Clarissa had slept soundly in the huge four-poster bed, oblivious of her surroundings, save for the comfort of the feather mattress, the warmth at her feet from the warming pan, the crisp Holland sheets and the reassuring weight of the soft, luxurious quilt of eiderdown which had been fashioned to match the bed hangings. She awoke, feeling refreshed. The room was large, lit by a brightly burning fire in the gleaming grate. The curtained bed faced an enormous picture window, which must look direct to the sea over the marshes, for she had been aware of the soothing murmuring as she slept. Aside from the usual chests, there was a pretty lacquered writing desk in one corner, and an array of delicate Oriental porcelain on the mantel. The rich Turkish rugs were warm under her feet, and by her bedside there was a beautiful array of flowers.
The overall effect was of comfort, and of excellent taste. Despite his wealth, Kit was not an ostentatious man. His extravagances were all for public consummation—the horses, the mistresses, the gaming. In private he was obviously much more restrained.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle tap on the door, preceding the entrance of a maidservant. ‘If you please, ma’am, it’s close on six o’clock. Would you like to bathe now?’ At Clarissa’s nod, a flurry of activity saw a large copper hip bath placed before the fire and filled with bucket after bucket of steaming water. Several screens placed strategically ensured that no draughts would intrude. Towels were placed on a rail to heat, and rose oil added to the water to give the final touch of complete comfort.
Clarissa had never bathed in such opulence, and luxuriated in the heat and steam, allowing it to ease her tense muscles. She emerged in a rosy glow, feeling much better. Her underclothes had been miraculously laundered, and the creases in her dress ironed out. There was a supply of brushes and combs on the dressing table, allowing her to tame her unruly curls into a simple but fresh style. Checking her toilette in the glass, she was pleased with the result. A nod, a deep breath, and she was ready to be shown downstairs, ready to face Kit, though how to deal with him, she had no idea. Trusting to her instincts and her sense of self-preservation, trusting also that Kit would have had time to reconsider his actions in the light of her story and his injured arm, Clarissa followed the maidservant with her head held high and a sparkle in her eyes.
She was shown into a small dining room on the first floor. It was brightly lit and, as she had come to expect, showed impeccable, if restrained, taste. The table was set for two, the white damask cloth laid with gleaming silver cutlery and delicate Spode. On the walls, the paintings were more modern than those in the parlour and on the staircase, obviously Kit’s own purchases rather than those of his ancestors. Clarissa recognised a small seascape very much in the style of Mr Turner, whose work she had seen and admired earlier that year in the Royal Academy. There were others, portraits and landscapes that were unfamiliar to her, but all unmistakably of the new, naturalist school.
Kit was standing by the fire, resplendent in a dark, tightly fitting cutaway coat, tan pantaloons replacing his buckskins. His cravat was intricately tied and adorned with a small diamond pin, his black hair brushed forward. He appeared to be in good humour, but Clarissa noted immediately the smile was his satanic one, his lips curled in that mocking way she knew so well.
‘I trust my servants looked after you? You found everything sufficient to your needs?’
‘Even a toothbrush, thank you. I feel much better.’
‘You look much better too. Quite charming, in fact.’
‘And you, my lord? How is your arm? I notice you have decided against a sling?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but really I had no need of it. Now, I expect you are hungry. I know I am.’ As he spoke, Kit pulled out a chair for her, at right angles to his own at the head of the table. Almost immediately, the door opened and dinner was served.
The food was delicious. There were stewed oysters, woodcock roasted on the spit, a broiled turbot, and side dishes of artichokes, a delicate soup, and braised chicory. A Rhenish cream and a fruit jelly followed. Both Clarissa and Kit ate with appetite, warmed by the excellent burgundy, confining conversation to general subjects. In the relaxed atmosphere, they discovered anew a delight in each other’s company, and shared opinions on many things, from a hearty dislike of Mr Pitt who, they both believed, had been in office much too long, and a liking for the plays of Mr Shakespeare.
Clarissa asked Kit more about his childhood in Thornwood Manor, and in turn shared some of her memories. The days when her father had been alive, his habit of turning up, after an absence of days, with presents, full of laughter, brushing aside her mama’s remonstrations to hug them both, swinging Clarrie high over his head. ‘Now, of course, I realise he must have been on a gambling spree. He would bet on almost anything, and I suspect that he won less often than he lost. The times he came back with his pockets to let, drunk and in a foul temper, pushing me aside rather than picking me up and throwing me into the air—well, there were more of those.’
Clarissa paused, deep in the memories of those past childhood days. Papa, in his evening clothes even though it was always morning when he returned, his breath stale, his wig askew, pushing aside a small Clarissa, anxiously tugging for attention at the skirt of his coat. Mama, so pretty and so young, pulling at his other side, tugging his sleeve, demanding to know where he had been. Papa intent on his bed, swatting at them both, calling for a servant, demanding to know why breakfast was not on the table for him. Mama handing Clarissa over to the servant, pulling her father up the stairs, her father shouting, waving his hands in the air, but allowing himself to be pulled.
Looking up to find Kit watching her closely, Clarissa blinked, and smiled. ‘I haven’t thought of these things in years. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give the conversation such a depressing turn.’
He shrugged. ‘So, dear papa was a gambler. I take it that explains the poverty?’
‘Yes, he left us with nothing. And by the time he died, you know, he had been cast off completely by his family. They did nothing for Mama, she was left almost penniless. Except my aunt. It was she who provided for my schooling. She would have done the same for Amelia, had she wanted it—but Amelia, I’m sorry to say, was inclined to frivolity from an early age.’
‘Leaving you to be the dependable one?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She was surprised at his perception.
‘Well, from what you’ve said, you could hardly have relied on your mother.’
She laughed at that. ‘No, you’re right. Mama’s idea of economy is to buy only the best, most expensive wax candles because they burn more slowly than tallow. Or to place another order with a merchant when the bills come in on quarter day, rather than to pay what we owe.’
‘My own experience of parents isn’t so far from your own, despite the differences in our financial circumstances.’
‘I find that difficult to believe.’
‘My father was a gambler too, prone to disappear for days on end. We all learned to dread seeing him on settling day, and Newmarket was worse—he never seemed to win. As to my mother, she is just as air-headed as yours in her turn. Her latest idea of saving money is to buy new curtains for every room in the house at once, on the assumption that the bigger order will get her a bigger discount. The only difference is that my father added womanising to his vices, and my mother can well afford to indulge her extravagances, having my purse to turn to when her own runs dry.’
The deep cynicism in his voice betrayed his feelings. Like Clarissa, Kit was the provider. She suspected that like her, too, the role was not one that garnered much by way of thanks or loving appreciation. Looking at him, she realised he was as surprised at the comparison as she. Knowing him well though, she thought the better of dwelling on it, merely reaching over to squeeze his hand, before turning to a less personal subject.
The meal was a success. After the covers were removed, they left the table to sit opposite each other in the cosy downstairs parlour, Kit sipping conte
mplatively on a brandy, Clarissa merely watching, relishing his presence, desperate to make the moment last for ever, yet knowing that she must bring it to a close.
‘I think I should retire. Thank you for a most pleasant evening. I take it we start early for London in the morning?’
Placing his glass to one side, Kit raised an eyebrow in surprise, having expected another show of resistance. ‘Very well. I’ll join you when I’ve finished my brandy.’
‘Join me?’
‘In your bedchamber, of course. Or if you prefer, we can use mine?’
‘Yours?’
‘If you prefer.’
‘But I thought…’
‘What, my fair Clarissa, did you think?’
‘I thought that you had—had—I thought you realised—now you know I was telling the truth—I thought you realised I cannot go through with this. I thought you had accepted my reasons, understood my reasons. I thought that…’
‘That I would forgo payment?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did I say so?’
‘No, but…’
‘But you thought I would let you off anyway, after your touching tale of rescuing your sister? And just to make sure, your touching revelations about your papa and mama over dinner to arouse my sympathy.’
‘No, that’s not true. You make it sound as if I had planned to tell you those things. I’ve never talked to anyone about those things before, I was just—I thought we were becoming friends.’
‘Friends!’ The astonishment in his voice was genuine. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. There can be no friendship between men and women. What we were doing, Clarissa, was simply foreplay. Mental stimulation, a prelude to physical stimulation. We are not, nor ever will be, friends. Tonight we will be lovers. After tomorrow we will be strangers. And for now, we will stop talking, lest we lose the benefits of all this mental foreplay and I remember what a lying, scheming, double-crossing wretch you are.’
‘Please, Kit, I beg you this one last time, won’t you believe me? I am not the woman you insist on thinking me. I’m simply a foolish sister whose plan to save her sibling from ruin has gone awry. I have done you no real harm. We’ve enjoyed each other’s company when we’ve not been at odds. I give you my word that I will never attempt to blackmail you, nor even to recognise you, should we meet again. Please, let me go.’
Almost, he did. Despite her lies, despite her scheming, she was right. He had enjoyed her company, more than he could have believed. He found her challenging, brave, surprising. Friendship was not the word—it was affinity. In many ways, they were kindred spirits. The thought gave him pause, Clarissa’s fate hanging in the balance, the scales tipping slightly, very slightly in her favour for the first time.
But then he remembered the rest, and the scales swung heavily against her finally and for ever. She had lied to him from the first. Despite all her protestations, he believed her intention was entrapment. All the evidence was against her. But most of all, it was her body that had betrayed her. Her kisses, those kisses, which roused in him a passion more intense than any he had felt before. The way she knew just where to touch, how to hold, to caress, to stroke. The depth of her arousal when they kissed matching his own. None of this came from inexperience. These were not the actions of a virgin. And tonight he would have them all, her full repertoire. Nothing would stop him.
The decision was there in his eyes for her to interpret, as clearly as if it had been writ. There would be no last-minute reprieve. He would show no mercy. Wordlessly, Clarissa turned and left the room.
Alone in her bedchamber, she sat by the fire and thought deep. She was curiously calm, resigned to her fate, certain that there was nothing more she could do to fight it. She had gambled, and she would pay the price with the loss of her virtue. Now that the decision had been taken out of her hands, she felt something almost akin to relief that she would not have to resist him further.
Raising her cold fingers to the flames, Clarissa sighed. There was no point in fooling herself. A large part of her was glad this was happening. She had fought and lost. To the victor would come the spoils. Kit would have her body. But she would also have his.
Stop fooling yourself, Clarrie, you want this as much as he does. It was true. She had always tried to be ruthlessly honest with herself. She would not have chosen this fate, but since it had chosen her she would take everything from it that she could. She would relish tonight. It was like to be her only experience of passion, for she knew she was designed to love like this only once in her lifetime. There would never be another to replace Kit in her affections. So, she would have Kit in the flesh tonight, and she would have the memories of it to savour for the remainder of her years.
A shiver ran through her body at the thought, which had nothing to do with the cold. With a defiant toss of her curls, Clarrie rose to prepare. She would not present herself as a sacrifice. She would not let Kit think this was a seduction. She would do her best to meet him on his own terms, as an equal in passion, if not in experience.
The vision that met Kit when he opened the door some fifteen minutes later made him pause on the threshold in amazement. Clarrie stood by the fire, her back to the flames. Dressed only in her chemise, her arms and neck were bare, her breasts gleaming white and taut against the restraining lace. The full glory of her bright auburn hair tumbled in curls down her back, the only additional colour her soft lips and her bright emerald eyes. Quite literally, she took his breath away.
‘Won’t you come in, my lord?’ Clarrie extended a welcoming hand, her voice husky. Only the rapid rising and falling of her breasts gave away her excitement. Her stance, her commanding invitation, the direct look from those intelligent eyes, showed her to be a woman secure in her own attractions, sure of herself, and equally sure of the man she was waiting for. It was an intoxicating mix.
Walking slowly over to take the outstretched hand, Kit pressed a long, lingering kiss in the palm. His tongue caressed the pad of her thumb, and he licked the tip of each finger in turn, causing tiny ripples of feeling to run down Clarrie’s arm. Kit pressed his lips to the thin skin on her wrist, his tongue on her pulse, which fluttered like a bird against a cage, betraying her excitement. But still Clarrie stood, unmoving, content to let him take the initiative, resisting the urge to run the fingers of her other hand through the crisp dark hair on the tender nape of his neck as he bent over her arm.
Kit worked his way to the skin on the inside of her elbow, his tongue circling hot erotic circles, stirring that pulse deep within her to throbbing, insistent life. She could restrain herself no longer. With a sigh that expelled all final doubts, all cares of the future, allowed for no thoughts other than this moment, this man, these feelings, Clarrie surrendered. ‘Kit, kiss me. Please.’
The words were whispered, but they were enough. She had submitted. Admitted to her own desire. With a harsh moan, Kit swept Clarrie into his arms, pulling her close against him, enveloping her yielding mouth, kissing her with a deep, encompassing intensity that threatened to consume them. He was on fire, but the flames licked at them both.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling his head closer, his mouth harder against her own, Clarrie matched move for move, passion with passion. She arched against him, feeling the lean length of his body against hers through the thin cotton of her chemise, but it still wasn’t close enough. She wanted flesh on flesh. His tongue entered her mouth, thrusting, a foretaste of the more intimate thrusting to come, and his hands roamed over her back, through her silken hair, spanned her waist, clutched at the soft, round flesh of her bottom, pulling her tighter, closer, all the time kissing her harder, more insistently.
Breathing heavily, Kit pulled back. ‘Clarrie, slow down, for God’s sake.’ Grasping her hands and holding them in a clasp in front of her, Kit looked into the flushed face before him. Never had he felt so aroused. Never had his passion been matched like this. She was fighting him every step, demanding as much from him as he was demanding from her. She was
not submitting to him, he was not extracting payment—she was giving it. But he wanted to savour every second. And he had waited too long for this to be over quickly.
Shrugging out of his dressing gown, clothed only in his shirt and pantaloons, Kit picked Clarrie up in his arms and deposited her on the bed, where she lay sprawled, her hair streaming out in a fan of colour on the pillows, a tempting, wanton picture that he could happily dive into and drown. Struggling to remove the rest of his clothes, he watched her, as she watched him, her eyes roaming his body as he revealed it to her, drinking in the hard, muscular flesh of his torso, the black, crisp hair that curled over his chest, arrowing down to the line of his breeches. Widening when he removed the rest of his clothes to stand naked in front of her, gasping slightly as she took in the full extent of his proud, erect manhood, but refusing to look away.
The hot feel of his tongue sucking on her toe, flicking on the tender skin of her ankle, moving slowly up to circle the back of her knee, was more erotic than she could have imagined. She moaned, and tried to find purchase on the soft feather mattress to raise herself up to return the contact more freely.
‘No. Relax. Enjoy it. Let me pleasure you, I want to.’ Kit pushed her gently back, and she was like jelly, unable to resist. He undid the fastenings of her undergarments, and removed them. His fingers gently caressed her soft, perfectly rounded bottom, the thumbs running tantalisingly down the insides of her thighs as he pulled her clothing free.
The Wicked Lord Rasenby Page 15