The throbbing within her centred, focused between her legs. Clarrie moaned low in her throat and twisted restlessly on the sheet, her body making demands she had no idea it possessed.
Still Kit forced himself to go slowly, drinking in the beauty of the body revealed before him. The long, shapely legs, the delicate ankles, the gentle arch of her feet. He ran his fingers over each part, familiarising himself with the curves, the delicate bones, taking note of which touch made her shiver, anticipating the moment when those legs would be wrapped around him, the muscles flexed, holding him close. Yet he was content to wait, postpone the ecstasy.
He moved onto the bed beside her. Spreading her legs to allow him to kneel between them, he pulled Clarrie slightly upright to remove her chemise, to free the rest of that delectable body for his ministrations. Lifting her arms above her head, he pulled the last piece of fabric between them free, taking in the high, full breasts, thrust upwards by her raised arms, the dark nipples proud evidence of her desire. He licked each one slowly, lazily, then sucked on them, running his tongue across the valley of her breasts to alternate between them, pinching one between his fingers as he tended the other with his mouth. When they were pebble hard, he allowed himself the brief pleasure of pulling her naked body close against his.
Clarrie moaned his name, her breathing rapid and shallow, her lids heavy on eyes dark with a passion reflecting his own. Mindlessly she wrapped her arms around his neck. Sinuously she rubbed herself against his skin, her nipples responding to the abrasion of the dark crisp curls of hair on his chest, warm, hot, wet, with desire as she felt the hard silkiness of his erection against the soft skin of her belly. Their kiss was swift and hard, their skin hot, heating, the need for fulfilment becoming almost unbearable.
Clarrie reached round to pull Kit more fully against her, grasping his firm muscled buttocks, pushing against him, into him, revelling in the contrast of all this male hardness against all her feminine softness. But she wanted more. She wanted—she wanted—oh!
She was on her back, splayed out before him, thrust away from him, but before she could object his mouth was there, right at the very centre of her desire, and she lost all ability to think. His tongue circled, lapped, licked. His fingers dipped, stroked, flicked, plunged slowly, tortuously slowly, making her pant, lifting her ever higher to a place she had never been, didn’t know existed. She felt swollen with desire, soaked with desire, bursting with desire, and still Kit’s tongue and fingers drove her on, questing, taking her to dizzying heights higher, higher until at last, with one long, slow, pulsing caress, she plunged down, down, swirling headlong, rushing towards the depths, then soaring high through a stunning climax that jerked her up from the bed.
He could contain himself no longer. Raising himself over Clarrie’s hot, wet, body, Kit thrust into her depths with one hard stroke, feeling her heat clenching around him. And meeting an unexpected resistance.
My God, she hadn’t lied. He couldn’t believe it. Looking down into her face, the question on his lips, he felt her move beneath him, her head shaking from side to side in denial.
‘No, no, don’t stop. Please.’ She reached up her arms to pull his head down, fastened her mouth on his, and thrust upwards underneath him, urging him on. Suddenly the resistance was gone.
He had no option but to respond. Shifting to take his weight on his elbows, Kit moved gently inside her, slowly, praying that he could withstand the ripples of pleasure which each tiny movement gave him.
‘Kit, Kit,’ Clarrie whispered his name, a whisper of pleasure, not pain. ‘Please.’
He needed no more urging, and as she wrapped her legs around him, the movement opening her up inside, all worries about hurting her, all conscience at taking her virginity, were quelled, lost, forgotten, in the urge only to thrust harder, deeper, longer, responding to the moans of encouragement, feeling her muscles tighten against him, feeling the responding ripples of her own climax as he finally reached his own, pouring himself, hot, endlessly, possessively, deep into her molten core.
Chapter Nine
They lay enfolded in each other’s arms without speaking, basking in the warm, rosy afterglow of their tumultuous love-making. With nothing to compare it to, Clarrie knew only that it had been everything she had ever dreamed, all she had ever desired it might be, and more. She had not thought she was capable of giving way to such an intensity of emotion, had no idea she could abandon all restraint without a trace of modesty, had not believed that instinct could lead her so surely down the path to fulfilment. As her body slowed to a steady thrum of satisfaction she smiled, completely content in this moment, certain only that she didn’t want to move, that she wanted to feel the heavy, rough, solid weight of Kit holding her safe, possessively like this for ever.
For some time Kit was also beyond thought, caught up in the wholly new experience, for him, of feeling such profound passion, unable to believe the intensity of what had just passed between them. His sated body curled possessively round the fragile, wanton, deliciously beautiful woman beneath him, giving in to the instinct to protect, hold on, prolong the perfect intimacy of the moment.
Clarrie sighed and opened her eyes to look into the face of her beloved. So strong and starkly handsome. So passionate and giving. How had she come to feel so much for this wonderful, complex enigma of a man, in just a few short days? She had no idea, and no intention of questioning anything for the remainder of the night. She had only this one time and she intended to savour it.
When Kit kissed her tenderly, his mouth framing the question uppermost in his mind, Clarrie reached out to sooth his brow, whispering, ‘Shh, this is no time for words’ in his ear. Turning to him in a deliberate echo of his own confident and dominant possession of her body, she pushed him back on to the sheets and began a slow, sensuous exploration of her own with her tongue. She might not have the experience of his other mistresses, but she knew enough by now to be certain that the same things which gave her pleasure would pleasure Kit, so she set out to prove it. And she was right. He was lying back, his eyes clenched shut, the question forgotten, and she could see quite clearly that he was enjoying what she was doing—very much. So she carried on, down, and further down, until she knew he could think of nothing, nothing in the world, save her ministrations.
Kit awoke to bright sunlight streaming through the gap in the heavy curtains, and blinked. Rubbing a hand over his forehead, shaking his hair from his eyes, he stretched luxuriously, wondering idly why the slight ache in his muscles felt so good. Opening his eyes properly, he realised he wasn’t in his own bedchamber, but the adjoining one. Then it all came flooding back to him, a vivid montage of tangled limbs and blissful love-making.
‘Clarrie?’ There was no response. The other side of the bed felt cold, though there was an indent on the pillow where her head had been. The bruise on his shoulder where she had bitten him showed her tiny teeth marks. His lips felt rough, tender, and the bed was in complete disarray. She was no figment of his imagination. That night of passion—exquisite, never-before-experienced passion—was no dream. So where was she?
Kit sat up, examining the room properly. His clothes had been picked up and folded neatly on a chair, but of Clarissa’s attire there was no sign. Perhaps she had gone for a walk? Kit got out of bed and donned his dressing gown, striding through the connecting door to ring the bell and summon his valet. He was being foolish, he knew he was, but he couldn’t help the feeling of panic rising inside him.
The blank look on Fanshaw’s face only added to his concern. ‘The young lady, my lord? But she left for London early this morning.’
‘Are you sure? I gave very specific orders to the stables yesterday. My coach was to be ready at noon. I can’t believe they would leave without checking any change of plan with me first.’
‘Oh, she didn’t go in your coach my lord, naturally,’ the valet said reassuringly. ‘No, no. No need to worry about that.’
‘Damn the coach, man. I am not worried about my c
oach. In case it had escaped your notice, I am more concerned for the lady. If she didn’t go in the coach, how does she intend to get to London. Walk?’ Actually, Kit realised ruefully, he wouldn’t put that past her.
Fanshaw, with all the consummate professionalism of his calling, remained impassive, one eyebrow raised quizzically skyward the only sign that he was somewhat taken aback by his master’s agitated behaviour. He had been Kit’s valet for a number of years, and had never seen him anything other than pleased to be rid of whatever female was currently gracing his bed. Come to think of it, mind you, he could not recall Lord Rasenby ever having allowed a female to stay in his bed overnight before. Preferred to stable them in their own quarters.
Kit was pacing the room anxiously, trying to work out what Clarissa had done. ‘Did anyone see her leave?’
‘I shall make enquiries of the staff immediately, my lord. It was very early, but perhaps one of the maids knows something. Will you require your shaving water now?’
‘Just go and find out where she is, will you? No, wait. I need to get dressed, so bring the water. But make enquiries first.’
Fanshaw left, returning a short time later with a steaming jug of water and a letter on a silver salver. ‘It seems the young lady left a short time after seven, my lord. She asked for the nearest inn, and young Jem, the stable hand, took it upon himself to drop her off at the Green Man, since he was on his way out to fetch some sacks of horse feed. I believe the mail coach passes through at about nine; no doubt she obtained a seat on that. Although Jem, of course, did not wait to wave her off.’ Fanshaw permitted himself a small smile at this witticism, but, seeing Kit to be in no mood for joking, quickly suppressed it. ‘She left this for you, my lord.’ He proffered the salver.
‘For God’s sake, could you not have said that in the first place? Go away, I will shave myself, and I’ll call if I need you.’
Dismissed, Fanshaw left the room with slow, dignified grace. Kit, ripping the wafer from the letter, was already intent on the contents and did not look up.
Dear Kit, it started prosaically enough, I have decided to return to London immediately. Having fulfilled my part of our bargain, our adventure is concluded, and we must never see each other again. Exactly as he had specified it should be. Kit sat down abruptly, a feeling of emptiness sweeping over him. Last night had changed everything for him. For Clarissa to leave without any forwarding address, with no goodbye even, giving him no chance to suggest—whatever it was he was thinking of suggesting—beggared belief. Bereft: that is what he felt. And very, very lonely.
Kit returned to the letter. It was brief enough and to the purpose, giving him no clue as to her feelings. She thanked him for her adventure and assured him of her discretion. I will not seek you out, for there can be no relationship of any nature between us in the future. Even had he wanted her as his mistress, the message was quite unmistakable. She would not accept. The plea beseeching him to refrain from renewing his pursuit of Amelia was, after the events of last night, rather unnecessary, but it was the final words that really hurt. I want you to know that you took nothing from me that I did not want to give, and give freely. We had a bargain and I agreed to the terms. You have nothing to feel guilty about, nor to blame yourself for. The words pierced his conscience more deeply than any recriminations could have done. You have nothing to feel guilty about! God Almighty, what had he done?
The reality of the situation was as clear as the bright light of day streaming through the window. Clarissa was a virgin—or she had been until last night. She had told him she was untouched, had in fact told him so repeatedly from the first, but he had ignored her, refusing to believe what did not suit his purposes. He had not stopped when he realised the truth. And even afterwards, lying sated on top of her, he had not tried—not very hard, anyway—to apologise, even to find out if he had hurt her.
Worse. There had been little respite from their ardour the whole night long. Carried away with lust, he had given no thought, after her gentle don’t, to calling a halt or soothing her hurt.
Kit clutched his head in his hands, clenching his eyes shut in an effort to rid himself of the visions his mocking conscience was running through his mind. He groaned in despair. What kind of man was he? He had seduced an innocent girl, and now she was gone from him, ruined but refusing even to blame him, dismissing him from her life and taking all the responsibility for the consequences on her own slim shoulders.
Thinking of those possible consequences, Kit groaned again. Who would she turn to if, in addition to taking her virtue, he had left her with child? He had been careless, had given the matter no thought last night. So unlike him, but then in all his dealings with Clarissa he was unlike himself.
A child. Kit tried to picture what the product of their union would look like. A girl, he decided, with her mother’s eyes and his own colouring. What a temper she would have. How much he would love her. She would wrap him around her little finger.
Enough, damn it! Reminding himself that he had no desire for children, legitimate or natural, Kit dismissed the vision of his imaginary daughter, ruthlessly brushing aside the pang it caused him, and returned to the problem in hand.
What in the devil’s name was he going to do? Go after her? And offer her what exactly? he asked his reflection as he shaved. A carte blanche? Money, recompense? She was likely to throw it back in his face, and who could blame her. Tying his cravat in a simple knot, paying it so little attention that Fanshaw would have tutted disapprovingly had he witnessed it, Kit decided he must return to London and seek Clarissa out. He ignored the tight feeling around his heart as he considered the possibility that she meant what she said, and would never see him again. He would find her, if only to ensure she knew she could rely on him if ever she was in need.
A breakfast of ham and eggs washed down with a tankard of ale brewed from his own hops did nothing to lighten Kit’s mood nor break his thoughts of last night. Their love-making had been beyond anything in his previous—plentiful—experience. Clarissa matched him step by step in everything, her own desires seeming as strong as his. She had come to him readily enough in the end. It had been no ravishment, he had not taken her against her will, had not forced himself on her. The passion between them was real. No, he could not doubt her consent.
But he could not deny to himself that he had ensured Clarissa had no option but to consent. That was the nub of it. Kit’s conscience, which had lain dormant for the vast part of his thirty-five years, was making up for lost time now. He might not have seduced her, but he had made sure she couldn’t say no.
As soon as the coach was ready Kit set out impatiently on the journey to London, aware of a growing need just to see Clarissa. He missed her in truth, even after such a few short hours’ absence. They had spent almost three days constantly in each other’s company, and he had come to depend on her being there—if not indefinitely, then at least for some time to come. To be without her made him feel as if some part of him he’d never known he’d had was missing.
You took nothing from me that I did not want to give, and give freely. The words ran in circles round his head, but he was no nearer to a course of action than when he had first read them. Clarissa could not have made him feel more guilty had she accused him to his face.
This thought gave Kit pause. Could the letter be a very clever ruse? Not a salve to his conscience, but a deliberate twist of the knife to ensure that he came after her? True enough, she had come to him a virgin, but did innocence of all other crimes follow automatically? Had she given him the prize of her virtue hoping for recompense in the form of marriage? Had he been duped after all?
Kit stopped at an inn en route to London for a change of horses. It took but a moment to swallow a cup of hot, strong coffee before he re-entered his chaise, anxious to be on his way. When he arrived later that afternoon at his house in Grosvenor Square, he was no closer to finding any answers to the questions dogging his thoughts.
Clarissa’s journey had been
slow and tedious. She reached London not much in advance of Kit. She had not had sufficient money to purchase a seat on the mail coach at the Green Man, and had been forced instead to buy a ticket on the stage. For much of the journey she was squashed between a large fat woman on a visit to her sister who, she informed Clarissa proudly, was expecting her eighth child, and a prim, elderly vicar, who clutched his bible as if afraid it would be wrested from him, and who smelled unmistakably of strong spirits. Emerging shaken and nauseous, she thought how apt was the term rattler for such public conveyances, realising in retrospect just how well sprung had been Kit’s own equipage in contrast.
Completing the journey in a hired cab exhausted her meagre funds. As the hack turned into the familiar street and she caught the first welcoming glimpse of home, Clarissa emitted a long, low sigh of relief. The last three days had been tumultuous ones, by turn thrilling and terrifying. She felt as if her whole world had been shaken to its foundations and turned on its axis. She had a splitting headache and craved only the restful sanctuary of her own bedroom, to safely return to the welcome predictability of her life where no more dramas lay in wait for her.
Clarissa stripped off her gloves and was about to mount the stairs to her chamber when Lady Maria’s trembling voice called to her from the small parlour. ‘Clarissa? Is that you back at last? Oh, thank the Lord.’
Turning, Clarissa noted with surprise that her mother was actually standing in the doorway, her lace cap askew, obviously just arisen from her couch in order to greet her. ‘Mama, dearest. Did you miss me so much?’ Stooping to press a light kiss on her mother’s soft cheek, Clarissa noticed traces of tears. ‘Mama, what’s wrong? What has upset you? Come into the parlour and tell me what’s amiss.’
‘Oh, Clarrie! I have been so stupid. And I am so sorry, but I simply did not know what to do, and you were not here to advise me.’ A sob stopped Lady Maria from further speech, and her tears flowed afresh. Clarissa sighed wearily, placed an arm around her mother’s shoulder and guided her towards the sofa. All thoughts of her own problems were effectively driven from her head.
The Wicked Lord Rasenby Page 16