Markham sat straight, though he kept his voice at a whisper. “You know that’s impossible.”
“Please,” Farring scoffed. “Impossible, why? Because of Rayne? I daresay he’s calmed down after eighteen months off, doing,”—he waved his hand—“whatever it is Rayne’s been doing. And don’t even try to argue concern for Julia. Julia barely mentions Rayne anymore.”
“Yes, but if Clarissa and I—” Markham caught himself. “If Lady Clarissa and I married, Rayne and Julia would become family. And avoiding my brother-in-law would be a far cry from dismissing an acquaintance.”
“It’s not as if they’d be blood. They’ll be forced to meet anyway. The ton is not so large—and if one wishes to avoid someone, that party is certain to accept the same invitations with logic-defying frequency. Besides, Julia already loves Clarissa—as does Katherine. The discomfort would lie with Rayne, not with your sisters.”
All true. Markham ran his finger beneath his collar. “It’s been less than a week. I could not have possibly gone from barely thinking about Lady Clarissa—”
Farring snorted again.
“What?”
“You’ve always been intrigued by Lady Clarissa.”
He had.
Suddenly, he was back in the Duke of Shepthorpe’s library, straining to catch a glimpse of the young lady who had just been announced—the lady rumored to become the future Marchioness of Bromton.
Clarissa had been dressed not in white, but in pale blue. And even from a distance her eyes had snagged his attention, casting all else into a dreamlike blur. He’d turned away immediately. Why? Because she’d been promised to another man. Another man who had just become a friend.
She wasn’t promised any longer. But still— “Clarissa made it quite clear she does not wish to wed.”
“Well, that is a problem.” Farring’s fingers rat-a-tatted against his mug. “What exactly are her objections?”
“I assume—”
“You assume,” Farring interrupted. “Ah pup, now I’m truly disappointed. You mean you haven’t expressly asked?”
“No…not expressly.”
Farring glanced heavenward. “Markham, the lady spent the whole of her childhood preparing for a role she will never fill…never wished to fill, in fact.”
A kindred sort of sympathy passed through Markham’s senses. Anyone would be reluctant to make a commitment under those conditions.
“If you want her,”—Farring leveled his gaze—“and I believe you do, then give her something different to imagine.”
“Like what?”
Farring shrugged. “Like a role molded for her, not a role that forces her to conform.”
Could that be true?
Could the role be what she despised?
Although how could he show her something different when he hadn’t any idea if happiness within a marriage could last?
“What makes you so wise?” he asked.
“Oh. I’m not wise at all. I just have sisters. Lord, do I have sisters. When it comes to matters of the heart, I simply imagine what answer one of them would give.”
“So.” Markham paused. “For argument’s sake…”
“Yes, of course, for argument.”
“If I wanted to woo the lady, what would you suggest I do?”
Farring thought for a moment. “She must understand you wouldn’t be distant—like Rayne. Or treat her as a curiosity, like Bromton.”
“But how—”
“You’re a daft pup sometimes.” Farring shook his head. “Show her Southford, of course. The estate practically stewarded by your sister over the years, the same sister whom, even now, you rely on for advice.”
Southford…
Farring was right.
Katherine had as much a hand in shaping Southford’s current success as he—more of one, in many ways. He’d merely secured funding. Katherine had come up with the plans.
“Markham! Is that you?”
Markham turned to see Pritchett and Sir Dalton—who’d both been present that fateful night at Sharpe’s—sauntering over to their table.
“How’s the…courtship going?” Dalton smirked. “Are you ready to turn the lady over to a man who can handle her?”
Offense darkened Markham’s cheeks. Farring stepped on Markham’s foot—a warning—Dalton wasn’t worth his wrath.
“How are your debts, Dalton?” Farring asked cheerfully.
Dalton bristled.
“Go on, would you?” Farring continued. “Run back to Moultonbury. He holds your leading strings rather tight, I hear.”
Dalton lifted his quizzing glass in a terrible approximation of Brummell. “I say!”
Farring threw his elbow over the back of the booth and turned. “Has it ever occurred to you that there are reasons a man of Lord Moultonbury’s age would choose to champion fellows as young as yourselves? Could it be, perhaps, that men of his age see him for what he really is?”
Dalton narrowed his gaze and then turned. Pritchett’s gaze lingered on Farring, shifted to Markham, then moved back to Farring.
“Good day, gentlemen,” he said, before walking away.
“Now, you’ve done it.” Markham said. “Dalton’s going to go straight back to Moultonbury.”
“Let him.” Farring looked back from the slammed door. “The one benefit of being the son of a duke is that you don’t have to give a rat’s ass what men like Moultonbury think.”
“I don’t give a damn what Moultonbury thinks.”
“I know.” Farring pushed up his glasses. “And neither does Lady Clarissa.” He grinned. “And I’m quite certain that’s not the only thing you two have in common.”
…
Inside Philippa’s sitting room, Clarissa avoided looking down at the infamous black gate. The gate that had remained firmly closed and locked for the past two days. Instead, she concentrated on thrusting her needle in and out of the linen she’d stretched across the frame.
If she just kept jabbing—ahem—embroidering…eventually, she’d have a lovely handkerchief decorated with scores of tiny green—she jabbed her finger—well, green and red leaves.
She set aside the fabric and sucked on her finger.
She’d made herself bleed. But even an open wound did not feel as painful as Markham’s castigating silence.
She shifted in her seat and glanced out the window.
She had been wounded, for goodness sake. She should be permitted one indulgence…one tiny peek.
Still no sign of Markham.
Before the other night she’d rarely noticed Markham’s garden. In fact, she hadn’t noticed any number of things before.
She had never noticed how long the hours lasted between rising and early afternoon—hours usually reserved for visits. Those hours were as painfully slow as the changing of the guard, especially—she scowled down at the gate—when no one called.
How could she have allowed Markham to turn her into this—this…
Bundle of frustrated want.
Oh, she’d made a few interesting discoveries in the intervening days…like how she could cover herself in her sheets, reach down between her legs and make those stars appear all on her own. Only it wasn’t quite the same, was it?
Useful, but not the same.
She huffed.
Then again, all she’d asked for was knowledge. In fact, she’d specifically rejected anything more.
But, still, he hadn’t paid a call.
Shouldn’t he have paid a call?
No one should ever commit to a fake courtship if they did not intend to court.
Fakely.
She growled under her breath. Had she really devolved into a blubbering mess of made-up words? Perhaps Markham hadn’t called because he was protecting her reputation.
Or maybe she’d frightened him away.
Answer me with words.
She withdrew her finger from her mouth.
Of course, once daylight had burned away the last of Markham’s sensual
haze, all the implications of their encounter would come home to rest. Surely, he would have realized he didn’t want to be ordered about.
Not that she had any desire to do so in the general sense.
The imbalance had been so great—something had to place them on more equal footing.
She’d treated him sternly, yes. But not as if he were without wit. More as if he were a devoted subject…a knight errant. A warrior knight errant who voluntarily pledged his allegiance and fully trusted in her reciprocal care.
Her skirts swished around her as she stood. She straightened her stockings and then adjusted her stays.
Her knight had failed.
If he failed, he no longer deserved her care. The pleasure may have been impassioned, her satisfaction thorough, but if this feeling was the result, then she never wished to have the experience again.
She hated this feeling.
This restless feeling that threatened to ball up so large, she’d expire. Madness. No, worse. Vulnerability.
This is why she had given up the idea of marriage in the first place. Expectations were a yawning crevasse. A grave dug specifically for stupid hopes.
She folded her arms.
Had she forgotten how she’d spent her youth?
In the shadows, endlessly waiting for a groom who never intended to claim his bride. She would never, ever place her well-being into another’s keeping again. Men had the power to make a woman legally disappear with a simple I do.
And she refused to accept responsibility for anyone else.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Katherine, Lady Bromton,” Lady Darlington’s butler announced.
“Oh! Clarissa!” Katherine exclaimed. “I’m so glad you are not out.” She stopped abruptly. “Why are you scowling?”
“Embroidery mishap.” She held up her finger.
“I can’t see a wound.”
“Trust me. It was bleeding a moment ago.” Clarissa’s frown deepened. “Wait. Why are you all breathless and sparkling? Have you told Bromton about the baby?”
“Not yet. I want to be absolutely sure.”
“Then what has you so excited?”
“Well.” She grinned. “Percy’s come up with such a marvelous idea.”
Clarissa’s heart leaped up. She shoved it back down.
“I thought you called Markham Percy when you are mad.”
Katherine shrugged. “Sometimes it slips out when I’m pleased, too. Percy’s extended an invitation for us all to go to Southford, and Bromton has agreed! He’s to come with us. And Julia.”
Markham was going away? Had she scared him that badly? Clarissa lifted a brow. “Should you really be traveling in your condition?”
“I’m not that delicate. Besides, we have an excellently sprung coach, and it’s fall, so the temperature is sure to be pleasant.”
“It’s fall,” Clarissa repeated, “so the roads are sure to be wet and ruddy.”
“Claris-sa, I would like to see Southford before travel becomes difficult. I haven’t been back since my wedding. Markham’s finished many of the projects I began, and I’d just like to see—”
Clarissa sighed. “Of course you should go. Now I am being selfish.”
“Why?” Katherine frowned. “Well, honestly, you didn’t think we’d leave you behind? You are going to come with us, silly goose.”
“Come with you?” Clarissa swallowed. “To Markham’s estate?”
“Why are you saying it that way? It was my home, too. Wouldn’t you like to come? I could show you my mother’s folly—you’ve seen the painting Bromton ordered for my room. It’s an excellent painting, of course, but it’s not the real thing, is it? There’s plenty to do, I assure you. Southford has an excellent library, a billiards room, lovely formal gardens, a pond, lots of lanes for walking…”
Clarissa squinted. “Are you sure this was Markham’s idea?”
“Yes! He can come up with a good idea from time to time. So, will you agree to come?”
She shouldn’t.
She’d just vowed to contain her heart.
She glanced longingly toward the glossy black gate. Her longing transformed into persuasion. “Of course, I’ll go with you to Southford.”
Katherine squealed.
“Only because I couldn’t bear to disappoint you.”
“Of course.” Katherine enveloped her in an embrace. “I’m sure that’s the only reason.”
Chapter Twelve
Clarissa clasped the coach strap and gazed out the window. Bromton’s coach rocked gently back and forth. Just as Katherine had argued, the new coach was, indeed, well-sprung, and a few rare days of autumn sun had dried the roads.
Southford was just far enough to require a two-day trip without the use of post horses. But, so far, the first day of travel was the most pleasant carriage ride Clarissa had ever taken.
Correction.
The trip would have been the most pleasant ride she’d ever taken, if she could forget how Markham had greeted her in the hall of Darlington house with yet another kiss to her hand, while simultaneously drawing a heart onto the bottom of her wrist.
She ran her thumb over the aforementioned spot.
Markham’s gesture had been heart-meltingly romantic…and thoroughly infuriating.
Did he think one small heart could make up for two long days of silence? Two days of having no idea how he felt? No idea if he, too, had been restless and hot in the night and distracted and cold in the day?
She’d climbed into the coach perplexed and angry.
Something had happened between her and Markham. Something explosive and yet fragile. What exactly had happened and what it could possibly mean baffled her to the point of exhaustion.
Her front-facing place by the window gave her a direct view of Markham’s horse…and the tightly fitted rear of Markham’s uncloaked buckskin breeches. She took note of a particular spot, an excellent mark for the leather-looped end of a nice, stiff riding crop.
Her cheeks darkened. Her breath skipped. She never whipped her horse. She most certainly wasn’t about to land leather on Markham. She caught Julia smirking in her direction.
She lifted her chin and returned her gaze to Markham’s seat. Why shouldn’t she look? Markham was a fine horseman. He rode confidently and steady, and, unlike some, he was tuned to his horse’s needs. He actually talked to his mare, encouraging her with frequent pats and praise.
They reached the inn where she and Julia, Bromton and Katherine were going to spend the night. Markham was to take a meal with them and carry on, in order to make sure Southford was fully prepared for their arrival.
Bromton had handed off his horse after a simple pat to the neck. Markham joined them a few minutes later. He apologized for being late, too.
His mare was old, he’d explained. They wouldn’t have many more trips together. He liked to be the one to brush her down.
Her heart lodged in her throat.
Not only was Markham loyal and good humored, he was kind to his animals.
Kind in general.
All the evidence had been there. Why hadn’t she noticed?
At the end of the meal, he wished them all good night. She watched from her chamber window as he emerged from the stables.
He caught her gaze and winked before turning back onto the road.
This time his wink did not warm, but further intensified the war between reason and longing.
Julia nattered a bit about her childhood home before falling into sleep. The room they shared adjoined Bromton and Katherine’s, and, though the lovers tried to be discreet, Clarissa was kept awake by feminine sighs and masculine groans. Julia’s penchant for sleep-kicking did not help, either.
She absorbed each blow with an internal one of her own.
Markham was kind. Ouch.
Markham was trustworthy. Ouch.
Markham was beloved by his sisters. He was talented at giving pleasure. She loved provoking his helpless groan.
&nb
sp; At this rate, she was going to sustain multiple bruises.
And unless she made up her mind to put a clear stop to this madness, she’d be lost.
…
By the next morning, her scale had fully tipped. This uncertainty, this constant worry, this ravenous, pulsing need—this was not how she wished to live her life. It had been unwise of her to agree to come. Unwise to prolong the inevitable parting. And the contrast between her mood and that of Julia and Katherine could not have been starker.
Julia was bouncing in her seat.
“Look there!” She pointed. “Rector Chandler’s steeple. We’re close.”
Katherine reached across the coach and grasped Clarissa’s hand. “I hope you’ll love Southford as I do.” She smiled just a touch too brightly.
Suddenly, Clarissa understood something she had not understood before.
They weren’t making the journey to Southford for Katherine to visit home. Katherine and Julia had brought her here to exhibit their brother at his estate, en famille. Which meant that while she’d decided she must put an end to their not-quite-a-courtship, Markham—heaven help her—had decided to court her in truth.
And he’d enlisted his sisters in the task.
Katherine stopped speaking, took note of Clarissa’s expression, and smiled sheepishly—as if Clarissa had required the confirmation of her silent confession.
No.
Her internal reaction was, for once, clear.
She refused to change her mind about marriage, especially after the panicked mess she’d become the past few days.
Who would want to go through life constantly seeking the approval of another? That anyone managed to stay married was a marvel.
The coach turned onto the most picturesque drive Clarissa had ever seen—long, slightly winding, with towering beech trees planted at regular intervals. The whole effect was rather charming, and very green.
Especially for September.
Yet another contrast.
She, Rayne, and Bromton hailed from the North. The North had desolate beauty. It was rugged, rocky country, more suited to mines, while this—she peered out to the rolling hills—was like being transported to Eden. She could lift an empty frame and capture a perfect landscape in any direction.
Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance) Page 14