Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance)

by Wendy Lacapra

Oddly enough, Julia blushed. “No one will tell me.”

  “I never asked,” Clarissa replied. “Lord Rayne and I are not as…affectionately connected as you and your brother.”

  Julia raised her brows.

  “Rayne is an excellent brother, of course,” Clarissa added.

  But was he really? Rayne had defended her when Bromton refused to offer for her—but he’d been more hurt than she’d been. He’d given her free rein in her choice of teachers after their father had died—but he’d been completely uninterested in the subjects of her study. And once she and Philippa had grown close, he was more than happy to have her spend as much time in the ducal household as she wished.

  “I suppose,” Clarissa continued, “when compared to Lord Farring and Lord Markham, his fraternal instincts leave much to be desired.”

  “I’ve always assumed,” Horatia said, “all brothers were like Markham and Farring.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Clarissa replied.

  They paused in front of another fork.

  “Oh bother,” Julia said. “This one’s difficult. Would you mind going to the right twenty steps or so and calling back what you see?”

  Clarissa eyed the overly innocent-looking Julia with suspicion.

  “Very well,” Julia sighed, “I’ll go if you don’t wish—”

  Clarissa caught her arm. “No, you and Horatia stay together. I’ll see what’s around the corner.”

  She advanced down the pathway twenty paces and then the pathway came to an end. She turned back…and then realized she had passed a fork without noticing. She did not know which direction would lead her back to the girls.

  She peered around the bend. “Lady Julia?”

  No answer. Of course.

  She doubted this had happened by accident.

  Julia undoubtedly believed she was doing Clarissa a favor—as in, sooner or later, Markham would appear. There’d probably been hundreds of quick, stolen kisses in this maze over the years.

  Clarissa pulled her cloak closer and advanced to the left. She halted before another dead end. In the distance, Julia’s squeal was followed by Markham’s low murmur. Their words were indistinct, though Markham did not sound happy at all.

  So, he thought Julia had planned this, too.

  In some ways, she wished she’d been more like Julia when she was younger. Julia hadn’t any fear of Markham’s displeasure, while Clarissa had been more like Horatia—fearing Rayne’s slightest scowl.

  How would her life be different if she had challenged Rayne—or her father?

  Her passivity had not come all at once. She’d started out demanding answers—answers that had never come. Then, lesson after lesson had slowly shaved away her spirit, forming her into a perfect future marchioness.

  But she wasn’t a marchioness.

  She was just a spinster.

  Alone.

  In a maze.

  With yews like blank, green walls, towering high in every direction.

  …

  Markham recognized Clarissa at once, and not just because her ivory cloak gleamed ethereal against the evergreen boughs.

  He’d just known she’d be there.

  In fact, he’d known even before he’d turned the last corner.

  Never before had he been so aware of a woman’s presence. And ever since they’d kissed, he hadn’t been able to force his awareness to lessen.

  When she’d fallen forward in the carriage, he’d reacted without thought and caught her. Anytime he’d felt a sort of tingle, he’d glance over, and she’d be staring back.

  He hadn’t known what do to. So, he’d winked—a wordless acknowledgment of their connection—a connection he did not yet understand.

  He was drawn to her. He always had been. He had no choice but to admit that, now.

  But was she drawn to him?

  She hadn’t realized he was standing right behind her. She continued to stare at what appeared, from her vantage, to be a canvas of green, but from his, was actually a false end.

  Several black ringlets had escaped her hat and rested against her back. Her arms hung limp at her sides. Still, she appeared as regal as a queen.

  The Queen of Hearts?

  He shook his head. How had that come into his mind?

  She turned.

  For as long as Markham had known Clarissa, she’d been composed, imperturbable. Occasionally warm and laughing—at least to others—and frequently pert with him.

  Suddenly, however, she’d lost her cultured, sovereign sort of presence. Now, her eyes held whispers of confusion. Uncertainty.

  He didn’t like the look.

  He definitely didn’t like suspecting he was its cause.

  “Are you well?” he asked softly

  She closed her eyes and exhaled. “No—yes. I… For a moment, I was lost.”

  He smiled, but only one side of his mouth lifted. “I’ve found you. And, you aren’t lost.” He held out his hand. “Come look.”

  Both of them wore gloves. Still, when she took his hand, he burned.

  He drew her to his side. “See the hidden opening?”

  Her lips formed an O. “How did I miss it?”

  “Clever pruning?” he suggested.

  She half chuckled, still looking a bit confused.

  His heart panged. “I’m sorry you’ve been caught up in all of this. You must rue the day you heard of the Stanley family.”

  She turned toward him and shook her head no.

  Her eyes were so very deep and blue. He brushed her hair from her cheek.

  She placed her other hand over his, making a cradle against her jaw. He brushed his thumb against her chin. A small caress. Barely a caress at all. But enough for tender warmth to melt into desire.

  “A kiss”—she glanced up through her lashes—“for courage?”

  He wished he hadn’t told her about his Mother’s turn of phrase.

  They hadn’t been happy words. Nor were they happy memories. But this—this could be a happy memory.

  A very happy memory.

  He bent his head and brushed his lips against hers. She let go of the hand she held and hooked her arm behind his neck, drawing him closer and holding him tight.

  His insides went molten as he kissed her again, running his tongue along her lower lip. She opened her eyes in shock.

  And then, she kissed him back.

  He grasped her by her waist as her fingers bit into his shoulders. She sighed softly against his lips.

  He dizzied as his blood drained downward.

  Clarissa.

  The end he’d sought without knowing. The maze he wanted to win.

  Then he heard it. Julia’s and Horatia’s giggles.

  Immediately, she broke away.

  “Yes. Right.” He inhaled. “Again, I apologize.”

  She squinted. “You didn’t have a hand in this, did you?”

  “Me?” He pointed to himself. “I play fair, Lady Clarissa.”

  She squinted one eye. “I actually believe you.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded.

  Now, he was truly light-headed.

  “Follow me,” he said, leading her around to the final opening before the center. He stepped aside. “Go ahead, you first.”

  Clarissa frowned. “You already won.”

  “I haven’t,” he replied. “Fair play, remember? I joined Julia and Horatia just outside of the end. Until you step inside, no one has won.”

  She lifted a brow. “I say we forfeit.”

  “Ahem,” Julia folded her arms. “Neither of you are sporting at all! Why can’t both win—we ladies and Markham?”

  Markham rolled his eyes. “You just want ices.”

  “And you don’t?” Julia asked.

  Markham glanced toward Clarissa, winked, and said, “I do have a weakness for ices.”

  “There will be ices either way,” Horatia reminded them.

  Clarissa’s eyes twinkled. “Why don’t you order ices for Horatia, Julia,
and myself, and I’ll pay for yours?”

  He nodded, throat dry.

  Horatia had been right. Clarissa paying for his ice wasn’t proper at all.

  Her small, slight smile said she relished this small power over him…and, oddly enough, he didn’t mind at all.

  He longed for her to seize the full force of her will; a fully confident Clarissa would be something marvelous to see. And just how far would she go if she took charge of not only her life, but her desire?

  He swayed, rocked back on his heels, and covered the sensation of a blow by holding out his arm to her and giving himself an internal shake.

  He’d been absorbing the blows of her scowls for years—that didn’t mean he could fulfill her deepest needs.

  But his yearning would not budge.

  Perhaps it shouldn’t have mattered, but the thought of her indulging one of his dearest fancies with her coin left him not just indebted, but beholden—as if he should pledge some service to her, in kind.

  Some intimate service.

  Without trying, he imagined her with a spoon in her hand, pressing cold sweetness against his lips—not at Gunter’s but in the privacy of his bedchamber. Heat rushed in dual directions—into his cheeks and into his groin.

  “Well.” He pulled his coat closed to cover his trousers. “To Gunter’s we go.”

  Which was perfect.

  Lord knew he needed to cool down.

  Chapter Seven

  The coachman situated Markham’s carriage across from Gunter’s and beneath a large tree in Berkley Square. Yellowing leaves teased from low-hanging branches, and, even from the inside of the carriage, the pleasant scent of the season filled the air.

  On the other side of the carriage, Julia and Horatia happily chatted, but Clarissa barely noticed. Her eyes remained fixed to Gunter’s’ window, where Markham was placing their order.

  How—Clarissa chewed her bottom lip—was it possible to rub away the effects of a kiss on her lips and still have a tingling sensation linger in her toes?

  And why, after more than an hour, could she not think about anything else?

  Perhaps it had been the odd light he’d had in his eyes when she told him she’d buy his ice. A light that said he’d take anything she was willing to offer.

  Instead of settling down during the carriage ride here, she’d grown restless and snappish and totally intent on one thing—Markham.

  Julia had claimed carriage sickness, and so this time Clarissa had been seated right next to him. Markham’s thigh rubbed against her own, igniting a twisting sort of pressure…pressure that promised something far more interesting if she would allow greater contact.

  What more, she didn’t know.

  But she desperately wanted to find out. Her whole body cried out—I want.

  Maybe that’s why they called Markham Hearts.

  They’d had only one outing and already Clarissa had experienced some of the most powerful sensations of her life.

  If two chaste kisses…

  Although, one could argue, their second kiss had not been strictly chaste.

  When Markham had grasped the tender valley between her waist and her hip, that same tight feeling of duress she was experiencing now had twisted her insides, spiraling all the way down into her groin.

  But still, if two mostly chaste kisses and a few sultry stares could make her feel as if she must get closer to Markham or combust…where would a courtship that lasted for weeks lead?

  And if chaste kisses could render her so needy, what would passionate kisses do?

  Her mind went blank. Her ears dulled to sound. Some thoughts were so dangerous—they simply incinerated.

  Julia and Horatia broke into loud laughter. Welcoming any distraction, she followed their gaze to a handsome young man seated inside a carriage two over.

  At least this time, they were not laughing at her expense.

  “Lady Clarissa,” Horatia asked. “Do you know the young man over there with his mother?”

  The man in question was not alone in the carriage. A woman was speaking to him in tones too low to hear. She was angled in a way that made impossible to identify. However, her earrings were jostling as she spoke.

  Apparently, the young man was being harangued.

  Probably deservedly so.

  She tried to figure out the gentleman’s identity, but his hat shaded his profile.

  “I’m not sure I know either of them,” she replied.

  “He’s quite handsome,” Horatia said.

  Julia wrinkled her nose. “If, I suppose, you are partial to pink-cheeked men. He’s far too young for me. He hasn’t any sign of a beard.”

  “You do realize he’s older than you,” Horatia replied.

  Julia shrugged. “Still too young for me to consider.”

  “Julia!” Horatia’s hand flew to her chest.

  “What?” Julia glanced between the empty carriage on the right to the empty carriage on the left. “No gossips. Therefore, I may say what I like.”

  Clarissa smirked. “I’m intrigued by your rules, Julia.”

  “A reputation is a fragile thing,” Julia replied. “Or so my sister always warns me. And Bromton tells me I must take more care than most because I’m an incurable… What’s the word he uses?”

  “Firebrand,” Horatia supplied.

  “Ah yes.” Julia grinned, clearly pleased. “Firebrand.”

  Clarissa chuckled. “I can see how a firebrand might wish to limit chances for trouble.”

  Horatia leaned forward and whispered, “Julia keeps a list.”

  “A list?”

  “Of gossips,” Julia explained. “Anyone who says one thing and whispers another, anyone who looks on with disgust when a lady dresses in something particularly stunning, anyone who bitterly complains that the young no longer behave as they ought”—Julia made a sweeping motion—“they all go on my list.”

  “The avoidance list,” Horatia added.

  “In other words,” Clarissa mused, “you limit companions to those unconcerned with matters you find trivial.”

  “Yes!” Julia beamed.

  Clarissa only wished she’d been so clever.

  But Julia hadn’t accomplished the feat of staying out of trouble’s way alone, had she? They’d all been watching out for Julia and Horatia, obliquely—and sometimes overtly—steering them away from men like Moultonbury.

  A lady could not underestimate the value of a few experienced friends.

  Clarissa hadn’t had any such women—or men—in her life when she’d first made her curtsy. Unless she counted her ill-fated betrothal—which she did not, as that had been more about a Bromton investment in the Rayne mines—no one, in fact, had ever watched out for her reputation.

  No one, that is, until Markham.

  She glanced back to Markham as he descended Gunter’s stairs.

  Perhaps he seemed glib only because he moved with an ease no other gentleman could match. Every movement he made was without artifice, fully present. He carried himself as if he were loose…unburdened—aware of his body, and yet also supremely confident.

  Had his confidence come from pleasuring women?

  Her skin practically greened with envy.

  I want.

  Her mouth watered…and not only in anticipation of her ice.

  Markham opened the door to the carriage. Behind him, a waiter held several colorful heaping glasses on a tray.

  “Two orders of orange flowers and jasmine roses.” He handed the glasses to Horatia and Julia. “Cedrati and bergamot chips for Lady Clarissa…”

  She accepted her ice. Had he guessed why she’d ordered the bergamot chips?

  “And for me,”—he winked at Clarissa—“bergamot with currant and cinnamon.”

  Oh, he’d guessed, all right.

  And there was that acknowledgment again—the silent communication that said, I saw, I understand.

  He shook hands with the waiter, possibly slipping him a vail. Clarissa couldn’t see
, but the waiter returned to the shop with a wider smile.

  Their hands brushed as Markham returned her change.

  “Do you mind if I join the other gentlemen by the rail?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” Clarissa replied, quelling disappointment. It would have been odd for him to come back into the carriage—every other gentleman present but the one Julia and Horatia had pointed out, were gathered by the park.

  She admired the way his coat fitted to his shoulders as he sauntered over to an empty spot. He swiveled around and leaned back against the railing. Too intent on his treat to notice she was watching, he rested one ankle atop his other—a ridiculously appealing portrait of effortless nonchalance.

  She almost looked away, but then he lifted a spoon to his mouth, closed his lips around the ice, and shut his eyes. He smiled slowly, his brow smoothing into an expression of pure pleasure.

  Heat washed through her body. Gracious.

  She’d paid for that ice…and the result was worth every pence.

  He took another bite, relishing the flavor with a depth of feeling that appeared almost carnal.

  Strike the almost.

  Gunter’s was an acceptable place for men and women to be seen together, but, clearly, whoever had made that decision had not seen Markham devour an ice.

  He took a third bite.

  Was it wrong that she wanted to be that spoon?

  Wait. Did that mean she actually wanted Markham to lick her?

  Her eyes widened involuntarily. They locked eyes—for a long moment only the two of them existed. Markham flushed scarlet. He lifted himself to standing and then broke their gaze and looked away.

  Again, she’d allowed him to see something raw and vulnerable, but this time, he hadn’t acknowledged her. He hadn’t even winked.

  Instead, he’d left her need exposed and unanswered.

  How could he look away?

  “I know him!” Horatia exclaimed.

  “What was that?” Clarissa asked, blinking.

  “The handsome young man in the ridiculously tall beaver-skin hat. The one two carriages over. He’s Mr. Jeremy Pritchett”

  “Just a Mr.?” Julia asked.

  “Yes, just a Mr.” Horatia replied with pinched little lips. “Mama said he has potentiality.”

  Which meant, like as not, that the young man in the beaver hat was heir to some fortune. A vast one, if the duchess had been impressed.