Gillian stared at it uncertainly. “Aunt Quintina, it is unconscionable to read someone else’s mail. How could we be so devious?”
“You can’t pretend to believe that Clara wasn’t devious when she did whatever she did to get Seger to propose. I can only imagine what tactics she employed.”
Gillian considered that for a moment, then slowly opened the letter and read it. “Oh, sweet mother of God! She told him what I said! I could brain her!”
“Now, now, it’s not such a bad thing,” Quintina replied. “She says Seger didn’t believe it and he called her irrational. Irrational, Gillian. He would have absolutely no patience at all for an irrational wife. I believe we’ve found our strategy.”
Still reeling with rage at the image of Clara telling Seger about their conversation that morning, Gillian glared impatiently at her aunt. “Which is what?”
“You must continue to say things that make her mad with jealousy. Hint at things—even things about Daphne—but never be clear. When you are with Seger, behave as you always have. Even ignore him a little more than usual, so he will think that Clara is imagining everything. If we can drive her to tears, that will be even better, because you know how he hates that sort of behavior. He’ll think she’s unbalanced. Then, I will top it all off with my trump card.”
“What’s your trump card, Auntie?”
Quintina smiled. “Would you really like to know?”
A glimmer of malice lighted Gillian’s eyes. “Of course.”
Quintina sat down on the bed. “As it happens, there is a gentleman traveling here now from America. His name is Gordon Tucker, and he has agreed to do something for me.”
Clara spent the afternoon riding with Gillian through Hyde Park. She had not wanted to go, but she hadn’t wanted Seger to learn that she’d refused, so she accepted Gillian’s invitation, donned her black riding habit and top hat, and pasted on a smile.
The sky was overcast and the air cool, and as Clara galloped over the grass, she was surprised to be enjoying herself. Perhaps it was because Gillian was so quiet. She spoke very little, never mentioning their conversation the morning before. She merely rode ahead of Clara, who gladly brought up the rear. She had no desire to race with the girl.
They were on their way home, however, when Gillian slowed her pace and waited for Clara to ride up beside her. Their horses nickered and flicked their ears.
“What a glorious day for a ride,” Gillian said. “We should do this every afternoon.”
“It is lovely indeed.”
“I enjoy our friendship very much, Clara. I am so happy Seger married you.”
The statement surprised Clara, who instantly doubted her feelings from the day before. Perhaps she had jumped to conclusions, and Seger had been perfectly justified to react the way he had.
“I enjoy it, too, Gillian,” she replied, patting her horse’s neck.
They trotted side by side. “Did you know,” Gillian said, “that my father had once wanted me to marry Seger?”
Clara’s mood took a sudden dive. “Is that so?” She did not want to be having this conversation!
“Yes,” Gillian said brightly. “I refused, of course. I told my father that Seger was only a friend to me, that I could never imagine him as my husband, and then after the scandal with Daphne, and Seger’s withdrawal from society.... Well, Father changed his tune after that. He wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted someone respectable for me. Of course, I never believed that Seger was not respectable. I knew he had more honor than any other man in London, and he was merely pining away over Daphne, whom he had loved very deeply. But Father could never see that. He didn’t know Seger as I did.” She gave Clara a sidelong glance. “But you must know him intimately as well, because you’re his wife. He must share everything with you. He probably tells you he loves you every time you’re together.” She looked up at the sky. “You are a very lucky woman, Clara.”
Clara didn’t feel so lucky at the moment. She felt like she was losing her mind. Nothing Gillian said hinted at anything untoward between her and Seger. Gillian had said that Seger had been a friend to her, and that her feelings went no deeper than that. Yet there was something in her tone. Something that goaded Clara—and seemingly on purpose. Gillian’s voice was condescending, and she seemed intent to have Clara recognize it.
And she kept bringing up Daphne.
“I’m so happy we’re like sisters now,” Gillian said, “and that we can tell each other everything. It must be wonderful to be married. I envy you. Tell me about it, Clara. How many times a day does Seger tell you he loves you? Do you ever get tired of hearing it?”
Clara swallowed over the urge to tell Gillian to go ride her horse straight into the Thames. She reminded herself, however, that Gillian was a member of Seger’s family, and she could not be so rude. And for all she knew, maybe she was imagining things. She could be feeling vulnerable because of all the other women in Seger’s life—whether they were former lovers propositioning him at balls, hateful cousins, or the ghosts from his past.
Clara wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
“Forgive me, Gillian,” Clara said, “but I would prefer to keep certain things private. I’m sure you understand.”
Gillian shifted her riding crop from one hand to the other. “I’m sorry, Clara. I’m the one who should be asking for forgiveness. I sounded like a busybody just now. I loathe people like that. Don’t you?”
Clara merely nodded, and they rode out of the park toward home.
That night, when Seger came to her bed, she smiled flirtatiously and removed her nightgown, and pushed every thought of Gillian and Daphne, and all those other women, from her mind. She would not again make the mistake of spoiling the only intimacy that existed between herself and her husband. She would enjoy the pleasures of the marriage bed and be the adventurous woman Seger had fallen in love with.
“Has he ever shown you a picture of Daphne?” Gillian asked Clara over breakfast the next morning. “He had a miniature of her at one time. He must still have it somewhere. I can’t imagine he would ever discard it.”
Clara spoke with a pretense of indifference, though she was tempted to throw her toast in Gillian’s face. “No, I can’t imagine he would either.”
“Well, she was very beautiful, and the reason I ask is because you are beautiful, too. To be honest, you resemble Daphne. We’ve all noticed. Auntie mentioned it the first time she saw you. The housekeeper mentioned it, too.”
Clara struggled not to reveal her surprise. She tried to sound unruffled and merely curious. “In what way do I resemble her?”
“You have the same color hair, and your mouth is the same.” She pointed at her own mouth. “It’s the lips. Seger has an appreciation for lips, doesn’t he? Have you noticed that about him?”
Clara could barely believe Gillian’s audacity. But under no circumstances would she take the bait. Instead, she smiled playfully. “Yes, I suppose he does have an appreciation for lips. I can certainly attest to that.”
She was pleased that her voice hinted at all sorts of wicked innuendo. It knocked Gillian off kilter. The poor girl’s cheeks flushed bright red.
Clara returned to sipping her tea.
Gillian was quiet for a moment, then she made another attempt to knock Clara off balance. “Do you know about the gravestone?”
Clara saw the competitive glint in Gillian’s eyes, and realized that things were spiraling out of control. There was nothing subtle about Gillian’s desire to attack Clara. Her intentions were not up for debate. Gillian was charging ahead at a full gallop, sword drawn, and she didn’t care if Clara knew it. The space between them was now an open battlefield.
“What gravestone?” Clara asked dryly.
Gillian raised an eyebrow in a spiteful manner. Was she not even going to try to be subtle?
“Daphne’s gravestone. He had o
ne erected, you know.”
Clara had to admit defeat on this point. She sipped her tea and set the cup down in its saucer. “I didn’t know that.”
“No, I wouldn’t think he would mention it. He had it erected in their private meeting place at his country estate, and planted daffodils all around it. Daffodils were her favorite. He told me about that once, when he was lonesome for her.”
Clara took a calming breath and leaned forward in her chair. “Gillian, your comments about my husband are beginning to give me a headache.”
Gillian’s chin rose up a notch. “I don’t know why that would be the case.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.” There was such challenge in the cursed woman’s eyes!
Clara squeezed her fists with fury. “In the future, let us try to talk of other things. You have other interests, don’t you? Music? Books?”
Gillian smiled sardonically. “I understand, Clara. I understand completely.”
Clara had just finished brushing her hair before bed, when Seger entered her bedchamber carrying a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
“I thought you might be thirsty,” he said, his voice low and seductive, his eyes warm.
Having never shared a bedroom with a man other than Seger, Clara wondered if all husbands were as gracious and charming as he.
Not likely, she decided, feeling quietly aroused. “You always know what I’m in the mood for.”
With great appreciation, Clara took in the breadth of his shoulders and the sheer perfection of his body as he moved across the room. He was flawless beyond contemplation. He looked like the statue of David, if one could imagine David wearing a black silk robe. She, for one, preferred to imagine her husband quite without the robe.
And yet, her marriage was not all red wine and roses. For one thing, her monthly had begun and she wasn’t sure how to handle that. What did husbands and wives do when the wife was indisposed?
Additionally, neither of them had mentioned their argument about Gillian. It was as if it had never occurred. They’d made love the night before, but Clara had felt distanced from Seger and didn’t know how to breach that distance without starting another argument.
She rose from her chair and forced herself to smile, all the while feeling like she barely knew her husband. Nor he her. They were like two casual acquaintances, making light conversation, laughing about trivial things, and making love. Though he picked up on each and every desire she had sexually, and satisfied her beyond any expectation, he didn’t want to hear about her anxieties or emotional insecurities. He just wanted her to smile and be beautiful and amusing.
She was thankful that it was easy to smile and be beautiful when he was making love to her, for that was how he made her feel.
As she watched him pour the wine, however, she realized uneasily that the persona she was forced to keep up when he was not making love to her was beginning to try her patience.
There were moments when she wanted to shout at Seger or throw a vase at him to stir up some real emotion between them. But she feared that if she did that, he would think she was irrational again, and she did not wish him to see her that way. It was important to her that she hold on to his respect.
He handed her a glass. “Try this, darling. It’s the best we have in the house.”
She sipped the wine and felt the most pleasant sensation of heat pouring through her body, relaxing her mind. “It’s delicious.”
“Not nearly as delicious as you.” He held up his own glass. “To your beauty.”
Clara watched him in the dim lamplight and marveled at his beauty—the square line of his jaw, his strong, masculine hands. Sometimes he seemed to have no awareness of the strength of his appeal. Other times, he knew exactly how to use his charm.
Distracted as she was by her husband’s charisma, she still could not get the image of Daphne’s gravestone out of her mind. Seger had erected it on his country estate, and the memorial to his first love would always be there, even after Clara had taken up residence.
She wondered if he still went to visit it.
Shaking her head at herself, she endeavored to sweep those thoughts from her mind. She did not want to spoil their evening together. Instead, she sat down on the bed and asked him about his day, resolving to make this a pleasant, memorable night.
As she watched him saunter toward her, sleek and irresistible, she knew it wouldn’t be difficult.
Seger gazed down at his wife and wondered how it was possible that any woman could be so exquisite in every way—from her earthly beauty down to her angelic, bright charm. Her smile was everything to him. Sometimes it was sweet and adorable, other times confident and poised, and still other times, it was sexually charged and drove him around the bend with need. She was the perfect combination of innocence and sophistication.
He had put aside their conversation of a few nights ago, and she seemed to have forgotten it, too. She had not mentioned Gillian again, and he was glad. He did not want to be reminded of the fact that Clara did not completely trust him when he had done everything in his power to earn and deserve her trust. Nor did he want to talk about Gillian when he was with Clara. Gillian was the last person on his mind.
He set down his glass and climbed onto the bed, then took Clara into his arms. With the exception of a few small impediments, marriage was bloody spectacular so far.
Though he couldn’t imagine it being this good with anyone else—which was why he had never been the least bit inclined to take this route with any other woman.
Well, he had with one woman, but that had been a very different time.
He eased Clara onto the soft pillows and began to unbutton the top of her gown, but she stopped him. “Seger....”
Stalled briefly—a tad surprised—he drew back. “Yes?”
“I’m not sure we can do this tonight.”
He blinked a few times. “What do you mean?”
“I mean....” She slipped out of the bed and folded her arms, as if she were shivering in the cold. “My monthly arrived today.”
A small breath sailed out of his lungs, and he felt slightly out of his element. It wasn’t often he’d had to deal with this problem. Most women he knew simply avoided “social” situations when they weren’t fully able to consummate them.
“I see.” Then it occurred to him that this meant Clara was not with child. “Are you disappointed?”
“Disappointed that we can’t make love tonight?” she asked, in a sweet, innocent voice that melted his heart.
“First of all,” he said, sitting up, “we can make love if you wish to, but that’s not what I mean. Are you disappointed that we didn’t conceive a child?”
Her face softened. “A little, I suppose. I do want to give you a son.”
He rose from the bed, approached her and took her into his arms. “Don’t be disappointed, darling. It often takes some time, I’ve heard. Look on the bright side, we will have to try doubly hard in the weeks to come. I don’t think I’ll mind that very much. Will you?”
Clara smiled. “No, I won’t. But what will it mean for tonight?” She touched his lips with her thumb. “Will you go back to your room?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No.” Her voice became breathy like a whisper. “There is still your pleasure to consider.”
He smiled and felt his arousal grow. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
His delightful wife didn’t answer the question. She simply went down on her knees and untied the belt of his robe. Her eyes were dark and mischievous as she looked up at him.
He cupped her head in his large hand. “I didn’t want to presume....”
“Presume anything you like. There’s no point wasting a good bottle of wine.” Then she smiled again and lit his body on fire.
Seger lay on the bed, stroking Clara’s soft
cheek and kissing her in the darkness, realizing that he was not the least bit disappointed to be lying in bed with a woman, having agreed to refrain from making love to her.
He hadn’t felt such tenderness in a long time. Eight years to be exact. He’d forgotten what it felt like.
Then he remembered the look on Clara’s face earlier when she told him she was not with child. She was clearly disappointed, but he had taken away that disappointment with a compassionate smile and a few choice words.
Maybe there was hope for him, after all. Maybe—as he and Clara grew closer—she would begin to trust him, and he would not feel so inept when it came to her more complicated emotions. He certainly felt close to her now, and not just in the physical sense.
He closed his eyes, pulled her into his arms, and fell asleep.
Chapter 18
Dear Clara,
Last night, I made the mistake of asking the hostess at a dinner party to pass me the gravy, and a dreadful silence fell upon the table. No one spoke to me for the rest of the evening. Mrs. Wadsworth, my lovely English governess, has since informed me that one should never ask the hostess for anything. Ask the servants. But you probably knew that already....
Adele
Seeing her sister enter the London ballroom, Clara excused herself from the other ladies. “Sophia, you’re back. How was Bath? Were you able to convince James’ sister to come home?”
“Bath was wonderful, and Lily seemed in good spirits. I tried to have her finish out the Season here, but she wouldn’t have it. She has not yet regained her confidence.”
“It might take some time.” Clara understood because she had been there.
They strolled around the room together, smiling and nodding at the other guests, then Sophia looped her arm through Clara’s. “I received your letter.”
“I was wondering if you had. I regret writing it now.”
“Why?”
“Because everything seems so much better. I haven’t mentioned my feelings about Gillian to Seger since that first night we argued, and we’ve been very happy the past few weeks.”
Falling for the Marquess (American Heiress Trilogy Book 2) Page 21