaze to Clara.

  Violet’s glance sharpened. She could tell something was not quite as it appeared. She was clearly trying to figure out the relationship. It must mean that the strain between them was clear.

  Clara dropped her gaze to her hands. He looked as awkward as he had that last morning. She had never felt her actions tawdry before that morning. Now those same feelings washed over her.

  With an effort, she relaxed each clenched finger, one by one. She strove to focus on nothing, save that her hands should look at ease and relaxed. This accomplished, she proceeded to adjust her breathing—smooth, even. Her shoulders were next. Her face was hardest. She relaxed her brow, letting the lines between her eyes smooth out.

  The smile was even more difficult. It must not look forced. She lifted her head. “I was not aware you were in Town.”

  He looked away when he spoke. “My task was more difficult than I imagined. There have been delays. I will perhaps be forced to travel again.”

  Clara turned to Violet. “I met your brother in Norfolk while he was looking for Isabella. He returned to London, believing her to be here.”

  Violet allowed her attention to be distracted. “But she was not. I did get that report.” She nodded at Masters. Her tone was bitter.

  Masters drew his shoulders back. This time his eyes were on Violet, although he addressed his words to Clara. Clara could almost feel his unspoken desire for his sister’s understanding. “As I said, the task was more difficult than expected. I’d heard rumor of a red-haired governess. Your inquiries, Lady Westington, appeared to be bearing fruit, and I followed the family after they had moved to London for the Season.”

  “But nothing came of it.” Violet was clearly unmoved by her brother’s silent entreaty.

  “You are correct,” Masters answered. “It took my agent several weeks to confirm that the girl was not Isabella.”

  Violet would not be stilled. “Did you even bother to check yourself?”

  Masters was clearly uncomfortable. He’d become even stiffer than usual. “Yes.”

  There was a pause, and Clara was not sure he would proceed, even though it was clear that Violet was ready to shake him if he did not. Peter stood back. Plainly he understood that Violet could fend for herself and would not welcome his help.

  Finally, Masters began again. “I waited for several hours, for two days running. The governess did not keep to a proper schedule in taking the children out. On the second day, I spied the girl. It was not Isabella.”

  Violet’s face grew grim at his words. “And yet you are still here, enjoying company, not off searching again.”

  Masters turned to address her fully, but spoke softly. “I am well aware of my responsibilities and I will be off again as soon as I have a direction to follow.”

  “See that you are. If you had not—”

  “I am well aware of what I did.” Masters closed his lips tight.

  Violet looked as if she wanted to say more.

  Peter reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Come, let me get you some refreshment. I believe a glass of punch would not be amiss.”

  Placing her hand over his, Violet turned to him. “Am I to understand you have a flask in your pocket?”

  Peter just smiled.

  Violet turned back to her brother as Peter, after a brief nod to each of them, began to lead her away. “She cannot simply have disappeared. Find her.”

  Masters stared across the room as he answered, not meeting anyone’s gaze. “I will return to Coventry where I last heard of her.” He turned and stared at Violet. “It would be most helpful if you could persuade Lady Smythe-Burke to talk. I cannot believe that she has no idea which of all her recommendations Isabella intended to take.”

  Violet stepped away, following Peter. “It is not hard to get Lady Smythe-Burke to talk—the problem is getting her to answer.”

  Then they were gone, melted into the crowd.

  Clara was alone with Masters—as alone as one could be in a crowded ballroom.

  “You did not need to tell her that we had met.” Masters did not hesitate to speak.

  “It was unavoidable. Did not you catch her glance? She knew at once that there was something we were not telling her.”

  “But she would never have asked.”

  Clara tittered. She was so nervous she actually tittered. If she had not wanted to run from the room before, she did now. “Perhaps she would not have asked you. The strain between you is evident. But I assure you, it would have been mere moments before she tore a hem and needed my assistance in the withdrawing room. She would have been questioning me in great detail before five minutes had passed.”

  “Women.” The word was filled with more description than a hundred sentences.

  Clara did not answer. There really was nothing to say—about anything.

  “I am sorry that I left without saying farewell.” The words came from his lips, but it did not seem that he had spoken them.

  She still did not answer, but she did raise a brow.

  He looked out over the crowd again. “I would admit I was not sorry at the time, but later I came to believe that it was poorly done.”

  She snorted. First she tittered and now she snorted. He truly had the most ill effect on her. The man actually considered that an apology. That did demand reply. She might not believe that he actually owed her an apology after his actions with Mr. Green, but that was not the point. “You are sorry that your manners were poor. Is that what you are saying?”

  “Yes.” It was clear he still did not understand there was anything wrong with his statement. He did not look at her.

  “I am showing poor manners myself. I should not have let you apologize. I can never thank you enough for what you did with Mr. Green. He came and told me the full story.”

  He still did not turn to her. “I only did what any man would have done. It was nothing.”

  “It certainly was not nothing. I was most distressed at first to learn the truth. And I would confess some slight anger that you had not consulted me before confronting him, but over time I have come to fully appreciate your actions. I know there was far more involved than either Mr. Green or you would admit to.”

  “Again I say, it was nothing.” His voice revealed nothing.

  It was time that he looked at her. He might not share the details of his actions, but she would not be avoided. Shrugging her shoulders, she let her dress slip slightly lower. The deep burgundy silk was only a shade away from crimson. She was surprised he had not remarked on the fact—naming her a scarlet woman.

  He caught her movement. She felt his eyes shift toward her and then stick as if glued to the pale flesh her gesture had revealed. She placed a s
ingle gloved finger high on his shoulder, granting him a better look. He did not fail her.

  “It was something,” she said. “I can only offer my gratitude—and no, I do not mean in that fashion. I mean it with deep sincerity.”

  His eyes remained on her bosom as he answered. “If you say so.”

  She was not sure he had even heard her, so fixed was his gaze.

  It was tempting to sigh, Men, adopting his earlier intonation, but it would have been a cheap retort. She was better than that. Well, not much better. She shifted from foot to foot causing her breasts to jiggle slightly within her dress. “Why are you here, Mr. Masters?”

  His eyes jumped up to her face. For a moment he looked confused, her question escaping him. She could see his eyes focus as he gathered his wits. “You know why I am here. I have just finished discussing the matter with my sister.”

  “I meant why are you at this ball? You must have known you would meet Violet. I can see there are mixed feelings between you and your sister.”

  He kept staring at her. “I must admit that I considered it a strong possibility we would see each other, but contrary to your beliefs, I actually looked forward to the meeting. There are matters we need to discuss—I should have realized a ball was not the place for that discussion. There were also other priorities.”

  Her glance had moved to his lips as he spoke and caught there. It was hard to speak. “Are you going to tell me of these priorities or has this become a game?”

  “No, no game.” His lips remained parted after he finished.

  Clara was lost for a moment, remembering how they’d felt, how they’d tasted. Had he had anything to drink this evening? Would he taste of watery lemonade or brandy? She pressed her knees tight together.

  “I am here to begin searching for a wife.” He turned back to the crowd, his face now directed away from her.

  Even without his movement, she would have regained her focus. A wife? “I suppose you want someone young and sweet?”

  “Yes, and well-bred.” He had clearly missed the sarcasm in her tone.

  “What about looks? Do you seek a particular type?” Surely, he could not miss the sharpness with which she spoke.

  He turned back to her, his face impassive. He appraised her as he had back on that morning in Aylsham. “Yes, I would prefer a blonde, tall and slender—regal in stature. That is how I have always pictured my children.”

  Somebody far different than her own dark hair and full curves. She was not short, but she would never be considered tall and slender. “You speak rather coldly about a woman you would seek to marry—rather like you’re seeking a new horse at Tattersall’s.”

  “And what is the difficulty in that? It seems to me that more thought and less emotion should be put into these decisions. Do you disagree?”

  Clara considered her own marriage. If Michael had been seeking a mare, she would certainly never have been chosen. Michael had chosen her because he wanted her, plain and simple. “I rather believe I do. My own marriage was certainly not based on my abilities as a broodmare.”

  “I must apologize,” he replied softly. “I had meant no statement on your own marriage.” He had not meant to hurt her. Masters looked down at her pale features and cursed inwardly. This whole situation was so damn awkward.

  It had never occurred to him that she would be here. He had not even known she was back in Town. Indeed, he’d driven by her house that very day and the knocker had been down—but perhaps she merely hadn’t wanted company.

  “Then what did you mean?” She was not going to let him be.

  “I merely meant exactly what I said. I think marriage is a serious matter and should be considered with the intellect and not the heart.” There, that should be clear enough.

  She was beautiful tonight. The deep red of her gown highlighting her creamy skin and rosy cheeks. He would never have thought red would complement the gold of her eyes, but they seemed to glow, filling her entire face. Or perhaps it was the candlelight. Had he ever seen her lit solely by candles? He must have, but he could not think when.

  “I imagine that is why you found Violet’s marriages so desirable,” Clara interrupted his thoughts. “If the heart does not matter, then what does it matter if your spouse is an octogenarian? Although it does seem to make offspring unlikely—and I believe you indicated they were one of the main priorities in marriage.”

  “For the man, yes. He must carry on the family name. It is his responsibility. I do not imagine that it matters so much to women.”

  Damn, he’d done it again. If anything, she’d turned even paler at his words. Could she not understand that he merely spoke sense? There was no harm intended.

  She glared up at him. It was a far different glow that shone in her eyes now. “If that is how you feel, I fear we have nothing more to say.”

  She turned and walked away. Her stiff spine reminded him of that other morning when she had also walked away. It had been what was best then. It was what was best now. He must remind himself of the fact.

  He wondered if Peter St. Johns had anything left in his flask. A stiff drink would be most welcome.

  Chapter 8

  Clara held her spine straight as she walked away. The books her governess had once tried to balance on her head would have stayed there now without a wobble. It was important that she not let him see how much his words had upset her.

  A waiter passed, and she grabbed a glass of champagne, drinking half in a single gulp. She refused not to enjoy herself simply because he was here.

  She would dance and laugh and have fun—but all in a most respectable way. It was only Masters who offered the temptation to stray from the proper path. She could not even manage to thank him without resorting to flirtation.

  When one of her past admirers swept up and asked her to dance, she answered with a gracious nod. “I would love to dance. I think it’s just what I need.”

  Only it wasn’t. She twirled. She stepped. She smiled. She flirted. She curtsied. She twirled again. It should have been a delight.

  It wasn’t.

  She wasn’t even sure whom she had danced with. Each gentleman blended with the next without leaving a firm impression. It was hard to even pretend an interest.

  At least she had resisted looking for the blasted man. She did not allow herself to peer through the crowd seeking him. It was enough to know he was here.

  Although, maybe he had left. It was still early, but he had not seemed to be overcome with the joy of the evening. He was good at leaving.

  She must not think such things. She was here to have fun, and fun she would have.

  As if in answer to a silent prayer, Clara spotted Anna Struthers standing alone at the side of the room, the woman’s soft brown curls and light green dress fading into the elegant fabric that swathed the wall. Anna had been one of Clara’s dearest friends before her marriage, and she was determined that would not change now.

  “Anna, I am so glad to see you,” Clara said as she walked toward her friend. “I feared that handsome husband of yours would sweep you off to the continent for a wedding trip.”

  “No, Struthers decided it was best to stay in Town for the season.” Anna spoke without her normal joie de vivre.

  Clara was unsure of the circumstances surrounding her friend’s marriage. Anna had simply mentioned it in a letter as if it had no more importance than buying a new hat. The two women had shared many a proper and many a not-so-proper adventure over the last few years, and Clara could not help wondering at the little information that Anna shared.

  “Are you well?” It was a simple question, but Clara hoped for a more forthcoming answer.

  “Yes, I am well. And you?” Anna’s answer left much to be desired.

  Clara considered. She did not like to pry, but neither did she like to see Anna looking so alone. “And Struthers, he is well also?”

  “Yes.” It was like pulling teeth from a hen.

  “I was surprised to hear of your nuptials.” Sh
e would be more direct. There was clearly no other course open. “I did not even know that you were acquainted with the man. I played cards with him on several occasions and he seemed an—an unusual choice as a spouse.”

  Anna stilled. Clara could see her choose her words with care. “You mean you charmed him into throwing in his last penny?”

  “No, not at all,” Clara answered. “I never played a game requiring deep pockets with him. His play was far too serious for me.”

  “Struthers does take his games seriously. All of them.”

  Clara could tell that there was much more to be said. Those few words revealed so much and so little. “You still have not mentioned how you met.”

  For a moment she did not think Anna would answer.

  Anna shifted her feet and turned to look at a large potted palm. “We became reacquainted at Brisbane’s house party. We had known each other years ago.”

  Brisbane. That would explain Anna’s reticence. Both women had been lovers of the young duke—although not at the same time. There were some things Clara had no desire to experiment with. She had always thought their friendship had been made stronger by the joint experience, but perhaps it was difficult to discuss being introduced to one’s husband by a past lover.

  “I haven’t spoken to Brisbane for months,” Clara replied. “His aunt still writes frequently.”

  “Does she fit as many words into her correspondence as her conversation?” Anna was clearly glad for the chance to steer the conversation away from her marriage.

  Clara lifted a brow and gave her a clear look. “You know Lady Smythe-Burke. What do you think?”

  Another couple joined them, and the conversation drifted to general talk of the season and the coming year. Clara smiled and nodded and made the appropriate comments before drifting away. Social discourse had never been difficult, but neither had it been a favorite pastime.