Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance)

by Wendy Lacapra

  Clarissa glanced back down the row of carriages.

  She still did not recognize the man, but the woman had turned, and her profile was clear—Mrs. Sartin. Her gaze, too, had been fastened to Markham, and Clarissa now understood the lady’s expression all too well.

  Hunger.

  Of course, Clarissa’s reaction to Markham had not been unique. Had she actually deceived herself into believing it was? Why, any number of women had known Markham’s kiss.

  Dozens, probably.

  And they all had shivered with exactly the same want.

  Mrs. Sartin met Clarissa’s gaze, and the faintest of smiles graced the older woman’s lips. Clarissa tried—and failed—to return the smile. Mrs. Sartin dipped her chin and, in a manly gesture, touched her hat, before turning back to her heir.

  No longer craving bergamot chips, Clarissa set the rest of her ice on the floor of the carriage. She folded her hands primly in her lap and pressed herself as closely to the far side of the carriage as she could.

  She’d needed that reminder.

  Markham was Hearts.

  Which meant she must guard her own at all costs.

  …

  One minute, Markham had been enjoying his much-awaited ice. The next, he had locked eyes with Clarissa and had instantly succumbed to the dreaded full-body flush. He couldn’t have prevented the blush if he’d tried—his body had simply responded to the yearning in Clarissa’s gaze.

  Responded? No, inflamed.

  No one—no one—had ever looked at him with such naked starvation.

  Suddenly, even the ice melting in his mouth was not enough to keep him cool.

  He lifted himself off the rail so that his coat could preserve some modesty—the last thing he wanted Clarissa to see was evidence of his raging cockstand.

  He didn’t want to scare her.

  He wanted to excite her.

  He wanted to take her to his bed, lay her across his sheets, undo the ties of her bodice and stays, and free her beautiful breasts. Then he wanted to trace the blue veins beneath her pale skin and watch her mouth fall open and her nipples darken as they hardened into pointed tips.

  If Clarissa liked what his lips could do to a spoon—and the fire in her eyes said she had—she’d love how he went about devouring those sensitive peaks.

  He imagined driving her mad with teasing until her body arched from his mattress. Only after she was gasping for breath in desperate little pants would he disrobe and show his betrothed exactly what rubbing her shapely thighs against his did to his manhood…and what sensations his manhood could provoke when he deliberately stroked the tip against her maidenhead until her thighs quivered.

  He sucked in his lips.

  Well that had gotten very detailed, very fast.

  He was in So. Much. Trouble.

  Clarissa wasn’t his betrothed. She wasn’t his in any way. And she couldn’t be. Not in the way they both desired.

  He looked away. Just for a moment.

  He dug his spoon into his ice and scooped out as big a serving as he could manage. Coward. He returned his gaze to her, but she’d already occupied herself elsewhere.

  The spell had broken. He followed her gaze to a carriage he instantly recognized.

  His blush deepened.

  Mrs. Sartin’s carriage. He knew it well.

  In fact, last spring, he’d pleasured Mrs. Sartin in that very carriage, her cries absorbed by the sound of the horserace. A three-minute track was all he’d needed to drive the woman to a frenzy.

  Sordid, indeed.

  Damnation. Had he been the only one who hadn’t realized he was a rake?

  His spoon clinked against his cup as he abandoned his ice.

  Mrs. Sartin’s carriage door opened, and a young man stepped out. Markham recognized him as one of Moultonbury’s bucks—the one who had spoken out several times. The man who had given his name…

  Ah, yes. Pritchett.

  Pritchett’s over-tall hat sat purposely askew on the man’s head. He puffed out his chest wider than natural or necessary. His cravat was tied in the same way as Moultonbury’s had been—the style Markham had crushed in a single fist.

  In short, Pritchett was everything Markham loathed in a young man.

  Everything Markham had once been, as a matter of fact.

  And might still be, if it weren’t for his debt and the fact that Moultonbury had insulted Katherine, unintentionally revealing another side to what Society referred to as harmless teasing.

  Boys will be boys.

  Markham thought he’d improved in character. Then he realized he had a rake’s reputation, and now he’d just indulged in a lewd fantasy—in public.

  He had not learned as much as he ought.

  Pritchett held out his hand. Mrs. Sartin placed her glove in his and descended. Together, they turned in Markham’s direction. The last thing he wanted was to interact with either of them, but he’d dallied too long. He could not avoid them now.

  Slowly—at roughly the speed of certain doom—they made their way to the rail.

  “Mr. Pritchett,” Markham greeted.

  “Lord Markham,” Pritchett replied.

  Mrs. Sartin glanced between them. “I wasn’t aware the two of you were acquainted.”

  “Only just,” Markham replied.

  “The night before last,” Pritchett explained. “At Sharpe’s.”

  “Ah yes, Sharpe’s.” Some unspoken communication passed between her and the young man. “How lovely,” Mrs. Sartin said. “My heir and my”—she paused—“good friend.”

  Her heir? Hadn’t she said her heir was older than he was? Pritchett was younger, though not, he supposed, by much.

  His consternation amused the lady. “You could learn a lot from Lord Markham, Jeremy.”

  Pritchett bowed his head. “I’m sure I could.”

  “I thought I recognized your carriage, Markham.” Mrs. Sartin’s eyes were definitely laughing now. “Is that Lady Clarissa I see inside?”

  “Lord Markham,” Pritchett said, “is courting Lady Clarissa.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Sartin replied. “So she’s the one…?”

  Pritchett nodded.

  Mrs. Sartin’s gaze moved between the carriage and Markham. “Why, aren’t you a devil, Lord Markham. I hadn’t heard a word before this morning.”

  “Lord Rayne is traveling,” Markham replied tightly, “discretion is a must.”

  “Diamonds is about to return, isn’t he?” Mrs. Sartin asked rhetorically. “I, for one, cannot wait. I am simply starved for company.” She glanced back to the carriage. “Mr. Pritchett tells me he’s never been introduced to Lady Clarissa.” She lifted a brow. “You wouldn’t mind doing the honor, would you, Lord Markham?”

  Markham swallowed. “Of course not.”

  Markham strode slightly ahead, hoping to wordlessly communicate with Clarissa all he could not say aloud. Clarissa, however, refused to meet his gaze, not even while he made the requested introductions.

  Instead, Clarissa spoke gayly—a little too gayly—about the weather with Mrs. Sartin, while Pritchett, Horatia, and Julia fell into a separate conversation about umbrellas.

  It was impossible to follow both.

  Markham turned his attention back to Mrs. Sartin and Clarissa.

  “No,” Mrs. Sartin was saying. “There doesn’t appear to be a hint of rain at the moment, though a few hours past I was certain the sky was about to open.” She glanced askance at Markham. “The rain’s been so common of late, I almost believed I’d developed an affinity.”

  “For rain?” Markham asked.

  “For rain,” Mrs. Sartin answered. “I’m rich enough to be permitted my eccentricities, you know.”

  Markham frowned.

  “I imagine,” Clarissa replied, “a shelter is suitable on such occasions.”

  Mrs. Sartin’s smile widened. “Convenient, perhaps. But no woman would wish to sit over-long, no matter how fine the shelter.”

  Markham closed his eyes.


  Please let them be talking about the actual weather.

  “And you, Lady Clarissa?” Mrs. Sartin asked. “Have you developed an affinity for rain?”

  “I am not permitted eccentricities,” Clarissa replied carefully. “Therefore, I prefer to remain inside.”

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Sartin chuckled. “Never allow a little bad weather to scare you. There’s much to be admired in the rain.”

  Clarissa lifted her brows. “The rain already has too many admirers.”

  “Darling.” Mrs. Sartin smiled warmly. “That should make you more interested.”

  Markham went utterly still.

  They were decidedly not discussing the weather.

  Women not only talked, apparently, they spoke in a language men did not understand.

  What more of this mysterious women’s world had he missed?

  “Ho!” Pritchett called suddenly. “Moultonbury!”

  And Markham had believed the moment could not get any worse.

  “Jeremy,” Mrs. Sartin said under her breath. “You should have asked the ladies if they’d been introduced first.”

  “We have,” Julia said, with an odd note in her voice.

  Markham couldn’t be sure, but when he glanced up, he thought he caught Horatia mouthing the list to Clarissa.

  What list?

  How many blasted languages did women juggle?

  “Pritchett, Markham.” Moultonbury stopped by the side of the carriage. “Ladies.” He touched his hat. “Would you look at that? Not a single smile among them. What is happening in this world? How is it, that three such charming women—”

  “Four,” Clarissa interrupted.

  “Pardon?” Moultonbury asked.

  “Four women,” Clarissa clarified. “Myself, Lady Horatia, Lady Julia and Mrs. Sartin. You wouldn’t wish to be rude, would you?”

  “Four women.” Moultonbury glanced at Mrs. Sartin. “And still not a smile among you.”

  “I endeavor to smile only when happy,” Mrs. Sartin replied. “And, interruptions do not make me happy.”

  Horatia put her hand over her mouth.

  Discreetly, Julia pulled Horatia’s hand back down.

  Moultonbury raised his quizzing glass. “Have we been introduced?” he asked Mrs. Sartin.

  “We have, Lord Moultonbury,” Mrs. Sartin replied. “By your mother, in fact. On several occasions.” She turned away, effectively cutting Moultonbury. “Comity is so important. Lady Clarissa, don’t you agree?”

  “Very much so,” Clarissa replied, biting back a smile.

  “Why,” Mrs. Sartin continued, “I was just telling Mr. Pritchett how scarce the tickets for the operatic performance for the Benefit of the Society for the Relief of the Infirm and Aged sponsored by Queen Charlotte have become. I’m Chair, you know.”

  “Oh!” Lady Horatia clapped. “My mother said it’s going to be the event of the Season. We had our tickets weeks ago.”

  “His Grace is a generous patron,” Mrs. Sartin replied.

  “Is it true there’s to be dancing after the performance?” Horatia asked.

  “Yes. And, after a light repast, fireworks.” Mrs. Sartin glanced back to Moultonbury. “It’s such a shame tickets are so difficult to come by. The Dowager Lady Moultonbury expressly wished to attend.” Mrs. Sartin touched Markham’s arm. “I’m so glad you had the forethought to reserve enough for your family and Lady Clarissa, Lord Markham.”

  Markham hadn’t, of course.

  Could it be he had an ally in Mrs. Sartin?

  “Markham,” Clarissa said in a smoothly admiring voice Markham had never heard before, “is always thoughtful.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Markham bowed slightly.

  He thrilled to her blush as her smile nearly knocked him on his heels.

  “Yes, he is,” Mrs. Sartin agreed. “And when you dance, I’m sure the two of you will be the envy of all.”

  “I’ve been counting down the days,” Clarissa replied. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Sartin. It was delightful to see you again. But Lord Markham”—she touched his arm—“I’m afraid we simply must return Lady Julia and Lady Horatia to Shepthorpe House. Her Grace will be worried if we are not home before dusk.”

  “Of course,” Markham replied.

  “Au revoir, all.” Mrs. Sartin touched her hat. “Do come along, Jeremy.”

  Moultonbury turned and walked stiffly away, ears pinked.

  Markham climbed inside the carriage and rapped on the top, signaling the coachman to proceed.

  “What the devil just happened?” he said under his breath.

  “Mrs. Sartin,” Julia said with a laugh, “just gave the devil his due.”

  Clarissa’s thigh brushed his. “And we,” she said, “just agreed to make the benefit for the Society for the Relief of the Infirm and Aged the talk of the town.”

  Chapter Eight

  On the appointed night, Markham fidgeted as he awaited Clarissa at the bottom of Lady Darlington’s stairs. He reached beneath the wrist of his topcoat and tugged on his already tightly fitted gloves.

  Everything had to be just right. Satisfied, he reviewed his guidelines for escorting Lady Clarissa to the operatic performance for the Benefit of the Society for the Relief of the Infirm and Aged.

  He had broken every one of his long-standing rules where Clarissa was concerned, but he ought to be able to manage three simple guidelines for a single evening…

  One—attend the benefit together with a respectable party, including Lady Clarissa, Katherine and Bromton, and Philippa and Darlington. (And do not, under any circumstances, take the seat beside Clarissa in the carriage, not to the performance and definitely not on the way home).

  Two—remain attentive throughout the evening. (i.e., be respectful and admiring, but do not allow a gaze to drop below Clarissa’s chin. And absolutely no imagined seductions.).

  Three—dance with Lady Clarissa. Once. Although said dance should not be a waltz.

  Since he rarely danced, once should be sufficient enough to cause mild comment, but not enough to inspire censure.

  Markham tapped his foot silently against the black and white marble floor.

  If he stuck to those guidelines, the evening should proceed respectably. Well-ordered. Controlled.

  He reached up to adjust his cravat, and then dropped his hand.

  He wanted to be uncomfortable. He’d instructed his valet to starch the collar to the heavens, and to use his tightest Gordon knot—he needed all the help he could get maintaining strict adherence to rule number two. And with the high collar points that rose above his jawline, he couldn’t even incline his head or turn his neck from side to side.

  Clarissa appeared on the Darlington’s landing, nearly shimmering, and he discovered the flaw in his stiff collar’s purpose—stairs.

  From this vantage, not noticing how snugly the neo-classical lines of her dress gathered beneath her breasts was impossible. The sheer white mull had been embroidered in vines of gold, ending in open leaves that practically presented the bounty. If that was not enough, a pale cameo hung from her pearl necklace, nestling just about the place he’d like to press his lips.

  She rested one high-gloved, slender arm against the banister and descended. Her overdress—a light blue silk matching the color of her eyes—trailed behind.

  From experience, he knew the sheer underdress likely tied at her nape, and at the center of her back. The overdress was obviously held together by a jeweled clasp. Neither should prove too hard to remove if he were close enough to—

  Mentally, he shook his head and folded his hands together at his front.

  Remember rule number three.

  He hadn’t yet broken the rule, strictly speaking. They hadn’t yet left Lord Darlington’s house and he’d only thought about how he’d disassemble her dress. He hadn’t imagined the actual process. However, the evening had yet to begin, and already he’d come far too close.

  Attentive, Percival Stanley, not consumed.


  He greeted Clarissa with a kiss to her fingers.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured.

  Her cheeks darkened to a lovely rose. “And you are”—her gaze dropped to his collar—“quite modish tonight.”

  “Do you approve?”

  The light from the chandelier twinkled in her eyes. “Dear Percy, your appearance has never been the problem.”

  Only Clarissa could manage an insult and compliment in the same sentence. But although Katherine’s use of his childhood name had always annoyed him, from Clarissa the intimacy further piqued his sense of singular rapport.

  She turned toward Katherine and Philippa, and all three ladies exclaimed over one another’s dresses. Philippa’s, as always, was grand, bold red and gold. Katherine looked lovely in her favorite green velvet gown, though—he tilted his head—she looked different somehow.

  Brighter-cheeked, perhaps? She had a kind of glow.

  Marriage agreed with his sister.

  He turned back to Bromton and Darlington—and both men were wearing the exact same smirk.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Darlington murmured.

  “I, for one, am not surprised,” Bromton replied.

  “Smitten?” Darlington glanced askance.

  “Absolutely hot-cockled.” Bromton nodded.

  “Clever,” Markham replied.

  The blind-folded child’s game where one suffered blows and then had to guess who hit them had been a favorite of his sisters.

  Markham had been smitten, but he didn’t need to guess who had struck the blow.

  Hot-cockled, indeed.

  He snorted dismissively. “As if you weren’t both Jerry-sneaked.”

  “Hear that, Darlington? He thinks we’re under our wives’ thumbs.”

  “Might have taken insult,” Darlington answered, “but for the poor sod’s hot-cockling.”

  “Well,” Bromton’s gaze settled fondly on his wife, “you won’t hear me complaining.”

  Markham hummed low in his throat.

  He turned away in order to assist Clarissa as she donned a white velvet cape. Thin muslin, silk, kid leather, and velvet…for all the tactile pleasures Clarissa’s ensemble offered, what he wanted most to touch was her skin—no matter how little was on display for his starving gaze.

  They settled into the coach ride, blessedly on opposite sides. And, when they arrived at the benefit, Markham helped Clarissa down from the coach.