by Erica Taylor
“You intended to use my name as protection against your brother, hoping to be free of us both in the end,” he stated. “And now we are both stuck.”
“I’ve been stuck since the very beginning!” Clara cried, rounding on him. “Since my brother decided he would rather have a fortune than a sister. Since you decided for me the best course of my life. Have I no say in any of this? Have I no right to an opinion about my life? I woke up in your house with you announcing our engagement to everyone you met, each of my hesitations and concerns met with arrogance and now, now you are angry with me because I never wanted any of it?”
“If you never wanted it then why did you agree to it in the first place?” he asked.
“Because I’ve been in love with you since I was a child!” she exclaimed. “Because I did not think you’d ever love me in return!”
“Why would you think I could never love you?” Andrew asked. “Christ, Clara, you love me, and I love you, and still you deny any of this is true?”
“It does not make sense,” she insisted. “Who is to say a year from now you will not realize what a mistake you’ve made? When your duchess is shunned from polite company or you have Jonathan Masson for a brother-in-law?”
“It is called trust, Clara,” he chided. “It is part of loving someone; you trust they will be there for always.”
“Well forgive me if trust does not come easily to me,” she snapped. “I have not had the greatest experience with people following through on their promises.”
“Yes, and you planned to demonstrate that to the fullest extent of the truth.”
“Planned to, yes,” Clara replied. “But I never said I would go through with it!”
“Well, now we will never know, will we?”
“I am sorry if I hurt you,” Clara said. “That was not my intention.”
“Yet, you knew it was a possibility from the start,” he snapped. “Again, a Masson lives up to their vile nature.”
“That is not fair,” Clara said, recoiling from his dark glare.
Andrew laughed. “You know what is not fair? My brother and father dying and throwing me into this blasted dukedom. A fiancée who runs off with your footman. And another fiancée who intended to do the same thing!”
“God, you are so bloody stubborn!” Clara cried. “If you would just stop being so arrogant and heavy-handed, you might—”
Andrew’s lips crashed against hers and Clara’s words were lost, forgotten completely. His lips were urgent and demanding, and Clara realized this was not a kiss of a gentle lover. This was punishing. This was fueled by pent up frustration and tension and hurt.
Well, two could play that game, Clara decided. She wanted him, wanted this.
She pushed at him, propelling them backwards, until his knees hit a large leather chair and he sat, pulling her with him. Her shawl wrap fell to the floor as she kneeled over him, her knees resting on the cushion of the chair. Clara pressed her breasts to his chest, kissing him in long searing strokes, like he had done to her.
“Clara, we cannot,” Andrew said against her mouth.
“You don’t have a good reason why we shouldn’t so this,” she whispered, nipping at his jaw, the stubble scratchy against her swollen lips. “You want to, and I want to. Besides, you started this.”
“God, Clara,” he moaned, trailing his hands down her back to her bottom, squeezing the soft flesh and muscle. “Stop testing my control,” he pleaded and pulled away a fraction. She opened her eyes to see his blue ones, dark with arousal, staring deeply back into hers.
Clara bit at the lobe of his ear, whispering, “Then let go.”
With a suddenness she was not expecting, Andrew picked her up and practically thumped her onto the nearby sofa, pressing his knee down between her thighs, his mouth hungry and frantic. It nearly undid her, the sheer power and ferocity of his desire breaking free from the herculean control he held so tightly.
She tugged his shirt ends up out from his trousers, pulling the fabric over his head. She nearly gasped in shock, gazing at him in wonder and amazement.
His dark hair, normally so nearly coiffed, was tousled, curling around his ears and across his brow. Silhouetted by the dimming flames, his skin seemed to glow golden in the dying light. A light dusting of dark curls scattered across his chest, a dark line forming from his navel down, down into his trousers.
Her gaze followed that line, before her eyes darted up to meet his, a smirk across his lips.
“Enjoying your view?” he asked.
Clara sat up and kissed him firmly on the lips, opening her mouth to his, the urgency returning, their breaths coming in quick succession. She ran her hands through his dark curls, his hair soft and thick against her fingertips, and he moaned into her mouth with pleasure. Clara loved that such a simple thing could illicit such an arousing response, and that she was the one he was responding to.
His hands roamed over her breasts, thumbing her nipple through her day dress, trailing kisses down the swell of her breasts. With long nimble fingers, he managed the buttons along the back of her dress, the garment falling limp around her shoulders. Shrugging her arms out of the frock, the fabric fell loosely around Clara’s hips. Soon the laces were pulled from her stays and the stiff whalebone garment was discarded on the floor.
Hungrily he captured her nipple in his mouth, suckling through the thin chemise. His hand moved slowly up the length of her leg, leaving a trail of tingling fire from her ankle to the soft flesh of her thighs. His fingers found the small nub of nerves at the apex of her thighs, a burning flooding though her limbs with each caress. Slipping one finger inside, then another, he moved inside her with abandon, his restraint long gone. Clara moaned his name, lost on the breath of his kiss as he moved his fingers inside her, twirling the nub as the waves built inside her again. She arched into him, giving him better clearance to create such wicked feelings inside her. Deep at her core she could feel the building, the burning, and the impending release, but he removed his fingers as her inner muscles ached to clench around him.
“Not yet, Clara,” he said kissing down her neck, shivers racing across her feverish skin. She remembered from before, the passion and pressure that had released and sent her into a spiraling place of pleasure. She wanted him to feel that this time.
Reaching for the falls in his trousers, she pulled the laces from their loops, reaching down beneath the folds to grasp him in her hand, and release him from his imprisonment.
The long hard length of Andrew sprung free, proud and strong, thumping against her soft stomach.
“Can I touch you?” Clara asked, her voice hesitant.
Taking her hand in his, he guided her to his length, his hand grasping around hers as she took him, pulling her hand up and down, showing her how to stroke him.
Capturing her mouth again, Andrew groaned into her kiss. Clara moved her hand up and down again, relishing that the movement could cause him such pleasure. He was soft beneath her fingers yet hard as granite.
His hands went between her legs again, one finger, then two, stretching her, readying her for his intrusion. Clara had seen the size of him, and while he was not enormous, she was still a small woman.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he muttered, his tip pressing against her entrance, both soft and hard.
You will not, she thought as he pressed into her, but she was wrong. What started with a tightening, a stretching to accommodate his size, turned into a searing pain, and she gasped. He withdrew a small amount and pressed in again, and this time the pain was less. Again he withdrew and pressed in, and again, a little further each time, until he was completely sheathed in her, and Clara was certain there was no greater feeling in the world.
Each thrust into her went deeper and deeper into her soul, each plunge a whisper of a promise that she longed to hear but refused to acknowledge. If ever she had felt more love
d, more cherished that she did there on the sofa with him, she could not remember a time. Even as his kisses turned frantic, and his thrusts went deeper, it pulled at her heart, and her own passions, and she met him thrust for thrust.
This is what Clara wanted from him. This release of his own inhibitions, his own control he stacked against himself. The part of himself he held too close, so afraid the world might see and judge, and find lacking. But God, was he glorious. He was handsome and tender, and in this instant, he belonged to her, and her alone.
Clara could see in Andrew’s expression the ecstasy he was experiencing, and he pummeled into her hard, finally stilling for a long moment as he buried his seed deep within her. Her own release did not peak as it had before, but Clara did not mind. The feeling of him inside her was fulfillment enough.
Neither one moved for a long moment, five minutes? Hours, maybe? Clara did not know. Slowly, she came became aware of their surroundings, the waning light of the day, the weight of Andrew against her, his face buried in her neck, his hardness twitching inside her. With reluctance, Andrew pushed himself off her, withdrawing and sitting against the other end of the settee, where they had just made love, because that was the only thing Clara could think to call such a shattering experience.
“Now you’ll have to marry me,” Andrew said darkly.
Clara scoffed. “The joke is on you, your grace. I’d planned on marrying you for some time now.”
“You said you—”
“I said I had intended at the beginning of our engagement to never see it through,” Clara replied, pulling her stays around her. “My thoughts on the matter changed, Andrew.”
“Clara . . .” he began, but his voice trailed off.
“Tighten these as best you can, please. I am without a lady’s maid, and I’d rather not scandalize the entire household when I escape to my room.”
He obliged, tugging her laces tight, but not nearly as well as Molly had. Tugging her dress over her head, Clara managed to straighten the gown as best she could, fumbling with the few buttons she could reach.
“The final banns were called in Cumberland today,” Andrew reminded her as he found his own clothing. He’d slipped his arms through his waistcoat, but chose to hold his jacket in his arms.
Clara nodded. “I suspected they would be. That is it then? We are to be married in what, ten days?” The date had been set weeks earlier, but now that it was ten days away it seemed more . . . permanent.
“It seems that will be the way of it,” he replied.
“Lovely,” Clara managed, ignoring the tight ball of emotion nearly choking her. “I shall check on Norah. Good day, your grace.” She managed a light curtsy before wrapping the shawl around her shoulders and barely buttoned day dress, before leaving him in the study. She did not flee or cower, but walked with a confidence she was certain she was faking, but there was no way she would let him know how her heart was torn in two.
Chapter Twenty
The following day Clara stood for a new wardrobe fitting, finally agreeing that while the clothing her great aunt had provided was lovely, as the Duchess of Bradstone she would need more clothing and more elegant gowns, in addition to a wedding gown. When Madame Deveraux arrived with her army of seamstresses and assistants, Clara harnessed her inner duchess and insisted that the fittings be done in Lady Norah’s chambers.
“She has the best lighting in the house,” Clara explained to the dressmaker.
“Yes, of course! Absolument!” Madame Deveraux exclaimed with a snap of her fingers. Susanna, who Clara had begged for help, lead the way up the stairs, the band of assistants carrying the numerous pattern books, fabric samples, and designs up the stairs after her.
Clara caught Andrew eyeing her suspiciously, and she shrugged.
“Norah likes fashion,” Clara explained. “If she were well enough to come downstairs and enjoy this then she would, but since she’s not, we will go to her.”
“Mountain to Mohammad?” Andrew asked.
“Precisely,” Clara replied, smiling sweetly before hurrying after the dressmaker. Norah was thrilled to participate and Clara let her have almost free reign with the designs and colors, looking to Susanna and Sarah to rein her in.
By luncheon, Lord Nick Macalister arrived at Bradstone House like a hailstorm descended upon an unsuspecting patch of rose buds: fierce and blustering. Most of Nick’s yelling was a bit unintelligible, and though his flailing arms and finger pointing were rather theatrical and comical, Nick was lucky he did not flail or point at Clara because she was fairly certain Andrew would not have tolerated his brother insulting his bride-to-be, despite the turmoil of their relationship.
“Are you insinuating that I do not have adequate protection for my own sister?” Andrew asked in a very calm and yet very intimidating tone.
“I am telling you in no uncertain terms that I think you do not,” Nick replied, his blue-green eyes flaring with anger.
Andrew stood up. “Hear this, Nicodemus: It was my decision to bring you to town to see your sister and no one else’s. I can send you away just as quickly. I suggest you think that over as you attend to her sick bed. Tread carefully because my memory is not so short to have forgotten the reason you were asked to leave this house in the first place.”
Steaming and red-faced, Nick turned on his heel and stormed off, slamming the breakfast room door.
Andrew slowly returned to his seat, taking a sip of his tea and glancing at Clara’s bemused expression.
“What?” he asked. “At least I did not yell this time.”
“You still ordered him about and issued ultimatums,” Clara replied. “He’s your brother, not a servant or one of your lackeys in Andrew’s Grand Army. Treat him with a little respect.”
Susanna and Sara stared at her wide-eyed.
“He does not need respect,” Andrew replied, ignoring his sisters’ expressions. “He’s nineteen, and he’s a hot-head. He needs to grow up.”
The rest of the day proceeded normally enough, some social calls with Sarah and Susanna, joining the beau monde for the ride around Hyde Park. The silly social customs that she had been denied had started to feel almost normal. And it was amusing to watch everyone treat her with a confused respect, as if they did not want to but felt compelled to be polite.
The peace she had found during the day was interrupted that evening with the arrival of Joseph the footman.
Dinner had just been served en famille, a lovely spread of beef, ham, and duck—no fish to be seen.
Clara paused, her fork halfway to her mouth, as Howards hurried into the dining room with a note for Andrew. Watching the fury race across Andrew’s face as his eyes danced across the paper was confirmation that something had happened.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Andrew said, rising from his seat and sending Clara a dark look. She did not bother to say anything to Sarah or Susanna and she jumped up and raced after him.
“Andrew, what is it?” Clara asked as she came into the foyer.
Andrew was pulling on his gloves but did not look at her. “The footman has been returned to London. I am off to Halcourt’s to see what he has found out.”
“I am coming with you,” Clara said.
“Absolutely not,” he replied. “This is not suitable for a lady.”
Clara leveled an incredulous look, crossing her arms. “I am not some weak-minded debutante who faints at the first sight of trouble. Take me with you.”
“I am certain you will not faint, but I do not want you anywhere near that man,” Andrew said, crossing the distance between them and placing his hands on her shoulders. “I want to keep you safe and try to shield you from as much of life’s ugliness as I can. And that man, Clara, the one who kidnapped and possibly raped your sister, is ugly.”
Clara tilted her chin up in defiance, realizing he was trying to shock her. It was not working. “I a
m going with you. I am the only one who knows what that footman even looks like. You might interrogate the wrong man and not even realize it.”
If Andrew had been prone to growling like an angered lion, she imagined he might have done so. His expression would have matched such a sound. “Go and fetch your cloak.”
Controlling the jubilant smile that wanted to burst from her, Clara hurried to her room and was back down the stairs within moments, breathlessly pulling her pelisse around her shoulders. Andrew stood waiting, looking very sharp in his top hat and evening cloak, and looked up irritably as she came down the stairs.
“Quickly, please, Clara.”
“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” she said. “Your sisters will make excuses for us then?”
“For the theatre this evening?” Andrew asked, and they hurried out the door. “We should still be able to make it in time.”
Clara fought a discontented groan, and her face must have shown her displeasure because Andrew laughed as he handed her into the carriage.
“As the Duchess of Bradstone, you must—” Andrew began, but Clara cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“Yes, I understand about duty and appearances and all that,” Clara said. “I just thought this might take longer.”
“Not likely. Maybe we should stay in tonight,” Andrew suggested pensively. “I would hate to force you into society after the ordeal of this evening.”
“If you think we should attend the theatre, then we will attend,” Clara stated. “It is the proper thing to do after all.”
Leaning forward, Andrew snatched her hand off her lap, pulling the silk of her glove with his own gloved finger. “Maybe I don’t want to be proper,” he said huskily. “Maybe I want to spend the evening with my improper fiancée doing improper things to her.”
Clara snatched her hand away and he chuckled. Throughout the day his icy walls had been thawing a bit towards her.