Rushed to the Altar

by Jane Feather

  Clarissa stared at the jutting penis, pushing out from the black hair that ran in a line from his navel to his thighs. She had never seen a naked man before, and was for a moment startled by the sheer size and power of that pillar of flesh.

  “Touch me.” His voice was husky, impatient almost.

  Clarissa sat up, leaning forward to enclose his penis in her hand. She felt the corded veins pulsing against her palm, felt the life of it as it twitched against her. Instinct at last seemed to have come to the fore. Without prompting she reached between his thighs with her free hand and cupped his balls one at a time, smiling as she heard his murmured intake of breath.

  She bent her head and kissed the top of his penis, then she fell back on the bed, raising her arms to him.

  He came down to her, moving on top of her, nudging her thighs apart with his knee. Resting on his elbows he looked down into her eyes, a searching scrutiny that seemed to be asking myriad questions, then he slipped his hands beneath her backside, lifted her on the shelf of his palms, and entered her.

  Clarissa’s body tensed for a second against the invasion, but she was aroused and ready for him, and insensibly began to move with his rhythm. There came a moment when she felt as if she was reaching a peak, as if something wonderful hung on the horizon. She gazed wide-eyed up into Jasper’s face, and he smiled, slowing his movements for an instant, his own eyes glowing with a distant light. He withdrew to the very edge of her body, holding himself there, watching the wonder grow in her eyes.

  Clarissa put her hand flat against the plane of his concave belly, feeling the responding ripple of muscle beneath the skin. If this was whoredom, she thought, she would never get enough of it.

  He sheathed himself slowly within her, inch by tantalizing inch, until he was buried deep inside and she felt her inner muscles tighten instinctively around him. He withdrew slowly again, holding them both breathless on the brink of the wonder hovering just out of reach, but whose coming she knew was inevitable. Her body could not hold this much sensation without bursting apart. And suddenly he moved, faster, ever deeper, and her hips bucked beneath him and she didn’t know whether she had crested a peak or fallen into a crevasse. Either way, she lost touch with her self.

  Jasper disengaged slowly and rolled sideways onto the coverlet beside her. He lay with one arm flung above his head, the other resting across Clarissa’s belly. He turned his head slightly to look at the curve of her cheek. Her eyes were closed and her thick golden-brown lashes formed half moons against the delicately flushed creaminess of her countenance. Who the hell is Clarissa Ordway? What was she? Not what she wanted the world to think; he now knew that beyond a shadow of doubt.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clarissa awoke just before dawn feeling strangely bereft. She ran a hand over the bed beside her. It was empty, and the bed curtains were pulled back. A single candle burned on the mantel and she rolled onto one elbow, peering out into the room. A shadowy figure was crouched over the hearth, rekindling the ashy embers.

  “Jasper? What are you doing?”

  The scrape of tinder and flint, and a flame shot up from the hearth. Jasper straightened and came over to the bed. “I was lighting the fire for you. It’s cold in here now.”

  She smiled sleepily. “You’re a man of many parts.”

  His eyes were narrowed as they looked at her. “And you, my dear, are a woman of even more.”

  She had the uneasy feeling that it wasn’t meant as a compliment, but he was smiling, and there was nothing in his demeanor to alarm. Except that he was dressed. “Are you leaving?” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

  “I prefer to start the day in my own bed.” He came around the bed and sat on the edge beside her. “It’s a strange preference, perhaps.” He smoothed the fall of her hair back from her face. “Sleep a little more. I foresee disturbed nights in your future.” His teeth gleamed in the flash of a smile. He bent and kissed the corner of her mouth, then the tip of her nose. “Do you have plans for the day?”

  One. She shook her head. “Not really. I may go for a walk, find my way around the neighborhood.”

  “Do you need money? I haven’t had time yet to arrange a regular draft on my bank for the payment of your allowance, but I can leave you enough should something take your fancy in the shops.”

  Clarissa shook her head with more vehemence than she intended. “No. I have no need of your . . . ” She recollected herself hastily, seeing the sudden frown crease his brow. “No, thank you. I have all I need for the present. When will you come back?”

  The frown remained for a moment, then vanished, and his voice was cheerful as he answered her. “To dine with you. Look for me about four o’clock.” He leaned in to kiss her mouth, then stood. “Try to sleep now. My one requirement is that I should find you rested when I return.”

  “If that’s all you require, my lord, the life of a mistress seems rather an easy one,” Clarissa murmured, snuggling back under the covers. His laughter echoed after he’d closed the door behind him.

  She lay there, wide-awake now, savoring her memories of the night. She had been right to trust instinct, it seemed, but she also understood how fortunate she had been that Jasper was a considerate lover. Even in her naïvety she realized how surely Jasper had led her instinct. She understood now how a rough, urgent, possessive lust could have turned a wonderful experience into a wretchedly mortifying and painful one. And amid her delight at the sensual world he had opened for her, gratitude had its place.

  She sat up abruptly. Now was not the time to wallow in glorious sensual memory. She had the whole day to herself and no one to question her absences as long as she was back for four o’clock. Her mind was now free to concentrate on the plan for Francis’s rescue. There couldn’t be any fuss. The longer it took for Luke to discover the child’s absence, the safer they would be. For that to happen Bertha had to believe that the child was removed from her so-called care on Luke’s instructions.

  Money was the one sure and certain route to Bertha’s heart. Clarissa pushed aside the bedcovers and got up. Her purse was buried at the bottom of her portmanteau. She took it out and laid out her funds. Bertha was paid sixpence a week and she’d implied that she’d been paid in advance for Francis’s keep. How far in advance? She fingered a golden guinea. Sixpence a week for a year. Twenty-six shillings. Luke would not have paid Bertha a year in advance—he didn’t expect Francis to live that long—so surely a guinea, twenty-one shillings, would be more than enough to win the boy’s freedom. But in the final analysis it didn’t matter how much it cost; money was irrelevant as long as she had enough.

  Once she had Francis safe, she could worry about finding a convincing reason for his presence in the house. She put the money back into her purse and returned it to its hiding place in the portmanteau. Now that she knew exactly where she was going, she had no need to waste time traveling on the river. She would walk to Piccadilly and find a hackney. Jarveys understood money and she had sufficient to pay over the odds for this journey. She would get the man to wait while she fetched Francis, and then he could drop them off again somewhere along Piccadilly. They would take a circuitous route walking back to Half Moon Street and no one would be any the wiser.

  Clarissa yawned, suddenly overcome by a wash of sleepiness. She could do nothing in the dark, and she needed to be sufficiently refreshed to have her wits about her. She snuffed the candle and returned to bed.

  She awoke to the sound of church bells. Of course, it was Sunday. Daylight showed between the curtains at the windows and she was about to get out of bed to draw them back when a brief knock at the door brought Sally into the room. “Good morning, Mistress Ordway. I’ve brought your hot chocolate. I wasn’t sure if you’ll be going to church this morning.” She set her tray down and hurried to open the curtains. “It’s a cold one, but sunny for a change.” She turned to the fire, which, although burning low, was still alight. “Oh, it’s kept in all night.”

  “His
lordship relit it before he left a couple of hours ago.” Clarissa sat up against her pillows, stifling a yawn behind her hand. “What’s the time, Sally?”

  “Seven thirty. Service is at nine, in St. Barnabas.” Sally poured her hot chocolate. “It’s quite popular with the gentry and his lordship sometimes attends service there, if he stays the night.” She handed Clarissa the cup.

  “Oh, I understood he doesn’t usually spend all night.” Clarissa couldn’t disguise her surprise as she took the cup.

  “Oh, he does sometimes,” Sally returned cheerfully. “Often of a Saturday.”

  “I see. I must have misunderstood.” Clarissa sipped her hot chocolate, hiding her unease under a vague smile. Had she done something wrong? What could she have done wrong? Was she not adventurous enough for him . . . not daring enough? She didn’t know any whore’s tricks. Had he expected them and been disappointed? But he hadn’t seemed disappointed. Quite the reverse. But he had left her in the dark hour before dawn.

  Sally cast her a quick glance as she moved around the room straightening cushions, adding coal to the fire. “Will you have breakfast in the dining parlor, ma’am, or here by the fire?”

  “Here by the fire.” Clarissa set down her cup and got out of bed. “I’ll attend service with some friends today, but I expect you and Mistress Newby will wish to go to St. Barnabas. I probably won’t be back until early afternoon. His lordship is coming to dine at four o’clock.”

  “Very well, ma’am. I’ll bring up hot water. Should I bring the curling iron?”

  An hour later Clarissa let herself out of the house and walked with brisk purpose to Piccadilly. She was dressed in the new gown; freshly curled ringlets framed her face beneath the straw hat. She wore the green kid boots and gloves, and was satisfied that she looked as unlike the dejected, downtrodden pregnant maid as possible. Her posture and manner, not to mention the contents of her purse, would do the rest. She looked exactly what she was, a woman of substantial enough position in the world to have the authority and the means to remove a child from a baby farmer.

  Of course, once she had been described to Luke he would know exactly who had Francis, but by that time it wouldn’t matter. He’d never find them.

  She hailed the first hackney she saw and gave him the address with calm assurance. “I will need you to wait for a few minutes while I collect someone, and then you may bring us back.” She opened the door. “Have no fear, jarvey. You’ll be well paid.”

  He looked at her askance. “You sure you want to go there, ma’am? Particularly all alone. ’Tis a bad part of town.”

  “Positive,” she said firmly, climbing into the carriage and closing the door. Once she was inside he could hardly refuse to take her where she wanted to go.

  He shrugged, cracked his whip, and the vehicle rumbled off. Clarissa sat forward, too anxious to lean back and relax as the hackney barreled its way through the streets of fashionable London and then into the increasingly meaner streets of the East End. She watched the passing scene through the window, the river appearing and disappearing as the streets twisted and turned. She recognized London Bridge and the Tower, and knew that they were getting close.

  Her heart began to beat faster and her hands were clammy in her gloves, despite the cold. She took off the gloves, flipping them against her knee. The hackney clattered along the river and the jarvey called back, “ ’Ere’s Wapping Stairs, miss. Where to from ’ere?”

  She leaned out of the window aperture. “Up Scandrett Street and turn right along the green. You’ll come to Dundee Street on the right.”

  A few minutes later the carriage came to a stop. “Well, ’ere y’are. You sure this is what you wants?” The driver sounded incredulous.

  Clarissa stepped down from the vehicle, drawing on her gloves, her shoulders squared and her head high. “Yes, this is right. Wait here for me, I won’t be many minutes. As I said before, you’ll be well paid.”

  “That’s as may be,” he said, looking doubtfully around. “You just holler if ’n you needs me, miss. This is no place for the likes of you.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” She gave him a grateful smile. It was comforting to think of his brawny presence waiting at her back. “But everything will be all right, I’m certain.”

  “Aye, let’s ’ope so.” He still sounded doubtful.

  She turned resolutely to the door and banged loudly. After a few minutes the door opened a crack and the same child as before peered at her. Clarissa regarded her unsmiling. “Is your mother in, child?”

  “Who wants ’er?”

  “That’s no concern of yours.” Clarissa kept her voice cold and haughty, looking down on the girl with what she hoped was an intimidating glare. There must be absolutely no resemblance to her previous incarnation. “Fetch your mother, if you please.”

  The child seemed to hesitate. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, then abruptly scuttled away, leaving the door ajar. Clarissa pushed it open and entered the narrow passage. The same snufflings, whimperings, little cries came from above, and it was cold as ice in the hallway.

  Bertha appeared in the passage. She looked at her visitor with a degree of hostility. “What d’you want with me, then?”

  Clarissa allowed a chilly smile to touch her mouth. “Are you the woman who is looking after a boy by the name of Francis? He was placed in your charge by his uncle some weeks ago.”

  “What’s it to you if I am?”

  “I am come to take him away. His guardian sent me to fetch him.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about no guardian.” Bertha pointed to the door. “We don’t want the likes of you around ’ere. You get goin’ now.”

  Clarissa stood her ground. “I think, Mistress Bertha—I have that right, I think . . . Bertha? You would do well to hear me out. Shall we go into the kitchen? Is it this way?” She gestured into the dark regions at the rear of the hallway.

  Bertha’s air of confident hostility wavered a little. She turned and shuffled towards the kitchen. Clarissa followed her, her heart hammering. She had felt safer in the hallway with the open door behind her, and the jarvey behind that, but she had no choice except to go further into the den.

  The kitchen was much as she remembered it, the gin-sodden man still sitting in his rickety chair by the fire. He looked up and blinked blearily. “Who’s this then? Some fine lady come a-visitin’? That’s a turn-up.” His laugh was a cracked rasp and he had instant resort to the brown bottle, then fell back into his chair, his breathing ragged.

  Clarissa stood in the doorway, keeping the comforting sense of freedom behind her. “The boy’s guardian has sent me to fetch him home. I am authorized to pay you one guinea in recompense for lost income.”

  She reached into the deep pocket of her cloak and drew out the golden guinea, holding it so that it winked in the light of the tallow candle on the table. “Should you find it difficult to produce the child, then of course I shall have no choice but to fetch the beadle. He will remove the child on his guardian’s authority and you will receive not a penny’s recompense. In fact, I would imagine you would find yourself serving time in Bridewell, if there’s any evidence that the children in your care are suffering neglect despite the money paid for their keep.”

  She had no idea whether that was true, indeed she strongly suspected that the authorities wouldn’t care twopence for the fate of these abandoned children, but it sounded threatening enough, and she was fairly certain Bertha would do anything to avoid any contact with the law.

  She waited, the coin still winking its largesse in her hand, her eyes cold and steady on Bertha’s face, praying that the woman couldn’t sense her fear, her desperation. They said animals could smell fear; perhaps this dreadful creature had the same ability. And Clarissa was very afraid.

  “Oh, give ’er the sprat, Bertha.” The man in the chair roused himself as the reality of the guinea broke through his stupor. “ ’Tis not worth the trouble, an’ you’ll never see the likes of that guinea by keepin
’ ’im. ’Ow long d’you think ’e’s going to last?”

  Bertha stretched out her hand. “Give it ’ere, then.”

  Clarissa shook her head. “Bring the child to me first. I need to see that he’s alive and well.”

  Bertha glared, and the man in the chair pushed back his chair. “If you won’t fetch ’im, I will . . . an’ I’ll ’ave that guinea fer it too.”

  “Over my dead body.” Bertha pushed past Clarissa and headed for the stairs. Clarissa followed her, praying that nothing would go wrong, that Bertha wouldn’t try some trick.

  She stood at the bottom of the stairs as Bertha tramped up them. Her voice drifted down. “Eh, you, boy. Come ’ere. Yes, you. I’m talkin’ to you . . . Francis, or whatever yer fancy name is. You gone deaf or summat?”

  Clarissa forced herself to stay where she was, although every muscle strained to race up the stairs and kick Bertha down them, one step at a time. She held herself very still, and finally Bertha reappeared, pulling Francis by the arm. She pushed him in front of her. “There . . . someone’s come fer you. Get down them stairs.”

  Francis’s scared eyes gazed down at his sister and at first he didn’t seem to know her. Wordlessly she held out her arms to him and with a squeal that made her heart turn over, he hurtled down the stairs and jumped into her arms. He was so light, so frail beneath the ragged shirt and britches, she wanted to kill someone. Luke first, very slowly. And then the large woman descending on her with her powerful forearms and her face red with gin blossoms.

  Clarissa tossed the guinea to the bottom step and turned and ran from the house, Francis held tight in her arms. What if the hackney had gone? But of course it hadn’t. The man wanted his fare. He was sitting on his box, smoking a corncob pipe, as if he had not a care in the world.

  “Get in.” Clarissa thrust her brother up into the dark interior of the carriage, still terrified something would go wrong . . . Bertha would explode from the door yelling for a hue and cry . . . the streets would fill with angry faces, all intent on stopping her.