“When the chandelier’s lit it’s bright as day in here, but let’s not bother the servants, shall we? Not for a quick game.”
Dark, wood-paneled walls came into view. The billiards table was, of course, the largest piece of furniture, however, overstuffed chairs of green leather sat in each corner. Windows lined the wall on one side while the other had racks for billiard sticks and balls.
Like Markham’s bedchamber in London, this was a very masculine room.
She shook her head.
She’d come here to avoid thinking about Markham’s bedchamber.
“Which game do you prefer to play?” Julia asked.
Clarissa frowned. “Billiards?”
“Yes, but which kind, ninny? Don’t tell me you don’t know how to play!”
“I don’t.”
“Then why—?” Julia shut her mouth and scowled. “I suppose Rayne has ideas about women playing billiards. Markham did, too, before we fixed him.”
Clarissa raised her brows. “I’ve never discussed billiards with Rayne. I discuss very little with Rayne, actually.” Other than Bromton. “Markham is against women playing billiards?”
Julia nodded. “He used to call this room”—Julia lowered her voice—“a man’s refuge.”
Suddenly Clarissa sincerely wished to play.
“Katherine disabused him of that notion by beating him, three rounds out of three.” She picked up two ivory balls. “We’ll start with the winning game, I think. One white ball belongs to you, one to me. I’ll take the one with the dot.”
Julia explained the rules and then demonstrated how to hit the balls.
Each time Clarissa leaned over the table, her aim improved. She liked the feel of a stick in her hands, liked hitting the ball and having it come to a stop in the place she intended.
She lost anyway. Julia was quite good.
“Well,” Julia sighed, “I must say, you learn quickly. How about another—” She stopped. Then she yawned and stretched. “Actually, now that I think about it, I’m suddenly sleepy.”
“Sleepy?”
“Dreadfully so.” Julia glanced over Clarissa’s shoulder. “Markham, why don’t you play with Clarissa instead?”
…
Julia winked as she passed Markham. Winked.
Fiend.
He grasped her arm. Her eyes widened. He chucked her beneath her chin.
“Good night.”
“Good night.” She grinned, skipping off.
And now, to his purpose.
Something was happening between him and Clarissa, and no matter how angry and scared he became, only one choice would ever conquer the beast of the unknown.
He had to forge forward. He had to see it through.
He’d been watching Clarissa almost since she’d first started playing. The “man’s refuge” line had been a means to annoy his sisters, but he wondered if he should have enforced the rule. Clarissa’s lifted bottom gave him…thoughts.
Never mind what was happening to him now that she was studying the billiards table, distractedly running her cupped hand up and down her stick.
“Are you here to play billiards with me?” She did not look up.
“No.”
“Why?” She glanced askance. “Because this is a man’s refuge?”
“Does that sound like something I’d say and mean, Clarissa? Lording anything over my sisters gets a rise out of them both.”
“And you find this amusing?”
“Vastly. And they give as good as they get. Might I remind you that Julia locked us in the priest hole?”
And suddenly they were back in the quiet confines of the cupboard—back in the breathless aftermath of his unanswered question.
Live the contradiction with me.
Only here, in the open, the question didn’t have such an easy answer.
Nor was it easily repeated.
This time, he turned away. “This is a man’s refuge, actually. I modeled the room after one in Sharpe’s.”
“The gentleman’s club Sharpe’s?” She glanced around the room with new interest. “I’ve never set foot inside a gentleman’s club. Ladies should have clubs, too.”
“Ladies have command of the drawing room. Why do you think men escape to clubs?”
“Don’t even begin to tell me men are afraid of women.”
“Most are,” he answered. “Afraid. Angry. Completely unaware of what they want or how to get it.”
“And you?” She arched that lovely brow.
Ah. That look. “I’m not angry.”
“Anymore.”
“Anymore.” It would have been entirely improper to adjust his falls. He leaned on the table instead. “I didn’t come here to play billiards. I came to negotiate.”
“Oh?” She drew her bottom lip between her teeth.
Ah well, he’d known she wouldn’t play fair.
He’d fumed his way back to his bedchamber because he’d been sure he’d done everything he could. Just to be certain, he’d made a mental list—he’d shown respect, sensual deference, even allowed her to set the pace…
That’s when he suddenly understood.
Allowed. Allowed.
That was the source of her distress. No matter how much of himself he gave, the very structure of Society would always favor him. If he was to convince her they could have a mutually happy future, he needed to give her more time.
More experience.
“It isn’t fair for me to demand everything of you.” He spoke to her lips.
“But you are going to demand, aren’t you?”
He smiled faintly. “I said negotiate, not capitulate. But I am willing to explore those contradictions without asking you to make promises.”
“And what do you wish for in exchange?”
“Honesty. Fearlessness. We’ll have to discuss things most people can barely speak about. It will be embarrassing. Scary. But, if we do trust each other, it will also be,”—he placed his hand on the small of her back—“very exciting.”
“My honesty is all you ask?”
He shook his head no. “I must have one promise—any door I wish to keep closed, you must not attempt to open. Don’t ask about my past.”
“You don’t want me to know you.”
“You already know me.” But some truths were just too explosive. He could open up enough to explore, but he still refused to bleed. “I’d like to keep my pride, if nothing else.”
In truth, he wasn’t sure he could keep his pride, only, she didn’t have to know that.
She moved out of his half embrace to place her stick back inside the rack.
She hadn’t denied him.
Not yet.
“What kind of things do we have to talk about?”
Progress. “What we like. What we don’t. What we will and will not allow.”
“Well?”
“I like undressing you. I’d like to undress for you.”
“I hear you sometimes go about naked.”
He snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Is it true?”
“In the privacy of my own bedchamber, yes.”
“I’ve almost never been without all my clothes. I even bathe in a shift.”
He pictured her rising from his copper tub—long, white linen clinging to her breasts and thighs.
“Why would you wish to go about naked?” she asked.
“I grew up in a houseful of women. Disrobing was a means to enforce solitude—a way to enter a space all my own.”
“Your secret rebellion.” Understanding dawned in her gaze. “Like what we shared—you can be the opposite of what you must always appear.”
He considered. “Possibly.” He smoothed his thumb over the crease in her brow. “Your little disapproving scowl has always left me a little breathless.”
Her pupils widened. “I want to make you breathless.”
“I know.” Her desire had its intended effect. “And I want to be told exactly how to bring you pleasure.”
She took a slow, deep inhale. “What won’t you allow—besides questions?”
He imagined a number of humiliating scenarios he didn’t think he’d enjoy. For instance, though the idea of being bound rather intrigued, he didn’t particularly like pain. So maybe no caning?
Then again, he wouldn’t have thought he’d enjoy being told to undress her and then use his cock to stroke her to climax.
“I don’t know my limits, yet. For now, I’m happy to place myself entirely in your hands.”
“Even though you generally take charge?”
He couldn’t ignore the challenge in her eyes.
He caught her hips and swung her around, so she faced the table and he was at her back. He wrapped his arm about her and held her tight, just below her breasts.
“Make no mistake.” He lowered his lips to her ear. “I’d be just as happy to bend you over, stretch your arms above your head, and hold you still while I rut with you from behind.”
She sucked in.
“Embarrassed?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So am I.”
Devil take it. He couldn’t resist much longer. “Do you accept my terms?”
“Yes.”
A hot rush spread through his veins.
She reached behind his neck and grabbed him, yanking his face forward until his cheek pressed against hers. “I’m going to go upstairs, now. When I unlock the door, I expect you to be naked.”
Chapter Fifteen
Clarissa placed her hand on the bolt—the only thing keeping her from a disrobed Markham. He’d been right about one thing—embarrassment.
She’d undressed to stockings and shift, and that’s as far as she’d been able to go on her own. The awkwardness was real, especially when he wasn’t by her side, pulsing with latent masculine power she craved to subdue.
All she had to do now was slip the lock to the side and open the door and, for the night, all his power would be at her command.
Why then, did she feel as if she were the one about to enter a lion’s den?
As if she were the one about to be devoured?
Hearts. He’d had others. Several, in fact.
But he’d said what was between them was new. And he’d said he’d acquiesced to her demands simply because she’d asked. She rested her head against the door, breathing heavily.
I’d be just as happy to bend you over, stretch your arms above your head, and hold you still while I rut with you from behind.
She’d thought she wanted full control. And she did. But—she wet her lips—scorching heat had flooded between her legs when he’d said that.
I want…
What she wanted wasn’t simple. And he didn’t yet know his limits.
Desire was a vast ocean.
One could easily get lost…or drown.
Even if I panic, Markham won’t let me drown.
Oh no.
There wasn’t room in her heart for such trust.
If she opened the door, it would be because she wanted to explore the contradictions—not seek out promises even Markham couldn’t fulfill.
She’d open the door because she had loved making him hard and hot and panting, and she wanted with every fiber of her being to do so again.
If there were a hungry lion in this scenario, she was it.
She slid the lock to the side and then cracked open the door.
“Come in.”
His voice resonated all the way to her toes.
She stepped inside and then closed the door behind her.
He’d disrobed, as she demanded, but he’d covered up with a long, golden banyan. Though his banyan complemented his skin and eyes, she was disappointed. She dropped her gaze to the chest hair peeking out of the crisscrossed silk.
Then again, perhaps not so disappointed.
He looked like a present…one she could unwrap.
She hadn’t received many gifts in her life.
In fact, she could not recall one.
Which made her long to claim this one even more.
“Wine,” he said suddenly. “I brought up wine.”
He indicated a glass of ruby red liquid on the table by his bedside next to a bottle of scented oil, much like he had in London.
“Are you drinking wine?” she asked.
“No.” He glanced down into his glass. “This is cognac.”
“Then pour me the same.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Very well.”
He went to his drawer, retrieved a key, and unlocked a cabinet. With both hands, he lifted out a clear decanter and a small glass matching his own. He uncorked his bottle and carefully measured out a pour.
“Markham,” she said with a smile in her voice, “are you reluctant to part with your cognac?”
He blushed. “A full glass would have bankrupted me when I first became earl.” He handed her the tumbler full of brown-hued liquid. “It’s the real thing. Not watered. Not smuggled. It’s a liquor to be sipped, not devoured. A single cask has lasted for years.”
“Have you ever shared your cognac?”
“No.”
“But you are sharing with me?”
He lifted and dropped a shoulder—a twitch more than a shrug. “I find it difficult to deny you anything you ask.”
Something odd rippled through her chest. How could he look so boyishly hopeful, so eager to please, and yet manage to exude assurance and care?
Warming liquid spice burned down her throat as she swallowed. “Be careful, or you’ll give me all sorts of ideas.”
“I want you to have ideas,” he said with a note of dare.
She sighed. “I know how I’d like you to feel. But there is still a vast difference in our experience.”
“But not”—his lip quirked—“in our imaginations.” He swirled the liquid in his glass. “Why don’t you tell me how you’d like me to feel and I’ll tell you how to make that happen?”
“You mean, if I want to know how to make you whimper like you did the other night, you’ll tell me?”
He raised his brows.
“Markham!” she scolded sharply.
“Yes,” he said.
He remembered. She set down her glass. He’d known immediately that she’d wanted him to answer aloud. That heady sense of power returned.
“What did you say you wanted to do with me when I bent over the billiards table?”
His lids veiled his gaze. “I said I wanted to bend you over and hold you still.”
Another tight, wet clench.
“That wasn’t all you said.”
“…while I rut with you from behind,” he finished with a blush.
His fluster filled her with all the satisfaction of a heartfelt sigh. “I may allow it, if you are very obedient.”
His lips parted. “Clarissa, wait. I can’t—I mean we can’t actually consummate.”
“Markham.” She closed the space between them. “You decide how much of yourself you will give. I decide how much I will give.” She pinched his cheeks. “We may both say no. We may both say yes.”
“Ah.” He shook his head no.
She purposely narrowed her eyes. “What I can or cannot do is not for you to decide. If you do not want me, that is one—”
“You know that isn’t the case.”
“Are you hard now?”
“I was…nearly.”
“Then explore the contradictions.” She used his words.
The wariness did not leave his eyes. “I told you I would not ask anything of you. But if there is a child, you will no longer have a choice. We’d have to marry, you know that. A gambler’s first rule—never risk what you are not willing to lose.”
What were the chances? It had taken months for Katherine to suspect she was with child, and from what she’d seen in the last few days, they consummated frequently.
On the other hand, could she face the loss of choice?
We’re only negotiating.
“I understa
nd,” she replied. “And I accept that risk. May we proceed?”
He searched her gaze. “Yes.”
She looked him up and down. “There’s my lapin.”
His cheeks darkened. Delightfully.
“Does that embarrass you?” she asked.
“Yes—but I like the way you say it…as if you want me wild with want.”
“I do…but what should you call me?” Something strong. “You may call me my lady…for now.”
“Yes,”—his eyes sparkled with returning heat—“my lady.”
She arched a brow in the way he’d said he liked. She removed his unfinished cognac from his hand and set it down by the bed.
“You’ll get it back if you please me. And I’m not at all pleased. I told you to be naked.”
Holding her gaze, he undid the tie at his waist. His banyan parted, revealing several planes of muscled flesh. He lifted the robe off his shoulders. And dropped it on the floor.
A gift, indeed.
A beautifully muscled present…entirely at her mercy.
“Clasp your hands behind your back and remain perfectly still while I…” What do I wish to do? “…inspect.”
“Yes,” he said, slightly strangled. He stepped his legs apart, placed his hands behind his back, and glanced upward. Reddening slowly everywhere.
She warmed on the inside, too.
His cock wasn’t jutting upward, thoroughly hard, but it was thickening under her gaze.
So strange. So fascinating.
She circled him, running a single finger across the broadest part of his back, up over a muscled shoulder, and then straight down the middle of his chest to the center of his slim waist.
With his arms clasped behind his back, he was all latent power. Though she wanted him at her mercy, his words from the billiards room returned to mind.
He’d said rut—not consummate. Rut—like animals in mating season.
She rather fancied having a beast all her own, a beast she could manage at times and, at others, allow to roam free.
She sipped her drink. Markham’s gaze flicked to his glass, then back.
“What kind of things make you hard?”
His gaze dropped to her breasts. “You. Bare.”
“No,” she quipped. “Give me another option.”
“Kiss me.”
“Another.”
His voice dropped. “Touch me.”
“Where? You must be specific, lapin.”
Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance) Page 18