The Sinner Who Seduced Me

by Stefanie Sloane

  The entryway looked large enough to house the inhabitants of most of the northern end of London. The Grecian influence begun on the outside of the house continued here—finely formed fluted columns, cornices, and archways occupying nearly everywhere that Clarissa looked.

  The three mounted the grand staircase, James’s gaze following the seductive sight of Clarissa’s backside swishing in a decidedly feminine sway with each step. He made a mental note to speak with her about this then turned his attention to the butler, who’d come to a stop just past the top of the stairs.

  “The family is in residence in the east wing,” Robert began, waiting for James and Clarissa to join him. “You will have the west wing to yourselves. We’ve taken the liberty of preparing a studio for you, Monsieur St. Michelle, though if you find you’d prefer to work elsewhere in the house, please do not hesitate to say so.”

  “Well,” Clarissa began, admiring the artwork as they continued down the hall, “it’s impossible for me to say, having not seen the space yet.” She turned, arching an eyebrow at James, her eyes amused. “I do enjoy having an entire wing at my disposal, though. Merci.”

  They walked for what felt like ages to James, through rooms whose purpose he couldn’t discern, until they reached yet another hall, with six doors, three on each side.

  Robert ceremoniously opened the third door on the right with a flourish, revealing a beautiful suite done entirely in shades of blue. “Monsieur St. Michelle, these are yours. I’ll have your trunks sent up straightaway. Mr. Bennett looks forward to meeting you at dinner this evening.”

  “Thank you, Robert,” Clarissa replied, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.

  The butler bowed low and did not rise until he heard the oaken panel thud gently to meet the frame, the latch closing with an audible click. He eyed James with an alert look of understanding. “Follow me,” he instructed, a cockney accent seeping through to color his voice. “Don’t want to keep St. Michelle waiting. I’ll show you where the kitchens are.”

  James stared for a moment at the door next to Clarissa’s. He assumed that across the threshold lay his suite, though at this rate he would not be surprised if his “quarters” were slightly beneath the eaves. “Oui,” he answered, already considering just how many vulgarities to use when he spoke with Clarissa regarding the turn of events.

  Clarissa stood at the tall windows of her suite, looking out over Kenwood Park and beyond, to where the thick green acres of Hampstead Heath stretched as far as the eye could see. It felt strange to have returned to her home country, especially under such circumstances. She’d never thought to see the isle again, especially without her mother.

  She tugged, loosening and then untying the neatly knotted cravat at her neck, unwinding the long length of white linen. Five years ago, she’d found it nearly impossible to leave behind her life in London. But with time she’d come to terms with Paris—who she was and what her life would be. And now here she was, returned from the Continent but unable to tell anyone. Alone, save for James.

  Clarissa dropped the length of linen to the floor and turned, moving toward the canopied bed. She would not regret the decision she’d made to trust him, at least with her safety. He may have broken her heart and somehow involved himself with Les Moines, but she could not do without his help.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled at one of her boots. Practically speaking, if anything were to happen to Clarissa, James would be in just as much danger as her mother. Which, she supposed, explained why he’d held her the entire stormy night on the ship.

  She’d pretended to sleep for the first hour or so in his arms. The warm, muscled wall of his chest had risen and fallen beneath her cheek, his steady deep breaths providing an inordinate amount of comfort. He’d run his fingers through her hair and tested the weight of it, brushing a lock against his face, back and forth, back and forth, finally placing a chaste kiss on her forehead and drawing the covers closer.

  Clarissa tugged one last time at the boot then gave up, dropping her foot to the floor and lying back on the silken coverlet. Yes, there was a practical explanation for why James would want her safe. But could the same be said for his actions when he’d thought her asleep?

  Or was Clarissa making far more of it than she should? She was too easily ruled by her emotions—there was no point in denying it. And though he’d disappointed her in the worst way, she clearly still held feelings for the man.

  “Lucien?”

  Clarissa sat up so quickly she fell off the edge of the bed and landed on the floor. James stood over her, a tray in his hands. “You surprised me!” she exclaimed, fumbling to stand up.

  “I could say the same to you,” he replied, setting the tray on the bed before stalking to the windows. “Why on earth did you deviate from my instructions?”

  “I suppose I should have anticipated some sort of reaction,” Clarissa muttered, eyeing the small cucumber sandwiches before snatching one up and taking a bite. She chewed slowly while James stared at her with an impatient frown. “I was thinking as St. Michelle, is all. ‘James’ felt rather, oh, I don’t know, ordinary for someone with such an artistic temperament. And so Lucien was born. Besides,” she paused, taking another bite and chewing before swallowing, “why should I be the only one masquerading behind a persona other than my own?”

  “Because that was the bloody plan,” he bit out, turning back to glare at the window as though he was readying to punch his fist through the glass.

  Silence fell over the room and Clarissa waited. James ran both hands through his hair then folded his arms across his chest, finally turning back toward her. “I apologize for my outburst.”

  Clarissa swallowed the last bite of sandwich and stared at him, words failing her. Never before had he apologized. At least not so quickly nor without coaxing.

  She looked down at her breeches and picked at a piece of lint. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I did not think before I acted. I should have stayed the course as originally planned,” she offered, her gaze returning to rest on him. She mentally chided herself for the instant sense of pleasure she felt at the sight of his eyes softening in response to her words. “Still,” she continued, “would you not agree that ‘Lucien’ is—”

  “Clarissa,” he said in an exasperated tone.

  She could point out that not only had he interrupted her, but his unwillingness to listen to her very sound line of reasoning was, in all honesty, both pigheaded and rude. But if he could keep his temper in check, then so could she. Besides, she was suddenly aware that she was to blame—a revelation that left her quite uncomfortable.

  “Yes,” she answered hesitantly as she twisted her hands together.

  He walked toward her until he stood too close. “Clarissa, I need you to understand—this is not a game.”

  His scent, a mixture of sandalwood and citrus, teased her senses, the combination stirring memories that made her shiver. She twined her fingers tighter, only faintly aware her knuckles ached from the strain. “Of course I know that, James; how could I not?”

  He moved in, his face bent dangerously close to hers. Clarissa feared he might try to kiss her. She feared even more that she wouldn’t stop him. But he merely lifted her clasped hands and gently separated her fingers, enclosing them in his warm, hard hands for a brief moment before releasing them.

  “Clarissa, the men I work for would think nothing of killing your mother, or St. Michelle, if you should prove incautious and provoke their anger.”

  She wished his hands were still on hers—then instantly regretted her weakness. “Are you trying to frighten me?” she asked pointedly, taking a second sandwich from the plate and nervously nibbling.

  “Yes, that is precisely what I am attempting to do. Please tell me I’ve been successful.”

  She nodded, her mouth too full to speak—rather convenient, considering she hardly knew how to respond. Her lungs felt suddenly constricted with too little air and her neck tight, the weigh
t of his words having had the desired effect.

  “Good,” James said firmly, gently pushing her to a seat on the bed. “Now, we’ll need to explain why it will be necessary for me—a mere servant—to occupy the suite adjacent to yours. Thoughts?”

  He knelt on one knee and grasped the heel and toe of her polished Hessian, pulling it off with one firm movement.

  Clarissa sighed, wiggling her freed toes, and laid back on the bed to hold out her other foot. “Must you reside next door?”

  “I’ve been informed that Les Moines has several men in the house. I’d rather not be separated by stairways should you need me,” he replied grimly, tugging the second boot off.

  “Oh,” Clarissa answered perceptively. “In that case, I’ll let it be known that we are lovers.”

  “Perfect. My name is Lucien and I’m the lover of renowned portrait artist St. Michelle. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Clarissa chuckled appreciatively. “All right, then. I will simply throw a French artist’s fit if they do not move you at once. Really, James, I had no idea you were quite so provincial.”

  “And you’ve lived in Paris far too long, Clarissa,” James replied. “You’d best learn how to remove your own boots,” he finished, then left without another word.

  * * *

  Despite himself, James quite liked Joshua Bennett. Their host, currently cutting into a portion of beef with marked enthusiasm, was, well, undeniably likeable. He discussed things one shouldn’t, laughed entirely more than was proper, and delighted in his family and life in general.

  An altogether awful chap, really, James thought with admiration as he watched Mr. Bennett thump Clarissa on the back for perhaps the thirtieth time that evening.

  His wife, Adele, though nowhere near as animated or as boisterous as her husband, was quite charming as well and welcoming in a way that James had never witnessed from any of the ton’s grande dames. The Bennetts possessed enough blunt to rival the most significant of English families—enough, they hoped, to secure a titled husband for their daughter Iris.

  James lifted his wineglass and, under the pretext of drinking, glanced sideways, down the length of the table to where Iris sat. Her beauty alone would garner interest from this season’s bucks, that was simple enough to see. And she’d been tutored to within an inch of her life as well, her impeccable manners and engaging conversation a tribute to her governess’s skill.

  There was something about the girl, though, that set off alarms for James. A mischievous glint in her eyes, perhaps? He couldn’t put his finger on a specific concern, but it was there.

  “I am absolutely stuffed, I tell you,” Mr. Bennett declared, dropping his knife to clatter upon the nearly empty plate.

  Iris delicately cleared her throat, giving her father an admonishing look as she did so. “Mother, let us leave the gentlemen to their cigars,” she announced, waiting as a servant quickly approached and held her chair as she rose from the table.

  James stood and Mr. Bennett followed, Clarissa only hesitating a moment before she did the same.

  Iris and her mother nodded politely before walking arm in arm from the room.

  “Well, let’s see if we can’t find my study, gentlemen,” Mr. Bennett said, tossing his serviette carelessly on the table and turning toward the door.

  A servant scurried to assist but Bennett waved him off. “If I can track a bear for forty miles and bag him, I can find a study.”

  The servant bowed dutifully and made way for the man and his companions. James fell into step on Bennett’s right while Clarissa lingered, trailing a step or two behind them.

  “Bears, monsieur?” James asked, noting Bennett’s pleasure at the question. “We understood you to be a banker, non?”

  Bennett clapped James heartily on the back and laughed. “I like you, Rougier,” he said amiably. “Banking is my business, true enough. It’s what allowed me all of this,” he added, sweeping his hand through the air in reference to Kenwood House. “But hunting is my passion.”

  They continued through a portrait gallery, where scores of English nobility stared down at them with regal aloofness.

  Bennett stopped and looked about, then gestured for James and Clarissa to follow him down a hall that branched off to the right. They continued past five more rooms before Bennett hesitated in front of an oaken door. He pushed it open to reveal a massive mahogany desk flanked by two leather armchairs and a similar one behind.

  “Aha!” he cried, stalking across the threshold and walking around the desk to where a table sat, a number of fine decanters and cut crystal glasses waiting.

  James settled in one of the armchairs, the buttery-soft leather welcoming his weight. Clarissa took her place in the other chair and carefully crossed her right leg so that her foot rested on her left knee.

  “Not that I’ve experience in the field,” James began, watching Bennett pour a generous amount of brandy into three glasses, the amber liquid splashing as he did so, “but handling vast sums of money all day couldn’t be that dull.”

  Bennett handed James and Clarissa their glasses, then took his own in hand, sitting down behind the desk and sighing. “One would think, Rougier, one would think.”

  He took a long drink and closed his eyes with pleasure as the superior brandy slid down his throat. “And for some it’s true—my father, for example. But there’s much more than the money. Well, my very presence in England is a perfect example.”

  “Pourquoi?” Clarissa responded, then took a minuscule sip from her glass.

  Bennett drained his glass with one more swallow and reached to refill. “Well, I’d much prefer to be at home in Halifax. But, according to Iris, an Englishman is what’s needed now. If not for the money, she’d have settled for George Fitzbrooke, as her mother and I had hoped.”

  Clarissa swallowed, only a slight grimace twisting her lips before she recovered from the unexpected taste of brandy. “I see. Then I’ve your daughter to thank for my presence.”

  James detected an accusatory tone in Clarissa’s voice, but from the looks of it, Bennett had not.

  Their host let out a grunt of displeasure. “Entirely. The girl’s had her heart set on the fairy tale for some time—which apparently requires your services. Oh, not that I’m unhappy you’re here—quite the contrary, actually. It was a rare piece of luck that I encountered Lord Mayhue at the Pembrook fete. Everyone had assured me that you were engaged for the entirety of our time here. It was Mayhue who told me otherwise.”

  James savored the liquor, holding it on his tongue as he contemplated that bit of information. Nothing about Bennett caused James to think the man knew anything of Les Moines, but learning the name of Mayhue was a start—and a good one at that.

  “I haven’t gone and insulted you, have I?” Bennett asked Clarissa, obviously concerned. “Iris claims I’m the most boorish man to be found in Canada—I’d hoped to avoid such distinction here.”

  He smiled then, an honest, unaffected beaming friendliness that could not be denied.

  Clarissa hesitated and James tensed. They could not afford to offend Bennett so early in the game.

  “Non, Mr. Bennett, no offense has been taken,” Clarissa replied, following up her statement with a hearty drink of her brandy.

  “I’m drunk, aren’t I?” Clarissa said as James assisted her up the stairs. Her body felt made of lead, each step a Herculean effort.

  James tightened his hold about her waist. “Lower your voice, for God’s sake. There’s no need to shout.”

  Clarissa hadn’t the foggiest idea what the man was talking about. She could barely hear him, let alone her own voice. She was silent, not protesting as he steered her down the hall and into her chamber, where he quickly deposited her in an upholstered chair near the fireplace.

  “Wellll,” Clarissa demanded, finding it difficult to finish the word.

  “Yes,” James answered, standing over her with his hands on his hips. “You’re drunk.”

  “In my cups?”
Clarissa pressed as she attempted to cross one leg over the other, with little success.

  “Yes.”

  “Foxed?”

  James nodded in agreement, then knelt before her and yanked at the knots in her cravat.

  “Disguised?” Clarissa asked. “Though I have to admit that I don’t understand that one at all. Actually, I don’t understand ‘foxed’ either, but ‘disguised’ is by far the most mystifying of all.”

  He ignored her, continuing in silence, undressing her with impersonal precision.

  Clarissa found this irritating, for all the wrong reasons. Even in her inebriated state, she realized that what vexed her wasn’t the fact that a man was removing her clothing. No, what was truly needling was the fact that he seemed completely unaffected by it.

  “I must say,” she began, sitting up as he untucked her shirt, “this feels nothing at all like the time you purposely provided me with far too much champagne.”

  His fingers froze, the top button of her shirt caught halfway through the buttonhole. “You had two glasses, Clarissa, and if I remember correctly, it was you who nicked the champagne from your parents’ party.”

  “Two glasses, is that all?” Clarissa watched as James finished with the buttons and gestured for her to raise her arms. “But isn’t that the first time that we made love?”

  He pulled one arm free of a sleeve and then the other, tossing the shirt onto the floor. “Clarissa, must we speak of this?” His voice was grim, his tone forbidding.

  He set to work on her boots, tugging off first one and then the other, with ease.

  “I loved you, you know.” Clarissa hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but judging from James’s abrupt rise to his feet, she’d done just that. “More than anyone before—and anyone since. You needn’t have bothered with the champagne that day. I wanted you to—”

  James pulled Clarissa upright, standing her on her feet before him, and began to unwind the material about her breasts. “Clarissa, you’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”