As was Clarissa, which James found rather odd. For his part, the day had been nothing short of exhausting. And it looked to not let up anytime soon.
“Mademoiselle Bennett,” Clarissa began, accepting the restorative cup of tea that Iris offered her. “Shall we speak frankly?”
“I’d like nothing more,” Iris replied, pouring a cup for herself then settling into the upholstered settee.
Clarissa took a sip of the brew and swallowed. “Mademoiselle,” she began, crossing her legs with ease. “Am I to understand that you’ve some interest in my assistant—beyond the artistic?”
James felt damned uncomfortable. Two women, speaking as though he weren’t even in the room. But the best thing for him to do was remain silent, and so he gritted his teeth and watched.
“Yes, you’re correct. And as you’ve seen firsthand,” Iris replied, reaching for a shortbread biscuit from the gilded tray, “I can be quite persuasive.” She bit daintily into the delicacy, turning her gaze to James as she slowly chewed then licked at an errant crumb.
Clarissa sipped slowly, her eyes watching one of Iris’s feet crossed over the other just beneath the hem of her dress. It tapped the carpet, though James would not have noticed if it were not for Clarissa.
“C’est vrai, though I believe I may have a proposition for you that would be infinitely more interesting.”
Iris’s foot suddenly stopped tapping. “I’m not sure how that would be possible. You see, I find Monsieur Rougier quite interesting.”
“Be that as it may,” Clarissa said, returning her empty cup to the tray. “A girl in search of excitement would do best to look outside the walls of her own home, oui?”
“Meaning?” Iris asked, her foot beginning to tap again as her interest was piqued.
Unfortunately, James knew exactly how Miss Bennett was feeling. The last time Clarissa had seen fit to act of her own accord, James had taken on a new name. There was no telling what the woman was capable of concocting. James could only hope that his threats regarding Les Moines would persuade her to remain within the realm of awkward and avoid the dangerous altogether.
Clarissa picked at a bit of lint on her waistcoat before answering. “Tell me, mademoiselle, have you heard of the Cyprians’ Ball?”
“Daphne told me you didn’t say a word.”
James looked out over the lake, Hampstead Heath beyond, Kenwood House just behind him. The moment the words had fallen from Clarissa’s lips he’d known there would be hell to pay; the fact that Iris’s maid was employed by Les Moines—now, that he hadn’t known. “And what would you have had me do? I am, you’ll remember, only a servant.”
“Durand assured me you were the man for the job. I’m beginning to have my doubts.” The agent, known only to James as Pettibone, released Miss Bennett’s matching spaniels from their leads. The brown and white pair ran off toward the lake, yipping with delight.
James clenched his jaw but remained outwardly calm. It was unthinkable that he would not succeed at bringing down Les Moines. But to leave Clarissa and her mother to these men? The mere thought made his blood boil. “And I still am.”
Pettibone picked at a speck of lint on his sleeve and flicked it off. “Then you must get control of the woman,” he stated, letting out an incredulous laugh. “She is, you’ll remember, ‘only a woman.’ ”
“Don’t you think I know that?” James bit out, watching the dogs frolic in the water. That the man had dared to use his own words against him was galling. That he was right made the situation even worse. James pictured himself holding Pettibone facedown in the water while the man’s limbs flailed wildly, and his jaw eased a touch.
Pettibone let out a piercing whistle and the two dogs came running, skidding to a stop just in front of the man. “You see, that’s how it’s done. Not the other way around,” Pettibone said sarcastically, growling low at the dogs, then bending down to reattach their leads. Both cowered before him, clearly fearful.
And the man’s limbs stilled in James’s mind, the last bubbles of breath around his submerged face popping one by one. James looked again at the lake, certain he could wrestle Pettibone to the shore and be done with him in no time.
“Most educational,” James muttered, the image of Pettibone’s dead body still floating in his mind. “Now, as for the Cyprians’ Ball, it’s tomorrow evening. We’ll be in need of—”
“An invitation,” Pettibone interrupted, standing upright and pulling a thick folded piece of note paper from the inner pocket of his coat and handing it to James. “Done. Those are hard to come by, so you might want to hand it over to Lady Clarissa for safekeeping.”
James grabbed Pettibone by the neck and squeezed. “Let’s get this out of the way now, shall we? I’ve done my best to be a good sport about this, but I’m afraid my patience has run out. You’re as inconsequential as I am to Les Moines—otherwise you wouldn’t be here in that ridiculous wig, walking dogs and employing maids to do your dirty work. Only, if I manage to do my part, I’ll be rewarded with a higher ranking within the organization. Can you say the same?”
Pettibone stared stonily at James, his face flushing to a reddish-purple hue.
“Good. I see that we understand each other.”
James squeezed one last time then released the man and stepped back.
“I’ll send the tailor and modiste along this afternoon,” Pettibone choked out before he spat on the ground.
“The tailor is not necessary,” James replied. The last thing he needed was Clarissa trying to bluff her way through a fitting. “Order dominos for Lady Clarissa and myself and send the modiste directly to Miss Bennett.”
Pettibone nodded begrudgingly. “Of course.” He took up the leads in one hand and turned toward Kenwood House.
“And the Bennetts? I assume you’ve fabricated a reasonable explanation for the girl’s absence from Kenwood House?” James asked, genuinely curious but glad to have a reason to detain Pettibone further since it obviously bothered the man.
“The filthy Canadians managed to worm their way into the Sutter Ball, which takes place the same evening. They’ll be gone all night, most likely,” Pettibone replied, not even turning around to address James. “As the girl has not officially taken her place in society, she’s not allowed to attend. Is that all?”
James savored his newfound power before answering. “Yes, for now—though I do think it would be best if I returned to the house first.”
James passed the man on his right and continued without looking back. He could have sworn he felt Pettibone seething as he did so.
Clarissa gently shut her chamber door behind her and leaned against it. She had managed to avoid being alone with James since she’d made the bargain with Iris. A night of scandalous behavior in exchange for his amorous attentions seemed a sensible enough trade to her, but she feared James would feel otherwise.
She peeled off her coat then set to work on the buttons of her waistcoat. Iris had been exceedingly agreeable that afternoon and Clarissa had made real progress on the sketches for the portrait. She hoped to begin on the painting within the next few days—which, once one added in the average amount of time needed to complete the portrait, meant that she could reasonably expect to be reunited with her mother by October at the lastest.
Clarissa reached the last button and freed it with a quick jerk, then sat on the edge of her bed and bent to grasp her right boot. She knew from the letter that her mother was alive. But was she being treated well? This was not the first time such worry had crossed her mind. James had dismissed her concern with the assurance that the marchioness was safe, though he might as well have added “for now.” Clarissa had no faith in the promises of the Rat and his cohorts.
She pulled as hard as she could but the boot would not budge. Her chest tightened and she willed herself not to cry.
But it was of no use. She released the glossy soft leather and sat upright, dropping her face into her hands and letting the tears flow. She cried for her mother.
She cried for James, whom she wanted to believe in but had every reason not to. And she cried for herself. This charade was proving to be more than even Clarissa thought herself capable of. She’d abandoned her life in England, built another in Paris, and somehow kept her sanity intact. But this was too much. Far, far too much.
The door opened, demanding Clarissa’s attention. She wiped her eyes hastily with the cuffs of her linen shirt and looked up to find James. He shut the door behind him and strode across the room angrily, stopping just in front of her.
“Did I not warn you that we were not playing at a pageant? This,” he paused, gesturing wildly at the surrounding room, “is not your stage. Les Moines will kill you and your mother if you do not perform exactly as prescribed. Do I make myself clear?”
Clarissa widened her eyes as far as she could in an attempt to keep from crying. “You needn’t tell me such things—”
“Is that so? Then please do explain to me why we’ve committed to escorting Miss Bennett to the Cyprians’ Ball,” James interrupted, leaning so that his face was directly in front of hers. “What on earth possessed you to have suggested such a thing?”
“You,” she whispered, unable to say anything more.
He grasped her upper arms with his powerful hands and shook her. “You’re not making sense, Clarissa,” he said savagely, his eyes wild with fury. “Tell me!”
Clarissa couldn’t keep the tears at bay any longer. A sob ripped from her throat as she struggled to break free of his hold. “You. You’re the reason I suggested the Cyprians’ Ball. The idea of you with Iris was more than I could take. After everything that’s happened, I still want you. I did it for you.”
James instantly let go of her arms and stood upright, backing away until he nearly fell into the fireplace. “Are you telling me the truth?” he asked, his voice suddenly stripped of emotion.
“James, I have tried very hard to ignore my feelings. But it’s simply not within my power, I must be honest with myself, and you.”
Clarissa knew all that she risked in baring her heart to James. But she could no longer deny what she felt. And if she was to accept the traitorous state of her heart, there seemed no logical reason to keep it from James.
“Goddammit, Clarissa,” he spat out, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the mantel as if his very life depended on it. “You cannot do this. Not now. I’ve just …”
The man had broken her heart once, so it would not surprise Clarissa to know that he would do so again. But she had to be true to herself, no matter what the cost. “I understand, James. There’s no need to be angry. You do not feel the same and I—” Clarissa stopped abruptly. “James, what is it?”
He’d fallen to his knees and dropped his head in his hands. “Please. Stop.”
“I’m only being honest. If we’re to get through this at all, I can’t go on denying my feelings for you,” Clarissa said quietly, though the effort forced the tears forth once more.
James lowered his hands and looked at Clarissa, the emotion in his eyes searing her. He flattened his palms on the Aubusson carpet and levered upright, his head hanging as if he didn’t have the strength to lift it.
“James, please. Say something,” Clarissa pleaded, unable to bear the silence any longer.
He closed the space between them and came to stand over her. “Do you truly want this?” he asked, reaching for one boot and yanking it off before swiftly removing the other.
Clarissa’s heart pounded with anticipation. “Yes,” she said breathlessly, “more than anything in the world.”
He pulled her to stand. With quick efficiency, he set about ridding her of the fine linen shirt, then untied and began to unwind the strip of cloth that bound her breasts. He turned her in a slow, torturous pirouette, placing soft, wet kisses first on her lips, then the base of her skull, just below her collarbone, her left shoulder, and on and on until the cloth was completely undone—as was Clarissa. She closed her eyes as he reached for the front of her breeches and unbuttoned them, then shoved them down the length of her hips, thighs, and calves until they pooled at her feet.
Clarissa opened her eyes and reached for James, holding tightly to him as she pressed a long, lingering kiss on his lips. She suddenly realized how much she’d missed him—the taste of him, the smell of him. The feel of him. She tugged at his cravat and ripped open his shirt, pressing closer. The hair on his sculpted chest rubbed the sensitive tips of her breasts.
James pushed her onto the bed and leaned over her, his eyes hot and intent. “You’re perfect. Just as I remember,” he said quietly. His fingertip traced a line from her throat to her belly, the pad of his thumb exploring the indentation of her navel. His hand stroked lower, until he parted her slick folds. Clarissa shuddered with sensation as heat raced through her veins, stealing her breath. His fingers stretched her as his thumb rubbed torturously, until Clarissa widened her legs and reached for him, scoring his shoulders with her fingernails as she urged him closer.
She’d forgotten what it was to need someone so badly that you would surely die if refused. James looked into her eyes, his own hazy with anticipation. Clarissa licked her finger and ran it around her left nipple, pleased when James reached for the front of his breeches and rubbed hard. She grabbed at the weight of her breast, kneading it as he watched, his excitement only fueling her own.
James suddenly reached for Clarissa and dragged her to the edge of the bed. He dropped to his knees again and his tongue found her now swollen folds. Clarissa recognized the intense sense of urgency. James had brought her to this point many times before. But it all felt new somehow. She clawed at the bedding, taking up fistfuls of sheets as her body rose higher and higher.
All that Clarissa could think of was the powerful sensation building within her being. His tongue strokes quickened and Clarissa’s breathing altered, urgent sighs escaping her lips as she held tightly to the linens. Her hips bucked as his tongue dove deeper, reaching to her very core. His hands gripped her thighs and she shattered into a million pieces, the very room disappearing until all Clarissa experienced was absolute pleasure.
She cried out, releasing with the sound of all of the fear and anger, the sense of betrayal and longing she’d kept pent up. “Oh God, James. I’ve been a fool. I forgive you, James,” she said, continuing to pant as she slowly returned to consciousness.
James suddenly loomed over her and set a hand on each side of her head. “For what?”
“Must I say the words? Really, it is I who should ask for your forgiveness. I held on to what you did to me for far too long. I forgive you. It’s as simple as that,” Clarissa replied softly, then turned to kiss his wrist.
His face transformed as though a chilling north wind had blown through, turning from heat and need to a cold, stone mask. “But you told me that you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore, nor to me.”
Clarissa stared at James and the scene suddenly came into crystal-clear focus, the pleasure of mere moments before replaced with a growing sense of dread. “That I wanted you, James. I could no longer lie about my desire.”
James pushed himself from the bed. “I cannot believe this is happening.”
Clarissa propped herself up and self-consciously folded her arms across her breasts. “Nor can I, I assure you.”
James fastened the buttons on his shirt and adjusted the cuffs of his coat. A cool remoteness settled over his countenance that chilled Clarissa to the bone. “Do sleep well, Clarissa.” His voice was brusque. “We’ve a busy night of debauchery ahead of us—though, I can now attest to the fact that you’re well up to the task.”
The words slammed into Clarissa’s heart with all the force she felt sure James had intended. She reached for a pillow and threw it at his retreating form.
He opened the door and walked out, not bothering to look back as he slammed it.
Shaken and wounded, Clarissa crawled to the top of the bed, where the rest of the pillows lay. She chose a small, rectangular one with silken tassels, curl
ed herself beneath the soft bedding, and screamed into the pillow until her voice disappeared.
It had taken all of three minutes for James to realize he could not stay in his chamber. Nor was the library acceptable, not even the kitchens, where the tantalizing smells of the day’s stewed apples only made his stomach roil.
He’d taken up a lamp pilfered from the servants’ hall and bolted from Kenwood House, running through the gardens and across the endless expanse of lawns and wooded areas until he’d reached the lake.
He didn’t even bother removing his clothing. Just jumped right in, swimming until he could hardly feel his arms and legs. Sadly, his cock and balls continued to ache, but as James looked up into the starry sky, he knew the situation was his own fault.
He floated faceup, willing his heart to seal back up into the charred bit of flesh and blood he’d managed to salvage after Clarissa had destroyed it the last time.
At last, he turned onto his belly and slowly swam for shore. His feet touched the sandy bottom and he waded the rest of the way, collapsing near where he’d met with Pettibone earlier that day.
Though Pettibone was a snide, corrupt ass, he’d been right. James needed to take control, and fast. If the past hour had proven anything, it was that he was far weaker than he’d ever been before when it came to Clarissa. He’d begun this assignment resolute and focused, but that had faded as he began to remember what it was that made him fall in love with her.
He’d been stupid and careless and now he was paying the price.
A shooting star whizzed through the sky high above. James watched it fly, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing aloud. “Let me remember what it was that drove us apart. Let me remember and never forget.”
The feeling in his arms began to return. And so he dove back into the water, intent on swimming until he felt nothing at all.
The Sinner Who Seduced Me Page 9