“Do stop poking me,” James requested, closing hard fingers over Clarissa’s hand and lowering it to her side. “Just what, precisely, did she say or do to insult you?”
“She altered the sketch!” Clarissa snapped. There. She had him!
James ran both hands through his hair as if readying to pull each strand from his scalp. “And when you say ‘altered,’ is this something similar to when I suggested that your sketch of the Serpentine might require a bit more perspective?”
Clarissa remembered the incident as if it had happened only yesterday. She’d reacted abominably to James’s words that day; her sensitivity when it came to both her work and her burgeoning love for him had combined to create one of her more dramatic outbursts.
She’d always hated to be proven wrong. But even more than that, she’d hated that he saw it before she did. He’d yelled in response, claiming his words were in no way meant to harm. And then he’d tipped her head back and kissed her hard and thoroughly, the embrace leading to making love then and there, in her studio.
Clarissa’s nipples tingled at the memory, the damp heat gathering between her legs not as unwelcome as she would have liked.
“Clarissa?” James pressed, stirring her from the hazy memory of passion.
“No!” She folded her arms across her bound chest. “Not in the least. No, she touched the sketch—smeared the charcoal, to be exact.”
“Contact, then?” he asked, hardly as shocked as he should be.
Annoyed at his refusal to recognize the level of intrusion, yet beginning to see some humor in the situation. Clarissa poked him in the chest yet again. “Precisely.”
He clasped her fingers once again, only this time he pressed them against his coat, trapping them. “I’ll ask the girl to behave; will that help?”
She could feel his heartbeat beneath her hand. “You’d do that for me?” she asked, suddenly embarrassed by her demands.
“It’s my job,” he replied simply, squeezing her hand before releasing her. “Now, is there anything else?”
Clarissa turned back to her table before any hint of disappointment registered on her face. Of course it was his job—she was a means to an end, nothing more. She’d nearly given in to the heat that his closeness had inspired and … what? Almost kissed him as she’d wanted to since he’d held her close on the ship? Or should she have told him that the chit’s openly declared interest toward him was making her act like a lunatic?
Oh, that was the issue at hand. Oh, Lord. Clarissa nearly burst into tears at the realization. “Yes, actually: Miss Bennett is intent on seducing you.”
James mussed his hair, actually succeeding in pulling a strand or two from his head this time. “She’s nothing more than a child. And it’s not as if she will seduce me against my will.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Clarissa managed a smile, turning her attention back to the sketch.
“Clarissa, about last night,” James began, drawing her attention to him. “I hope you understand why I removed your clothing.”
In all honesty, Clarissa had wakened with very little memory of the evening before. There were a few spotty images of James’s face and the feel of his hands on her as he’d undressed her, but that was all. She stared hard at the sketch and the heated memory of his lips on hers flooded her, but she could not say whether this was indeed a memory or simply a figment of her imagination. “I still had my breeches on this morning, James. Perhaps you’re mistaken in what transpired?” she said with a shrug, attempting to keep the tone light.
“It was necessary to remove the bindings, Clarissa. As for the boots, I could hardly let you sleep—”
“James, I was only teasing. I’d already arrived at the very same conclusion, I assure you. I hardly suspected you of anything untoward.”
He looked far too relieved as he nodded in understanding, piquing Clarissa’s curiosity.
“Though I do wonder,” she continued, reaching out to smudge a sharp edge in the sketch, “whether I may have done something—or perhaps said something—that I shouldn’t have?”
James folded his arms across his chest and sat on the edge of the table. “Why do you ask?”
“I was upset.”
“Were you, now?” James queried, looking out the window at the rolling green acres of Kenwood’s park.
“You know very well that I was. Why on earth would I have consumed the brandy otherwise?” Clarissa countered, scratching at the sketch with her fingernail. “I was angry with Mr. Bennett for his foolhardy desire to please his daughter at any cost. And for my mother’s imprisonment. And with you for bringing me here—for being involved at all.”
“So you remember nothing of last night?” he asked quietly, his gaze taking in the sketch with concern.
“Nothing.”
He pushed himself off the table and walked toward the door. “Clarissa, you neither did nor said anything that would change the outcome of our allotted time together. Words spoken under the influence of spirits are nothing more than the meanderings of our overtired minds.”
Clarissa sighed with relief, though there was something in his claim that made her uneasy.
“And I believe this will bring you some comfort,” he added, turning back toward her as he pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it over.
She instantly recognized her mother’s delicate handwriting, the sight of it making her heart soar with relief. “Thank you,” she offered, hardly able to contain herself.
James nodded and turned around to go.
“And next time, James,” she paused and waited for him to look at her.
He stopped just in front of the door and turned, “Yes?”
“Do relieve me of the breeches. I promise I won’t hold it against you.”
He said nothing in return, only smiled and opened the door to step into the hall, closing the heavy portal quietly behind him.
It was well past midnight. James lay with his arms folded beneath his head and studied the silence that surrounded him.
“Do relieve me of my breeches.”
He rolled to his right side and punched the feather pillows, dropping his head upon the cool linen. Those words had plagued him since that afternoon. Clarissa had made the comment in fun, but to James … well, it had been much more than that.
He’d taken advantage of her their first night at Kenwood not because he could, but because he’d wanted to. More than he’d wanted anything for some time. If he’d had his way they would be lovers again, not as St. Michelle and Lucien, but as Clarissa and James.
He punched at the pillow again then folded his arms across his bare chest, the feel of the soft, expensive sheets almost oppressive. He shouldn’t be surprised that his feelings for Clarissa had reappeared. After all, if she’d only trusted him and what he’d had to say concerning her father’s purported infidelities, they would, in all likelihood, be together as husband and wife.
He stared at the candle on the nightstand as the flame flickered, casting shadows on the walls. Carmichael had entrusted him with this assignment because James was free from any entanglements that would present a distraction. His parents were deceased and his older brother was well and married, leaving James to himself.
He threw back the covers and looked at his swelling cock. “Clearly, you’re distracted.”
The sound of his door opening drew James’s gaze to the darkness beyond the candlelight. A dim light from the hall outlined a form as it stood still. Then the person moved into the room, gently shutting the door behind them.
James sat up and tossed the covers over himself, concealing his nakedness from the waist down. “I’ll not bother with niceties at such a late hour. Who are you and why are you here?”
The figure slowly came closer, a feminine form becoming apparent. James’s pulse quickened at the thought that it might be Clarissa, but as his guest reached the pool of light cast from the candle near his bed, James realized he was mistaken.
“Miss Bennett?” he utter
ed, disbelief lacing his voice.
The girl arched an eyebrow with practiced ease then sat down next to James. “Yes, though I do wish you’d call me Iris.” She caught the end of the cream-colored ribbon tied at her waist, the satin sliding easily as she pulled. “Now, as for the why …”
Her dressing gown parted as the bow escaped its knot, revealing the outline of first one of Iris’s perfectly shaped breasts, and then the other, barely concealed beneath a gauzy night rail. She placed her hands behind her on the bed and leaned back, the wrapper falling entirely open.
“Mademoiselle—”
“Please, Mr. Rougier,” she purred, her tone calling to mind things James would rather not think on.
“Iris,” he began, taking a pillow and dropping it between himself and the girl, “you do not want this.”
Iris nodded. “Oh, but I do.”
“D’accord. Then I do not want this,” he replied, his patience growing thin. “Your parents have come all the way to England to find you a suitable husband. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the one to ruin your chances.”
Iris sat up and reached for the pillow, tossing it over her shoulder, then climbed atop James, her knees astride him.
He lifted her off of him and slid from the bed, falling to one knee before regaining his ground and standing.
“Are you absolutely sure you do not want this?” Iris asked, her eyes focused on his still hard cock.
He grabbed for his dressing gown, which he’d tossed over the back of a heavy leather chair, and hastily threw it on, savagely knotting the tie at his waist before replying. “Leave, s’il vous plaît.”
James was on precarious footing. A dalliance with Iris could be helpful to his case—or incredibly damaging, depending on a number of factors.
Normally he would have happily obliged such a willing bed partner. But his throbbing cock was right; his feelings for Clarissa could not be denied.
He reached for Iris’s dressing gown and roughly closed it, tying the sash in one swift movement then picking her up from the bed and forcefully accompanying her to the door.
“I can make your life rather difficult, Lucien,” she warned, her lips pursing into a seductive pout. She skimmed his chest with her hand, pushing back the lapel to encircle his left nipple with her fingers.
“Meaning?” he asked, grasping her wrist and forcing her fingers to stop.
She pressed herself against him and rose on her toes so they were nearly eye to eye, with nary a breath between them. “Allow me to walk from this room and you’ll find out.”
The feel of her breasts on his chest, the indentation where her thighs met his, grinding up against him. God, James nearly took her right then and there, just to prove that he could.
But things had changed. All of a sudden it wasn’t about what one could do, but what one wanted to do. It wasn’t enough—she wasn’t enough.
He reached for the door, pulling it open wide enough for her to pass. “Good night, Miss Bennett.”
She hesitated, disbelief playing across her face before being swifty replaced by anger. “Good night, Mr. Rougier. Sleep well.”
He watched her walk down the hall to make certain she didn’t turn back. When she’d reached the stairs and started down them, James ducked inside his room and shut the door, leaning against the thick panels. “Sleep well? I doubt I’ll ever sleep well again, at least not in Kenwood House.”
“Where is she?” Clarissa yelled, kicking at the gravel as she paced back and forth in front of the bench.
James gave her an admonishing look before checking his pocket watch for perhaps the tenth time.
“I assure you, she is nearly an hour late. No timepiece in the world will tell you a different story.”
If not for the absence of Iris, Clarissa could say that this was a spectacular day. She’d woken early after a restful night of sleep. The realization that she did indeed still harbor feelings for James had been liberating, her emotional state never at its best when she denied the truth.
She’d risen with the sun and dressed herself, which she was immensely proud of. It had taken twice as long as it should have, but she’d done it, leaving twelve creased cravats in her wake.
Clarissa paused to admire her work, noting with displeasure the scuff she’d just made on her otherwise brilliantly shined boots. She wouldn’t even be out in the garden, on the gravel path—the very gravel that had marred her boots!—if not for the girl. A servant had delivered a note from the girl just as Clarissa was enjoying her first cup of tea in the breakfast room. Iris had requested they meet in the cutting garden for their morning sketches.
Keeping in mind what James had said concerning Miss Bennett’s place in the ever-thickening plot, Clarissa had complied and made her way to the cutting garden at the prescribed time. Only she’d found herself in the rose garden rather than the cutting garden. And then James had arrived and the two of them had hastened to the correct garden, only to find no one there.
And Clarissa’s spectacular day had become markedly less spectacular from then on.
“Do send a servant to fetch her, won’t you?”
“I’ve already sent two,” he snapped, his gaze focused on the back of the house.
Clarissa looked at James, noting again the dark circles under his eyes, which she’d first noticed as they’d walked. She sat down next to him on the bench now and propped her elbows on her knees, as she’d seen countless men do. “You look awful. Did you not sleep well?”
“I find it rather hard to sleep well while dodging a persistent woman,” he replied, closing his eyes and lifting his face to the morning sun.
Clarissa’s jaw tensed. “I see. So that is what you call it these days. ‘Dodging’?”
“No, you do not understand,” he ground out, opening his eyes and turning to look at her. “It was Miss Bennett who arrived in my room—completely uninvited and wholly indecent.”
“Well, that’s rather …” Clarissa wasn’t sure how to end her sentence. She was far too relieved to hear the word “uninvited.”
“Unexpected,” he finished for her, brushing distractedly at his fawn breeches. “I imagine it has something to do with her absence this morning.”
“What do you mean?”
James’s hands rested on his thighs. “She was rather disappointed with my cool reception and warned me that she could make things difficult.”
Clarissa’s feelings of relief were rapidly fading. “She threatened you? Has she no idea with whom she’s dealing?”
“She knows exactly who I am—personal assistant to St. Michelle. It’s hardly unheard of for people in her position to take advantage of those less fortunate—and not of the same class. She may be Canadian, but she’s rich.”
“Oh, no, you’ve misunderstood. I was referring to her treatment of St. Michelle—clearly she does not know that she’s dealing with the greatest portrait artist the world has ever known,” Clarissa replied earnestly, attempting to make James laugh.
“Clarissa,” James began, folding his hands in his lap. “The men I work for are expecting to be paid. Even if everything should go according to plan, there’s no guarantee …” He cleared his throat and surveyed the neat rows of hydrangeas. “Miss Bennett holds the reins here. Without her, you cannot complete the portrait. And without the portrait there will be no payment. And without the payment I’ve no hopes of keeping you and your mother safe.”
Did he truly care what happened to her or her mother? Why did you ever agree to work for such men? Clarissa pleaded with James in her mind, as if knowing the truth of his employ would align the facts into something that made sense. She’d feared the worst upon meeting him again—and who would blame her? Any man willing to enter into an alliance with Les Moines would have to own a soul as pitch-black as the depths of hell from which the members of the organization surely came.
But she found herself praying fervently that James was not that man. He’d broken her heart, but surely he could not have forsaken
all the good in himself only to embrace the darkness. And for what? Power? Fortune? Clarissa could not begin to imagine. To her, giving up oneself was akin to death.
She stood and began to pace, crossing James’s line of sight as she traversed the width of the rows then turned back, repeating the pattern. “What must we do?”
“Whatever she asks, I’m afraid,” James replied, his voice laced with frustration.
“But that would require you to—Good Lord, you cannot be suggesting what I think you are suggesting?”
James unclasped his hands and rose, coming to walk beside Clarissa. “It is not as if I’ve led the life of a hermit,” he said in a low tone.
Clarissa didn’t know whether to scream or feel impossibly proud that he’d shared such intimate knowledge with her. “I see.”
“Please don’t tell me we’re back to that point,” he replied gruffly. “I simply meant to say that such activities may be undertaken by a man without emotional attachments. There is pleasure to be found despite the circumstances.”
Clarissa was feeling far closer to the scream. “And was that true with me?”
“Never,” he said at once, “which is exactly my point. Do not equate what I must do with that spoiled heiress to what we had. One is an obligation. The other was …”
“Love,” Clarissa finished for him, her eyes set on the gravel that spread out before her on the path.
“Ah, Monsieur St. Michelle, it looks as though there’s news of Miss Bennett,” James announced, his tone dutiful.
Clarissa looked beyond the rows of flowers to where the second servant they’d sent after Iris approached, a silver tray in his hands.
“I’ve a plan,” she whispered to James. She pulled her coat cuffs down and placed her hands on the lapels, adopting what she hoped was a masculine stance in readiness to receive the servant.
“Have you listened to nothing I’ve said?” James demanded through clenched teeth.
“Every word.”
“Did you enjoy your morning?”
Iris sat across from James and Clarissa in the rose drawing room, one of several reception rooms in Kenwood House—though surely the only one that exactly matched her flower-patterned frock. She looked well rested. Her hair had been coiffed into ridiculous curls near her ears that so many women seemed fond of and her cheeks looked to have been recently pinched. She was supremely pleased with herself.
The Sinner Who Seduced Me Page 8