“Don’t you ever tie that nasty brute up?” he demanded, sounding angry and trying to keep his mind from the taste of her lips and feel of her narrow waist in his hands.
There was a hesitant laugh before she answered. “Oh, no. Titus loves me. He hates men, is all.”
Harry snorted and went to adjust the horse’s girth and stirrups so he could help her up, avoiding the snap of the big bay’s teeth as he did so.
“Harry?”
Her voice was soft and full of yearning, and Harry cursed himself. He paused with his back to her, closing his eyes and promising himself he’d do better this time. He’d make it right after managing to do what he’d sworn he would not and made a bad situation a hundred times worse.
“Go home, Clarinda,” he said, not turning around, his voice low and weary.
There was a pause and he held his breath.
“No,” she said.
Harry cursed her and himself and heard his words breathless as he spoke, praying she’d just do as she was told, just this once. “It must be near lunchtime by now, you’ll be missed.”
There was an indignant snort next, and he looked around in surprise. “Oh, I’ll go home, Harry. I’m famished,” she said with a bright smile that unsettled him. “That’s not what I was saying no to.” She folded her arms, staring at him and he knew she was every bit as wilful and stubborn as she had always been.
Harry frowned and shook his head, refusing to understand her. “What the devil are you on about?”
Clarinda crossed her arms a little tighter, staring back at him with defiance glittering in her eyes. “I meant, no, Harry. I won’t let you do it.”
“Do what?” he replied, though he knew damn well and should have kept his blasted trap shut.
“Pretend it never happened,” she replied, dropping her arms though her fists were clenched as she took a step closer to him. “Pretend that you don’t want me like I want you,” she added, her voice growing stronger and more certain as she advanced on him and his breath caught in his throat. “Pretend that you don’t think about me, dream about me ...” she said, her voice low and sultry now as she looked up at him from under her lashes. She reached out, pressing her hands against his chest and Harry tried to rein in the desire that flooded his veins. Oh God, just a taste hadn’t been enough. He needed more. He needed all of her, everything she had, for him, and him alone.
“Clarinda,” he began, her name a plea for help in this battle for his sanity. But then she reached up and pressed her lips to his and he knew that battle had been long since lost.
He groaned, pulling her into his arms again and kissing her. At first, he was just as frantic and out of control as down by the river, but, little by little, he came to his senses and treated her with more care. He softened his mouth against hers, showing her the tenderness he ought to have given her from the start, and finding it almost impossible to continue so gently as she began to mimic the slide and tangle of tongues, setting his blood on fire.
Harry backed her up until she was leant against a tree, knowing he was out of his damn mind but too far lost in her to find his way back. Her soft body moulded to his like it had been designed for him alone. As he cupped her breast, feeling the full, rounded swell of her flesh beneath her riding habit, he thought he really might go mad if he couldn’t strip the cloth from her and taste her in all her glory. The kisses grew ever more heated and Harry reached down, hitching up her full skirts and finding his way beneath the heavy folds of the gown to slide his hand up her thigh.
He paused as her breathing became faster and more erratic, looking down into her eyes to see if there was any sign of fear or regret, anything to stop him. But all he could see was the glitter of her desire, every bit as fierce and unyielding as his. His hand slid over the warm, silky skin, seeking the heated centre of her and settling on the soft curls at the apex of her thighs as she stared at him. Those lovely eyes closed, clouded with bliss under his touch.
“Harry,” she whispered, sounding as though she was intoxicated, drunk on desire, on him. He didn’t wonder at it, for he felt it too with every fibre of his being. His fingers sought the tiny nub of flesh that would make her cry out his name with pleasure and she gasped as he found it, caressing with a delicate touch.
“Oh, love,” he whispered, wanting to promise her that he’d marry her, he’d love her and make her his forever, if only he had anything to give her. “Make me stop, Clarinda. For the love of God, make me stop before we go too far.”
But Clarinda only sighed and clung to him, reaching up to seek another kiss as Harry went slowly out of his mind with longing.
“Bastard!”
Both of them jolted in shock as the voice, incandescent with fury, rang out through the forest. Harry stumbled back as Clarinda gasped in shock to see her father holding a gun on Harry.
“Get your filthy hands off my daughter!”
Chapter 14
The main - cockfighting - the one who wins the advantage over a series of battles wins ‘the main’
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
Harry held his hands out and looked back at the squire, knowing he was entirely in the wrong. It was an uncomfortable feeling. There was little he could say. If anyone found out about this, she’d be ruined, and he knew it. He could protest that he loved her, that he would marry her if he could, but he could see from the furious disgust in his eyes that the squire would never allow that.
Squire Bow adjusted his grip on the gun and Harry could see the man swallow hard, his face florid. Harry wondered if he might suffer an apoplexy, his colour was so high, and considered the idea that he might squeeze the trigger when it happened. He half hoped he would; at least the misery he was facing now would be at an end. After what seemed to Harry to be a dreadfully lengthy silence he gestured with the gun.
“Help her up,” he barked, his eyes ablaze with fury as the gun followed Harry.
“Papa,” Clarinda said, moving towards her father, her voice full of pleading. “Papa, please ... I - “
“Silence!” he shouted, making his daughter jump.
“But ...”
“Not another word!” he raged with such violent anger that Clarinda caught her breath. Harry wondered if it was the first time in her life that she hadn’t been able to talk him out of a temper, and didn’t wonder at her shock.
Silently, he helped her mount, avoiding her eyes though she tried to squeeze his fingers as he put the reins in her hands. He avoided her touch, though he could hear the soft sound of her trying to hold back tears, and felt his heart clench. This was why he should have stayed away from her. This was everything he’d feared.
If only he’d kept his own promise.
“That’s the last time you’ll ever lay a hand on her,” the squire said, with such a tone to his voice that Harry didn’t doubt that the next time, he’d blow his damn head off without a second thought. “You’re not fit to kiss her hem, you hear me?”
Harry met the man’s eyes and didn’t argue, didn’t feel equipped to. It was true enough. He’d made the very same argument himself. “I hear you.”
“You’ll not see her again, ever, or I swear I’ll see you in the ground,” he continued, that angry voice low and threatening.
“Papa, please, I love him!” Clarinda begged, earning herself such a look of disgust from her father that she could hold in her tears no longer and began to cry in earnest.
“You’d best heed my words, boy,” the squire warned, turning back to Harry.
“Harry, no, please,” Clarinda cried, urging her horse towards him. “Papa, if you do this, I’ll never forgive you!”
The squire snorted. “Forgive me or not, you’re going back to marry that bloody marquess like you should have weeks ago. I’ll not stand any more of your nonsense, my girl, and you,” he added, pointing at Harry, “you’ll not breathe a word of this to another living soul, and if you set foot on my land again, I’ll shoot you.”
Harry nodded his understanding, a sick, cold feeling uncoiling in his belly as he turned away. He didn’t look at Clarinda, couldn’t bear to, though he could hear her calling out to him, hear her begging her father to reconsider. He wasn’t courageous enough to catch her eye and see the damage he’d done. Instead, he walked away, and left behind the only woman who would always carry his heart.
***
He trod the rest of the day and the one after in a daze of misery so profound that he hardly knew what he did or said. He tried his utmost to cover his feelings by avoiding everyone as much as possible, but it couldn’t last. He had to get a grip on himself and on reality. Clarinda had only ever been a lovely daydream, and he was a bloody fool if he’d ever thought otherwise.
Then distraction came in the form of Alistair’s hated nephew, Wilfred Preston. A letter arrived informing them that he would be arriving the next day. With horror, Harry read the intelligence that he would be bringing not only his wife, but his mother and his brother Edwin. Edwin was the second of the three sons; thankfully the youngest, Baden, seemed to have better things to do than sniff around his uncle.
The news of his nearest and dearest descending on him in numbers did not go well with his lordship.
“Damn coward!” he raged, as Harry tried to calm him down, alarmed by the high colour on his drawn face. “A typical bully, that is,” he said to Harry with grim satisfaction. “Brave enough with some weak-minded creature he can push about, but it takes him and his mother and brother to face me! Ha!”
As angry as he was, Harry couldn’t help but feel the old devil drew some satisfaction from that fact, but Harry was worried all the same. He didn’t like to see the old man upset, and the more he heard about his family the more he grew anxious.
“His mother, Mariah,” Alistair growled, saying her name with such venom that Harry was quite taken aback. “She tried to get me. She wanted me and the title, not my brother, but I’d not have her,” he said with a shudder. “Not for all the gold in the world. By God, if ever there was a manipulative, poisonous creature born in this existence, it’s Mariah! And Edwin,” he continued, spitting the word out and looking as though he was winding himself up for a full-blown pelter. “He’s worse than Wilfred!” he raged, clutching at the arms of his chair with such anger that his bony fingers went white.
“Lord above,” Harry exclaimed, pressing a glass of hartshorn and water into the old man’s hand. “Calm yourself, you old goat, and come down off your high ropes. You’re putting me in a quake, the way you’re talking.”
Alistair snorted and thrust the glass back at Harry in disgust without taking a sip. “Don’t give me that fustian,” he growled with indignation, dark eyes alight with irritation. “You’re no namby-pamby, dandy prat - not like Baden,” he exclaimed with something close to glee. “Wait till you see him,” he warned, his expression febrile and glittering with mischief now. “You’ll be gratified and awed to be in his glorious presence, oh yes.”
“Baden isn’t coming,” Harry said, rolling his eyes and forcing the glass back into the old man’s hand with a warning look. Alistair huffed but accepted the glass from him and took a reluctant sip, glaring at Harry with reproach. “I might remind you that you invited the man here,” Harry added with a crooked smile.
Alistair made a disgusted noise. “And what if I did?” he grumbled. “Don’t have to like it, do I?”
Harry sighed and shook his head, looking at the old man with affection.
“No, my lord, that you don’t.”
“Hmph.” Alistair fell silent for a while, staring at the fire. “I’ll see you right, boy,” he muttered, and Harry wondered if he’d forgotten he was there, as he seemed to be talking to himself. But then the old man looked around and met his eyes, his gaze as sharp as ever in his wizened face. “Stand bluff, boy. Promise?”
Harry nodded, though he was heartsick. He didn’t think he could bear to remain here after the old man had gone. The thought of leaving the place he’d come to love as his home was appalling, and he’d miss Mr and Mrs Fletcher sorely, but staying without the old man, and with memories of Clarinda at every turn ... it would break his heart in every direction, with never a chance to forget. And what if he saw her here one day, with her marquess, looking every bit the fine lady with her rich husband? The idea snagged in his throat and he had to swallow hard to shift it.
“Promise!” the old man demanded, forcing his attention back to him, a feverish look in his eyes that made Harry fear for his heart.
“I promise,” Harry said, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. Staying here could very well kill him; certainly it would kill any chance of forgetting, any slim hope of finding happiness. But he owed this man more than he’d ever be able to repay. So it was the only thing he could do. “Anything you want, you old devil,” he added, quite unable to keep the affection from his voice.
Alistair sighed and sat back in his chair, content.
***
The next day, Harry took pains to help Alistair dress in a manner befitting his title. The tailor, who had pushed Harry’s patience to its limits with his primping and fussing, had also made a new outfit for Alistair. With something approaching glee, Alistair extracted another promise from Harry, to tell Wilfred how much the whole outfit had cost at the moment they started filling in his grave. The old devil intended to be buried in it and reckoned it wouldn’t be past Wilfred to want to dig him up again.
Harry sighed and tried to smile at the old man’s antics, but he was heart-sore and full of misgiving. Try as he might to make Alistair promise to keep his temper and not overexert himself, he could only see the visit ending in disaster. But Lord Preston was used to getting his own way in all things, and this was no different.
Wilfred Preston was everything Harry had expected him to be. Though he himself was dressed like quality, to the extent Beryl had been struck dumb at the sight of him, Wilfred looked through him as though he was beneath his notice as he greeted him and led him through to Alistair’s study.
The future Viscount Stamford had a harsh, narrow face with a long nose and drooping eyes. His lips were thin and set in a permanent line of displeasure. Harry judged that he was perhaps fifty years of age with greying hair, but he could see nothing of his uncle in his face. The man was tall and thin, and though he looked around with apparent disdain, Harry could see the avaricious glint in his eyes. He did his best to swallow down his bile, certain that the fellow was calculating the worth of everything he saw, and tried to remember his promise to Alistair.
His wife, Norah, was a surprise to Harry. Perhaps ten years Wilfred’s junior, she was on the brassy side for the next Lady Preston. She flicked a curious, measuring look in Harry’s direction that he recognised well enough. She’d been a beauty once, which perhaps explained things. She was still a handsome woman, to be fair.
He wondered if Wilfred really was as much of a fool as Alistair insisted. It seemed so to Harry when he caught sight of the man’s valet, as Mr Fletcher showed the fellow where Wilfred’s room could be found. He was of an age with Harry, and handsome, with thick blond hair and blue eyes that held a knowing look Harry couldn’t like. If there wasn’t something between him and the wife, Harry reckoned he’d eat his hat.
Edwin was another matter.
If Wilfred treated Harry like he was beneath his notice, Edwin was downright hostile. Somehow he managed this without uttering a word, but Harry felt his animosity fiercely enough for all that. He was a thinner, harsher version of Wilfred, and Harry could see nothing but spite and contempt in his eyes.
Any hopes he may have harboured of this visit being a success had been dashed at first sight of Wilfred, but his mother put the cap on it. A short, squat woman with a square face and glittering dark eyes, Harry hated her on sight.
It was mutual.
Dressed from head to foot in black bombazine, Harry actually shuddered as she set foot in the castle as though a malevolent spirit had entered their midst. There was a smug littl
e smile hovering over her mouth that made Harry want to turn her around and march her straight out of the door again. Alistair had certainly had the right of it, he thought with despair. A more grasping, mercenary lot, Harry had never seen in all his days. God help them.
It was with some relief, then, that Harry led them into the study and Alistair’s presence, to find the old man sitting behind his desk looking as regal as a king, and as far from falling off his perch as Harry had seen since the summer before.
It obviously took Wilfred back a little, as he paused on the threshold, staring at Alistair. It was the most emotion Harry thought his haughty, immobile face was capable of showing, and was so shocked that Harry had to bite back a grin.
“Ha! Not dead yet, Willy. Sorry to disappoint you, boy,” the old man barked, his eyes glittering with devilry.
Wilfred gave a stiff bow, his face a mask. “My lord,” he said, bringing his wife with him as the rest of them filed into the room.
“No, no!” Alistair exclaimed, waving his hand with irritation though Harry knew him well enough to see that he was enjoying himself so far. “The rest of you get out. I don’t want you. Didn’t invite you, neither!” he barked, banging his fist on his desk. Harry noted the big ruby ring sparkling as he did so. It had been in the family for generations, according to Alistair, and was worn by each viscount. He’d stopped wearing it once he’d grown too thin to keep it on. But this morning, he’d insisted on it. “Wilfred, you stay,” the old man commanded with more authority than Harry had ever heard in his life. He wondered what the man had been like in his youth and felt a swell of pride in him. Alistair settled his beady eyes on Mariah and Edwin, ignoring Norah completely. “The rest of you ... bugger off!”
Edwin and Wilfred just stared at Alistair with loathing as Mariah exclaimed and Norah simply laughed. But they did as they were bid, and Harry shut the door on Wilfred and Alistair with misgiving.
He caught the old man’s eyes just before the door shut, however, and saw determination there, so Harry had to trust in that and let him be.
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