And that was the answer, wasn’t it? Papa would choose. Claire would obey. Being queen was not her goal, but it was Papa’s now. Her job was to prevent herself from jeopardizing that goal.
Content now, though not truly happy, she cleaned herself and dressed, going downstairs for a mid-day meal. Papa crossed her path on the way to dine.
“Ah, Claire!” he said, smiling. “You look lovely today.” He surveyed her, studying her face. “So relaxed.”
She smiled back. He turned to walk into his office, ready to answer correspondence and manage whatever it is a wealthy earl managed these days. She wondered why he seemed so occupied with business since the silver fortune, but she did not pry.
A few bites of duck and some lovely bread filled her, everything tasting just right but her mouth unable to enjoy it, as if the food were just flavored tree bark. She left the rest of her meal and soon Claire found herself outside, wandering the gardens, her feet taking her to the waterfall. Privacy would not be guaranteed, she knew; she sought out the alcove not for any sensual purpose, but rather as a refuge.
To her chagrin and elation (ah, how could she feel both at once?), there sat Evan, skipping stones so gracefully, as if the flat pieces of slate were an extension of his body, willed to skim the water’s surface like aqua bugs, his touch so light and perfect the rocks had no choice but to comply.
Like her pulse beneath his caress.
She cleared her throat and he jumped up, turned toward her, and closed the distance between them with a welcoming smile and open arms.
“We are not supposed to meet until tomorrow!” he exclaimed, clearly pleased to see her again. Like coming home, she ran to him, her body eager for his touch, her lips soon pressed against his, their mutual warmth coursing through one another, passion soon burning all traces of doubt.
“Evan,” she said simply, having no other words as he leaned in, bowing down and bending his knees a bit to reach her, slipping one hand about her waist, the other on her cheek and his lips, oh, his lips settled on hers, so impossibly soft, so tender, so searching. She gave in to the kiss, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and waist, the tender press of his mouth yielding a more passionate insistence until she broke away with a groan.
His hands knew what they wanted; her heart knew what she wanted to give. He exhaled, warm breath tickling her ear, his mouth kissing her neck, and they folded into each other, desperate to be on the ground, his body on hers, legs and hips and chests meeting and moving together, finding a rhythm for an act they had not yet agreed to commence.
His hand flirted with the buttons on the back of her dress and with a precision she dared not ask about, he unclasped the first six in less than a minute, all while slaking his thirst for her, mouth exploring hers, tongue like a cartographer’s, making a map line by line, stroke by stroke, memorizing the topography of her lips, her tongue, her teeth.
Enough of her dress was undone such that he pulled the sleeves off and down, exposing rosy nipples that made him groan, the shock of his tongue there enough to add Claire’s moan to the mix. The waterfall provided a thunderous backdrop for all they explored, the rumble a soothing legato that allowed her to focus on the melody of temptation and tantalizing flesh.
He kissed her breasts and moved below, mouth on the soft underbelly of each mound of flesh, kissing and nipping in such a manner that soon she found herself drenched between her legs, the feeling of potential so round and rich she nearly begged him for release. Then his mouth traveled lower as he rolled her skirts up, lips kissing her thighs, and she pulled back.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, unaware of his intentions. His mouth was headed for places she knew were not decent, knew no mouth need touch.
He grinned, eyes full of mischief and lust. “In Paris I learned some...ways that are all too pleasing to women,” he said. “Let my mouth be your waterfall, Claire.” And with that he resumed his kisses, traveling to the rosebud she felt blooming in her womanhood, and as his tongue flitted there – no, there – and there – she shot into an instant frenzy that subsided only minutes later as she found herself hissing his name, fingers clenching fists of his hair, body writhing in sweet agony and climax.
Then, with a practiced hand, he unleashed himself, pulled up her skirts, and straddled her, his eyes raking over her body, his throat making a low sound of love. “Claire, I do so love you,” he said, kissing her, giving her a taste of herself.
She knew what he wanted and wanted it, too, her body still shaking from whatever magic he had just performed with that voluptuous mouth. And yet...
“I cannot, Evan! Oh, how I wish I could! I cannot become with child.”
He looked like he expected the answer and said, “Maybe I should give you a baby, Claire. Imagine. Your father would have no choice. He would have to let us marry.”
She stopped short, horrified. “You wish to make me pregnant on purpose to trap Papa?”
“I wish to make you my wife. If your father is an obstacle and the only way to overcome that obstacle is to give you a baby, then so be it. We love each other. I am a respectable man from a family that was perfectly fine two years ago. We might have a whiff of scandal but a quick marriage will put end to all rumors. What say you?”
He had propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand now teasing her exposed nipple, and the moment was so real, so unpretentious and so divinely comfortable, as if she were meant to lay exposed on the moss by a quiet waterfall and make love to this man, a man her father forbade her from marrying.
Having a baby was inevitable; she would be pregnant within a short time of marriage, she suspected, like Sara. Most women seemed heavy with child by the middle of their second year of marriage, though her sister Celia was an aberration; three years, nearly four now, without an heir. Celia’s issue (or lack thereof) was neither here nor there; she banished the thought. Being pregnant would happen with or without Evan. And with Evan was quite appealing as he made the case for violating all she had been taught and giving her honor to him before marriage.
Evan was right. If she were made pregnant, she would tell Mama, who would tell Papa, who would demand to know the father. She would swear it was not forced and then Papa would have no choice; to avoid scandal, he would have to let them marry.
She threw her arms about Evan’s neck and kissed his temple. “Brilliant!” she cried out. “I, I feel that it is wicked and wrong and shameful and I should never do such a thing to my father, but...” Her voice trailed off. Papa wanted too much. She shuddered at the thought of Celia’s marriage. Of Sara being forced to southern Europe. Of her maid Mary’s desperate fleeing of a husband who had total control over her. Why could she not choose her own fate? Evan was offering her the one chance to do so. To make the choice. To act, instead of being acted upon.
“But it is the right thing to do, isn’t it?” he finished for her. His dark hair framed those bright, blue eyes that held an intensity she wanted to see every morning for the rest of her life.
“Yes,” she whispered, reaching up to kiss him. “Being married off to the prince of a country that is younger than the very dress you just unbuttoned seems ridiculous,” she whispered.
Rich laughter greeted her, the sound rising from Evan and then slowly winding down to a groan as Claire gave her maidenhead willingly to the man she had assumed, all these years, would take it, beneath the sounds and spray of the waterfall that had truly brought them together. With a leisure that belied the very public nature of their situation, Evan found his way to his own pants, releasing himself and exposing what seemed so...large. Foreign. Yet Claire wanted him in her, wanted desperately to experience the very essence of Evan, to be as attached as possible, to feel him in her bones and in her soul.
He opened her legs, caressing her thighs until she ached for him, his hips aligning with hers, his hands roaming over her flesh, the feel of him over her like a protective cover of love. “Oh, Claire,” he murmured, her heat rising, her hips reaching for him as he slippe
d inside her, the pain not too much, but the sensation of being full, of completion, so great that tears filled her eyes.
Favoring his injured leg ever so slightly, he moved within her, slowly, his mouth exploring hers as if he could love her physically, the press of flesh on flesh a tangible expression of emotions that had no words. Soon, a spark inside her grew into something more, a keen building like when she was under the waterfall, but this was shared with his body, her hands feeling the wide expanse of his back, sliding under his open shirt to touch as much of his hot skin, a slight sheen of sweat making her hunger for him more.
“Ah, Evan, I’m yours,” she murmured, his breath hitching, his kiss bold and aggressive now, her mouth not a place to be journeyed but a land for him to conquer. She raised up one leg, improving the angle so swiftly she gasped, her hand grazing a long section of skin on his thigh that was hairless, her palm flattening against his great, twisted scar, her heart wishing to heal it fully.
He inhaled, breath jagged and exerted, and soon he hissed, “My dear, I am – ” and he tensed, his hands wound in her hair, his thrusts short and deep, and her own air flew from her body in a great, clenched explosion that matched his, as if they had scratched out a new word for what they felt with their bodies.
He collapsed onto her, then rolled slightly, still in her and still breathing hard, now kissing her neck, her shoulder, little touches that seemed to milk more of the feeling of floating, of timelessness, of complete abandon with the man she was meant to spend eternity with – or, at least, this lifetime. They had cemented that, she hoped – but as she came back to her thoughts, her mind filling with reality, she turned to him, his grin reflected in hers.
“What if that did not work?” she asked, a teasing smile twitching her lips. Her fingers danced over his war injury now, curious. Brow furrowed, he studied her as she charted the terrain.
“Then we must persevere. A warrior never backs down from a fight, Claire,” he answered. His face grew serious, one hand cupping her face, the other propping him up, shifting enough to make her comfortable yet still blanketing her body with his. “And you are the only thing worth fighting for, for me, Claire. I promise we will be together.” He kissed one exposed nipple. “No matter how many times it takes.”
Her laughter was louder than the waterfall’s rush.
“What?” her father shouted, the sound reverberating down the hall and bringing with it the scurry of curious servants. Claire waited outside Papa’s closed library door, knowing Mama had just gone in to tell him the news.
It was Mama who had confronted her yesterday; the servants informed her mother that Claire had now missed two monthlies (which meant the laundry girls had gossiped), and the only answer Claire could give to Mama’s terse question was a bowing of her head.
She had told her it was Evan, and Mama had smiled an odd grin, almost a suppressed smirk, but simply said, “I see.”
And now Mama took the brunt of Papa’s fury, though Claire knew he held plenty more in reserve to deliver to her. She glared at the kitchen maid and coachman who pitched their ears toward the door; they ran off when they saw her standing there, hands clasped in front of her belly, which roiled with nausea day and night, a new state that had just begun. Evan had warned her that it could take months to become with child, but within three months of their little bargain they had succeeded.
Sadly, Papa had been swift in his work to match her to a prince and had all but finalized her betrothal to not Ludwig but a Kievan Rus, a man older than Papa who eagerly searched for a woman who could bear him a son. Though her belly did not yet swell, she touched it and smiled. Oh, I carry a child, she thought. But not yours.
Hushed tones from Mama followed by groans and grunts from Papa were all she could hear. This went on for more than an hour, and she was nearly faint from hunger and nausea when Papa flung wide the library door just as footsteps rang down the hall.
Evan owned the footsteps, slowing to a halt just as Papa opened the door and pointed at Claire. He smiled at her, then the grin faded entirely as he caught Lord Landsdown’s eye. “You!” the Earl bellowed. “Get in here!”
Claire felt her knees give, but she held firm. How this day unraveled was yet to be known, but she had a sense of the inevitable. There was no question that Papa would let them marry; his only other choices were far worse. Rush her through a wedding to some unknown prince and hope she could pass off an impossibly-early baby, or make her cover the pregnancy and give the babe away. Both options chilled her, but she knew that hiding the pregnancy was now impossible given the servants’ knowledge.
And no prince, no matter how ill-bred and primitive from a land of nothing but bleakness and peasants, would accept another man’s baby as his heir.
Evan stood tall, his hair carefully coiffed, smart blue coat and high collar clean and perfect. She knew he planned to follow in his father’s footsteps; being a solicitor’s wife would do. His days in battle against Napoleon were now over; he’d served his duty as an officer and was ready to settle into country life with her.
And, now, their baby. She admired how well his plan had worked. No confrontation with Father until now. No coachman and stable hand sent to kidnap her and run off to Scotland. No ugly fights or nasty, brutish encounters, setting the wagging lips of gossips aflame.
No, Evan’s style was smarter, that of a chess master playing ten moves ahead of his opponent. And now, Father saw the trap that put him in check.
And he knew it.
Mama stood behind Papa, who was now seated at his desk. His mussed hair and wild eyes showed her how unhappy he was with the situation, but he was not a foolish man. He knew what needed to happen.
“Proud of yourself, Michaelson?” he goaded. “And you!” He turned to Claire, his eyes so angry she wanted to catch on fire and burn to a tiny pile of ashes right there. “I expected better of you, little Claire.”
She burst not into flames but into tears. “Papa!” she sniffed. Evan moved to comfort her; no one stopped him, though Landsdown’s fists curled into balls.
“It’s almost too perfect,” he continued. “Claire came to me a few months ago to discuss her feelings for you, Michaelson,” he announced, making Evan pull back, staring to and fro between father and daughter. “And now here we are, with my daughter in a delicate way, forcing me to do that which you both wanted all along.”
“I assure you – ” Evan interrupted.
“Do not. Assure me of nothing. I do not want to hear another word!” Papa shouted. Mama put one careful, soothing hand on his shoulder and he eased back, like a lion pulling away from an attack.
“I am so sorry,” Claire sobbed, unable to stop. Her stomach heaved and she retched. That seemed to still Papa, for everyone went silent, as if they held their breath, Evan patting between her shoulder blades, just under her neck, a gentle, relaxing touch.
“In time, Christian, in time this will be fine,” her mother said, her voice so faint Claire could barely hear her.
He nodded, then looked at Evan. “You go tonight. You find a way – I’ll not help you! Steal her off to Scotland. Pretend I know nothing about it. You and Claire will elope and we will act as shocked as two parents in our position should be.” He shook his head. “Are.”
Mama’s surprised look told Claire she had no knowledge of the plot, and Evan seemed nearly offended by the strange demand. “Your Grace, you wish me to engineer an elopement? With your consent?” Confusion tinged Evan’s voice.
“Yes!” Papa said, exasperation permeating his entire being. “This is for the best. It gives you and Claire the ability to be married, it makes it look like I have been thwarted by your love for each other, and it takes the embarrassment of an early baby out of my hands. Off with you!”
He stood and walked around the desk, placing his hands on Claire’s shoulders. She could barely think. Elope? With Papa’s permission? “But isn’t the point of elopement to do so without the father’s permission? To defy the law?”
; He smiled, a bittersweet look that made her eyes fill with tears again. “Is that not what you and Evan have done? Just with,” he waved at her belly, “this, and not with an elopement. Now you can defy me twice – but the ton will only know of the elopement. If I’m to be made a fool of, I would prefer it be this way.”
A slow, sly grin stretched Evan’s face into a look of schoolboy mischief, blue eyes twinkling like an imp’s. “As you wish, Your Grace.” He bowed to Claire, her mother, and her father. “With your permission – no, on your orders – I will elope with Claire.”
“Then be off!” Papa dispensed a quick kiss to Claire, then a cold, curt nod to Evan, and walked out of the library, muttering to himself. Mama followed him, turning back to flash a true smile to Claire.
“A fake elopement to hide a real baby,” Evan laughed, pulling her into his arms.
“A real baby and a very real marriage to celebrate my only true love,” she replied, his lips taking hers before the last word poured from her.
He pulled back, a deep reservoir of love reflected back at her, his eyes safe and excited. “We have engineered it, have we not?”
“You were right,” she sighed, shaking her head as they dashed for his carriage. “I had to lose all control in order to gain it.”
The End
Meet the South American Triplets
In 1783, in the wake of His Majesty’s loss in the New World, sisters Katherine and Felicia Bonham diverged in more ways than one when choosing husbands. While the ton was rocked by Lady Katherine Bonham’s decision to marry young Spanish army officer Manuel de Vargas and move to the savage jungles of New Granada in Spain’s South American colonies, Lady Felicia Bonham worked to secure the attentions of the more staid, dependable Christian Hanscombe, heir to the very established Earldom of Landsdown, and produced four daughters in five years, but never an heir.
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