by Jane Toombs
Edward, Deirdre realized, was the more skillful boxer while Clive had the advantage of his greater height and strength although, she feared, he had been weakened by his wound. Deirdre glanced quickly about her, looking for something, anything—a candlestick? a lamp?—to use to help Clive. Edward had outraged her. She hated him, she wanted to hurt him. However, she saw nothing.
Edward dropped his hands to his sides. “Do whatever you will,” he said to Clive, smiling weakly.
Clive drew back his fist. Deirdre held her breath. Refusing to strike the defenseless Edward, Clive turned on his heel and stood facing away from his opponent. Without looking at him, Clive muttered, “Get out."
Edward bowed slightly to Clive's back. “I have just remembered I have urgent business requiring my presence in town and I must leave Harmon Hall at once. I assure you I shall say nothing about what happened here today. Not now, not ever."
Clive nodded without responding.
Edward glanced at Deirdre, started to speak but seemed to think better of it, swinging around and leaving the room, leaving not through the door—the key was still in the lock where she had inserted it—but by way of an opening in one of the paneled walls.
Clive turned to Deirdre who stood holding her gown to cover her near-nakedness. In the semi-darkness, she was unable to read his expression. Disappointment? Anger? Something more? Consumed by shame, she flushed as she lowered her head.
"Deirdre, look at me,” Clive demanded.
She raised her eyes to meet his gaze.
He spoke only one word, hurling it at her in disgust. “Harlot!"
CHAPTER 11
"Get dressed,” Clive ordered. Turning his back to Deirdre, he folded his arms across his chest.
Angry tears burned her eyes. How dare he insult her! As she hastily donned her damp, impossibly wrinkled gown, she found her anger mingling with a hurt that struck deep into her heart. How could Clive believe, even for an instant, that she had been guilty of anything?
Buttoning her gown up the back as best she could, she slipped on her shoes and tied the ribbons of her bonnet under her chin. Her gloves were nowhere in sight. Glancing at Clive, she drew in a deep breath. Shamed by his finding her alone with Edward, pained and stung by his accusation, she felt the need to gather her courage before she tried to actually face him.
When at last she hesitantly went to stand beside him, Clive refused either to look at her or to acknowledge her presence.
"I did scream for help,” she pointed out.
"I heard you."
His clipped words told her he was unwilling to say anything more than was absolutely necessary. How he must despise her. Without good reason. She had only gone with Edward to help Clive, but he could not be expected to realize the truth. Nor could she tell him. Even so, he had no right to berate her.
"How ever did you happen to come here and find me?” While curious to hear his answer, she was also determined to force him talk to her. She absolutely refused to attempt to explain her behavior until he apologized for that offensive name he had called her, but she was also unwilling to suffer in silence.
Adamantly refusing to look at her, he said, “When Vincent and I arrived somewhat belatedly at the picnic, Sybil informed me she observed you rowing down the river with that bas—” He caught himself. “With your great good friend, Edward."
"And you followed us?” She failed to keep her surprise from her voice. What, she asked herself, had prompted Clive to do that?
He hunched his shoulders, appearing flustered. “The bad weather,” he said. “I was worried you might be caught on the river by the storm so I walked downstream along the shore. When the rain began, I became even more alarmed. After coming upon the rowboat tied to the dock, I followed the path to the Pantheon where I searched in the rotunda for some sign of you until I finally saw your parasol leaning against the wall."
Could he have been jealous of Edward's attentions toward her? Deirdre wondered. Although unlikely, the possibility both intrigued and emboldened her. “And all to be certain I had found shelter from the rain,” she said with more than a touch of asperity. “Yet I seem to recall you were not over-concerned when, more than once, we were caught in the rain in Ashdown Forest."
Sighing in exasperation, Clive slowly turned to face her, looking down at her with his dark eyes flashing and his barely healed scar a red slash against skin darkened by his flush of anger. “If you must know, Deirdre, I was more concerned for your reputation, not to mention your virtue, than because of any fear you might be caught in the storm. As you should have been but evidently were not troubled, not in the least. You must have been aware of Edward's questionable reputation, everyone else in London was from the time he returned from Canada. If not before."
Even as she felt a glow of embarrassment suffuse her cheeks, she said, her voice rising, “And you, of course, assumed I would be totally unable to cope with Edward if the need arose."
"You? Cope? Ha! When your scream led me to the secret entrance to this room, your attempt at coping with Edward, if that is how you choose to describe what you were doing, appeared to me to be rather unsuccessful.” He stared accusingly at her. “Or is it possible I misinterpreted the situation. Perhaps your state of dishabille was a deliberate ploy on your part."
She gasped. How dare he! She would not tolerate another insult. Drawing back her hand, she slapped his face as hard as she could.
Clive blinked. Again she drew back her hand, but before she could slap him again he reached out and grasped her wrist. She looked up at him, read anger in his smoldering eyes and something more, a strange dark fire that caused her to catch her breath.
He stood holding her wrist, his gaze meeting hers, the firelight glittering from his brown eyes, his lips slightly parted. For an instant he seemed to be inviting her to come to him and, yes, she was certain—or was she?—to kiss him, but she stood as though frozen and then the moment passed and his hand dropped from her wrist and he closed his eyes, sighed and shook his head.
He swung away from her and began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace. “Pray forgive me, Deirdre,” he said at last. “Somehow you have the knack of causing me to completely forget myself. One moment I want to keep you from harm's way, the next I find myself upbraiding you.” He stopped pacing and, standing a considerable distance from her, said, “Will you forgive me? Forgive me for everything I may have said or done?"
Her anger fled as quickly as it had come and her wounded heart healed instantly. Forgive him? She would forgive Clive anything. Nodding, she said, “Of course I forgive you."
At the same time, belatedly, she realized she had never thanked him for rescuing her from Edward's unwanted attentions, for saving her from a terrible embarrassment, at the least, or a much more dire fate, at the worst. Trying to make amends, she said, “I should have thanked you for following me here rather than questioning your motives. I admit I misjudged Edward, I should never have come here with him."
"Perhaps, Deirdre, you were trying to prove you were no longer a child."
Did Clive mean she wanted to prove it to him? No, that was not true, the notion had never entered her head, not once. She frowned. Could she possibly have been guilty of what he suspected without realizing it?
As though aware she might have misconstrued his words, he hastily added, “Prove it to everyone, not only to me."
"You always did see me as a child, you always treated me like a child, and that was all very well when I was a child, but you still insist on thinking of me as your little sister.” Deirdre shook her head. “But no, I had nothing to prove, not to you or to anyone else. I went with Edward because—"
She stopped abruptly. How could she possibly tell Clive that her intent had been to distract Edward from what both she and Alcida saw as his pursuit of Phoebe? With Phoebe's acquiescence. If she did tell him the truth, Clive would either refuse to believe her or, if she did succeed in convincing him, his questions would force her to reveal the reason
s for her doubts about Phoebe's faithfulness. Which she would never do.
"Because?” Clive demanded, echoing her word. “Is it possible Edward enticed you to go with him by promising a high wind and more kites for you both to fly?"
Where had he heard about their kite-flying in the park? Deirdre wondered. And why had he been nettled into sarcasm by the thought of her and Edward being together? “He promised no kites,” she said. “I went with him on a random impulse, a mere whim."
"As a mouse might impulsively accompany a cat, little sister?"
"I am not your little sister, I never have been your little sister, and I never want to be your little sister.” Tears stung her eyes. No one could make her angrier than Clive.
He put his thumb and forefinger to his chin while his speculative gaze slowly roamed from the crown of her water-stained and dreadfully misshapen bonnet to the sorry curves of her gown down to the tips of her discolored shoes. “You force me to concede you are neither—” He stopped. “Are you crying, Deirdre?” Genuine concern threaded through his voice. “Have I somehow—"
Shaking her head, Deirdre turned from him to hide her unbidden, unsuppressible tears. She heard him take a step toward her, and when she felt his hand lightly touch her arm, her pulses quickened. She wanted to turn to him, she wanted him to put his arms around her as he held her and comforted her, she longed to nestle her face against his chest while he told her that he believed in her, while he assured her she had done nothing wrong and promised to protect her from all harm.
Clasping her arms tightly about herself, Deirdre drew in a tremulous breath as she once more reminded herself that Clive was betrothed to Phoebe. Since he would one day marry Phoebe, she could never again turn to him or expect comfort from him except as a sister or a sister-to-be. The time to banish her foolish daydreams of herself and Clive had not only arrived but was long past.
She dabbed at her eyes with a rain-dampened handkerchief. “The rig from Harmon Hall will be here soon."
"Yes, we should wait at the top of the steps."
When he handed her the shawl, now almost dry, she draped it over her shoulders. As she waited for him to unlock the door, she glanced at one of the pictures on the wall nearest her, a scene in black and white of a fox pursued by baying hounds and eager hunters. Looking closer, she saw that the larger figures were created by a combination of many tiny inked drawings artfully arranged.
Deirdre gasped. The small drawings, there must have been hundreds of them, depicted naked men, women and even animals engaged in a shocking variety of strange and disgusting acts. Though she looked away at once, her face flushed a vivid red.
Clive, who had unlocked and opened the door, asked, “What is it?” When she failed to answer, he looked past her at the drawing. At first he merely frowned, but then his eyebrows shot up. He glanced at her and then looked quickly away.
Deirdre closed her eyes as the taste of bile rose in her throat. Men were vile, she hated all of them. She despised Edward, who had brought her here. And Clive, who had falsely accused her of being a wanton. Men were selfish, thinking only of satisfying their senses, seeking to gratify themselves with their endless round of reckless gambling, their drinking to all hours and to excess, their bits of muslin. She wanted nothing to do with men, ever again.
Pushing past a startled Clive, she bolted through the open door and, half walking, half running, hurried along the hallway. She heard a splintering crash behind her. Had Clive taken the picture from the wall and smashed it over the back of a chair? Men always seemed to think wrongs could be righted by breaking things.
When she entered the great rotunda of the Pantheon, Deirdre looked between the soaring marble columns and saw that, though the rain had lessened, it still fell steadily in a drizzling mist. There was no sign of the promised rig.
"Deirdre,” Clive called from somewhere behind her. Deirdre looked around her, seeking a place to hide, finally running to the farthest of the pillars, standing with her back to its far side where Clive would not see her. Tired, drained of all emotion, she stared numbly at the shrouded wraiths of the trees and at the river beyond, its far shore invisible in the rain. Curling wisps of mist dampened her face and she shivered.
"Deirdre.” She heard Clive's footfalls on the marble floor, now closer, now farther away.
If only the rig would come. She longed to be alone in her misery, wanted to put as much distance between herself and the Pantheon as she could, wanted to be far away from Clive. Even Clive.
She closed her eyes, remembering being a child and snuggling in bed, warm and safe, as her grandmother read her a bedtime story of a little girl living among elves and fairies in an enchanted forest where good witches brewed magic potions.
"Deirdre.” Startled, her eyes flew open and she saw Clive standing but a few feet away, watching her. She turned her back to him.
"Deirdre,” he said again, pleading with her. Though tempted to answer, she forced herself to ignore him.
Without warning, he grasped her arm and roughly spun her around to face him, grasped her other arm, holding and shaking her. “Deirdre,” he said once more, his voice harsh.
Her breath caught.
"Deirdre,” he said after a moment, his voice suddenly soft and tender.
She looked up at him, at his shadowed face, at his hair glistening from the mist, at his dark eyes. Her hand reached to him without her willing it, her fingers gently touching the scar on his temple. His eyes darkened and narrowed, he leaned closer.
"No,” she whispered, shaking her head as her heart pounded wildly. “No, Clive, no,” she said, not sure what she meant to deny him, the words instinctive.
His grip on her arms relaxed, she felt his hands slide behind her back, enclosing her, gathering her into his embrace, drawing her to him even though her hands were on his chest, pushing him away. Her gaze met his and she gasped when she saw the fire in his brown eyes, the need, the wanting, the passion.
Deirdre gasped and, seemingly of their own volition, her hands left his chest to slide around his body. In an instant she was in his arms. His hand found the nape of her neck, his fingers caressing her, his touch sending shivers coursing up and down her spine. His mouth came to hers and she closed her eyes as his lips brushed hers as lightly as a whisper, lips touching lips and then leaving only to return to touch again and again.
He cried out, his inarticulate cry akin to a surrender, and his arms tightened about her, crushing her body to his so that she felt the long hard length of him, his thighs to her thighs, his chest to her breasts, and he kissed her, a demanding kiss, a kiss seeking, seeking, and then finding a response as she kissed him in return, surrendering herself to him for a long moment, a moment when Clive became her world, a secret closed world of their own, the two of them alone together.
His lips left hers. He stepped back, staring down at her. Deirdre's breath came in short ragged gasps; her heart pounded. She desperately tried to regain her composure but failed.
Clive shook his head. “Pray forgive me, Deirdre. I quite forgot myself."
Forgive him? Anger welled up in her; she reddened. Forgive him? Because he forgot himself? Her thoughts tumbled over one another in a confused jumble. Did Clive believe he had forced himself on her, kissed her against her will? Or did he suspect she had enticed him into kissing her as he had accused her of enticing Edward? Forgive him? If he meant for kissing her, there was no reason to forgive him for that. For his ready apology, though, she would never forgive him. Never.
Had he lost all respect for her? Had finding her with Edward caused him to think she could be trifled with and then mollified with an apology?
"I—I—” Words failed her. She stepped to him, not knowing what she intended to do, found herself beating on his chest with her fists.
Clive backed away, staring at her in blank amazement. “Deirdre, what is it? What have I done?"
Her hands dropped to her sides. How she wished she were elsewhere, miles from Clive. “Nothing,” sh
e told him. “Nothing at all."
Hearing the thudding of hooves, she glanced toward the driveway and to her relief saw the black outline of the promised rig appear out of the rain and fog.
The driver, a thin black-haired youth, looped the reins and sprang to the ground. Opening the door to the carriage, he bowed and stood waiting until Deirdre walked down the steps of the Pantheon. Clive hastened after her. When he attempted to take her arm to help her into the carriage, she abruptly drew away from him and climbed the steps unaided. Once they were both inside, she sat as far from him as she possibly could.
She had only been trying to help Clive, Deirdre reminded herself. With what disastrous results! Edward had betrayed her, Clive had castigated her, accusing her of being a harlot and then, adding insult to injury, had taken advantage of her affection for him.
Deirdre nodded her head emphatically. Gentlemen—such a misnomer!—of the ton, including Clive Chadbourne, could not be trusted. She should have realized before this that London was not the place for her. While she had come to accept and even like her stepmother, her only real friend in the city was Alcida. She would miss her younger stepsister, but her mind was made up, she would leave London as soon as possible and go home to East Sussex and the one person in the world who truly loved her, the only person she could really trust, her grandmother.
CHAPTER 12
"How very mysterious it seemed to all of us,” Alcida said to Deirdre. “You and Edward went boating on the Thames, but later you returned to Harmon Hall not with Edward but escorted by Clive while Edward left the Hall, completely disappeared from view and, to the best of my knowledge, has not been seen again either in town or in the country. I do hope no harm has befallen him."
Since the day was uncommonly mild for early November, the two sisters were taking the air in the park across from the Darrington house.