“Perhaps your husband is different.”
“I doubt it, or there wouldn’t be so many wives taking lovers in our circles. They must get some pleasure out of the swiving. The first time is a bit difficult, but after that, it’s wonderful. What did your mother tell you to expect, anyway?”
Clarissa could hardly admit the truth—that her first time had been agony. That she wasn’t convinced it would be any better the second time. Or the third or the fourth. What if she wasn’t . . . made right somehow? “It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.
“It does matter.” Yvette rose to put her arm around Clarissa. “Marriage requires trust. You either trust your husband to be careful with you, or you don’t. I realize it’s probably hard to trust a man you were forced into—” She caught herself. “Coaxed into marrying for reasons outside of love. But you trusted him enough to agree to his plan. You trusted him to keep you safe from Durand. Can’t you trust him in this?”
Clarissa truly didn’t know.
Yvette frowned. “Then again, I’m assuming that you desire him, too. Perhaps you don’t.”
“That is not the problem, believe me,” Clarissa said dryly. “Your brother has more of Samuel’s talent for enticing a woman than I ever would have guessed.”
“Does he, indeed?” Yvette said with a sly look. “How surprising.”
Clarissa blushed. “Honestly, I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with his sister, of all people.”
“Not just his sister. Your friend. I will always be your friend first, you know.” Yvette squeezed her shoulder. “We women have to stick together, after all.”
Impulsively, Clarissa embraced her. “I’m so happy you came to visit,” she whispered. “You always did have the ability to cheer me up. And I’m very glad we’ll be sisters now.”
“Me, too.”
They hugged fiercely, both of them teary-eyed.
Then Yvette held her at arm’s length. “Answer me one question.”
“What is it?” Clarissa asked, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Do you want my brother? Do you really want to be Lady Blakeborough in more than name only? To bear his children, be his companion, and have him be yours? Do you hope for the possibility of love down the road, once the two of you know each other better? Do you want a real future with Edwin?”
“Yes.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she realized it was true. She had always wanted a life like that—the life she’d been bred for. But she’d assumed she couldn’t have it.
Then Edwin had come along and made her rethink her assumptions, and now she was worried he would give up on her before she could beat down the terror deep inside her.
“In that case,” Yvette went on stoutly, “you must fight for him. The Clarissa I know wouldn’t let fear of pain govern her actions. The Clarissa I know wouldn’t sit back and wait for things to change, but would go after what she wants, ignoring the opinions of propriety and society alike. The Clarissa I know would take the bull by the horns.”
Clarissa straightened her spine. “She would, wouldn’t she?”
“Bloody right she would,” Yvette said with a shocking use of bad language. “So Jeremy and I will take ourselves back to London and leave you to it.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful.” Clarissa added hastily, “Not that I don’t love having you here and everything, but—”
“I understand completely. And if there’s anything else I can do to help, like loan you jewelry or a bottle of scent or clothes—”
Clarissa’s eyes brightened as something occurred to her. “Actually, you could help me find something to wear. But it’s not going to be what you think.”
“Oh?”
“Edwin and I made a sort of challenge with each other this afternoon that I lost, so now . . . well . . . Did your mother happen to keep any of your brothers’ clothes from when they were younger?”
Yvette broke into a grin, probably remembering how Edwin had reacted the last time Clarissa had worn male attire. “I don’t know. But it shouldn’t take us long to find out.”
Nineteen
The ladies had been upstairs an inordinate amount of time. Edwin glanced at the clock in his study, where he and Jeremy were still sitting with their brandy and cigars. It had been over two hours, for God’s sake. What were they doing up there?
He was about to comment on it when Yvette came hurrying in.
“Where’s my wife?” Edwin asked, looking beyond her for the minx who drove him insane even when she wasn’t nearby.
Yvette smiled. “She’ll be down shortly. But Jeremy and I are leaving for London.”
“What?” Jeremy said. “But we just got here!”
“Yes, and we interrupted their honeymoon. So now we’re leaving again.”
Edwin didn’t know what to make of that. Had Clarissa said anything to his sister? Or was Yvette, as usual, simply better at reading people and situations than he was?
Jeremy scowled. “Just like that? Without any dinner? We haven’t even had lunch yet!”
“It’s fine if you wish to stay a bit longer,” Edwin put in, taking pity on his brother-in-law. “We keep country hours, so you’d still have plenty of time to dine and return to the city before it got too late. I think Clarissa already told Cook to expect two more.”
Yvette began putting on her gloves. “And I told Cook we wouldn’t be here. So it’s settled.”
“But . . . but . . .” Jeremy sputtered.
“Cook has already made up a cold collation for us,” she went on matter-of-factly, “including some of her special apple tarts.”
That brought a change to Jeremy’s face. “Freshly baked apple tarts, eh?” He rose. “You should have mentioned that in the beginning.”
“Our cook does make exceptionally fine apple tarts,” Edwin said as he, too, rose, his head spinning at the sudden change in plans.
Jeremy winked at him. “Sorry to leave you in the lurch. But I daresay you won’t mind being sentenced to more time alone with your lovely wife.”
“No,” Edwin said. Though he honestly didn’t know what to do with her. Especially now.
“Go on, darling,” Yvette said to Jeremy. “I’ll be along in a moment. I just need a few words with my brother.”
That didn’t sound good. Edwin braced himself for anything as she came around the desk. When she merely gave him a kiss on the cheek, he let out a relieved breath. “I’m glad you’re back in England,” he admitted.
“So am I. I missed you. And Clarissa.” She seized his hand. “Be careful with her.”
“Of course,” he said tersely. “Why would I be anything else?”
“Because you can be a bull in a china shop sometimes, and despite all her boldness, Clarissa is the finest Wedgwood. So treat her with kid gloves, will you?”
He bristled. “How I handle my wife is none of your concern.” When her eyes narrowed, he regretted speaking so sharply, but blast it, the idea of her and Clarissa talking over his . . . inadequacies made his blood boil. “What nonsense did she tell you about me, anyway?”
Her gaze grew shuttered. “Nothing of any consequence.”
“I am not some monster, you know,” he grumbled.
“Of course you aren’t,” she said soothingly. “And she certainly doesn’t think you are.” Her gaze grew steely. “All the same, if you ruin things with her by being your typical blunt self, I shall never forgive you.”
As usual, Yvette thought everything was his fault. “Didn’t you say something about returning to London?”
Perversely, that made his meddling sister laugh. “I’m going, I’m going.” She headed for the door. “I understand that Lady Margrave is throwing a grand fete to celebrate your wedding, and Jeremy and I are invited. So I’ll see you there in a week.”
The thought of how extravagan
t an affair Clarissa’s mother was probably planning made him shudder. “I can’t wait,” he said sarcastically.
Yvette paused in the doorway, her eyes gleaming at him. “And here Clarissa was trying to tell me that you could be fun. I should have known better than to believe her.”
By the time her words registered fully, his sister had already waltzed out into the hall.
“Wait!” he called out as he hurried after her. “Clarissa really said I was fun?”
Having reached the entrance door, Yvette paused to blow him a kiss. “See you next week!” Then she was gone.
By the time he got outside, the carriage was already pulling away, with her waving at him out the window.
After watching the equipage disappear onto the road, he walked slowly back into the house. Damn. What else had Clarissa told his sister? Had she spoken of their intimate relations . . . or lack thereof? Had she revealed what he’d blurted out about Mother?
God. There was no telling. Those two were as thick as thieves.
As he stood in the foyer, he glanced at the clock. A couple of hours until dinner. He had half a mind to tell a servant he was unwell, and retreat to his bedchamber to drink himself into oblivion for the rest of the day.
But he was no coward. Surely he could endure an evening of polite chitchat with his wife. He would simply put from his mind the memory of how soft she’d been earlier, how sweetly scented, how silky the skin along her thighs . . .
Damn it to hell. Now he wished Keane and Yvette had chosen to stay.
He returned to his study to deal with some correspondence. Perhaps that would take his mind off her until she came down to join him for a drink before dinner, as they’d begun the habit of doing.
Or would she play the coward and not come to dinner at all? He wasn’t sure which he wanted.
Some time later, he was immersed in writing a letter to the board of the Preston Charity School when a voice sounded from the doorway.
“They’ve gone, I take it?”
Clarissa was here. “Yes, they’ve gone.” He forced a polite smile to his face as he rose. “They were—”
He forgot whatever he was saying, just stood there slack-jawed. Because standing in the doorway was his wife in a pair of his old evening breeches from when he was a lad of twelve.
Over them, she wore his old white shirt without a cravat, unbuttoned almost to the vee in the placket; his old embroidered waistcoat, unbuttoned; and his old tailcoat. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in his life.
God save his soul.
“Don’t stand there with your mouth open, Edwin.” She smiled hesitantly as she entered. “You’ll attract flies.”
He couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop imagining what lay behind the fall of those breeches. “What are you doing?” he barked.
“Paying my debt. You did win our challenge this afternoon. Or have you forgotten?”
“I . . . I . . . Yes.” He swallowed hard. “I did.”
Oh, God, what had he been thinking? He must have been out of his mind. Now he had an evening of torture ahead of him.
After their disastrous picnic, he hadn’t expected her to “pay her debt,” especially with things so uncertain between them.
He scowled. Unless she had done it on purpose, to arouse him. Which didn’t make sense. He’d been very clear about why men liked women in breeches, and she’d been very clear about not wanting him to bed her.
As if she followed the train of his thoughts, her expression turned self-conscious. “I . . . um . . . would have buttoned the waistcoat, but it simply wouldn’t close over my . . . er . . .”
“Fine attributes?” he said dryly.
She blushed. “Exactly. I could barely get the breeches on, either. You grew into such a tall, broad-chested fellow that this was all I could find that I wouldn’t be swimming in, unfortunately.”
“Yes, very unfortunately, indeed,” he mumbled. Every inch of her attire was tight enough to show . . . several of her “fine attributes.” “No cravat, I see.”
“I gave up on figuring out how to tie one.” A coy smile touched her lips. “Besides, I figured you would like the ensemble better without one.”
“Can’t imagine why you would think that,” he said hoarsely as he fixed his gaze on her shirt. She didn’t appear to have a corset on underneath. Or perhaps he merely imagined that he could see her nipples. “Where on earth did you find the clothes?”
“In an old trunk.”
She strolled over to the wine decanter near the window, giving him a full view of her luscious backside. Those breeches were so tight, he could bounce a shilling off them. Had she even been able to get them on over her drawers? Or was she actually naked underneath?
Glancing back at him, she asked, “Shall we have our usual glass of Madeira?”
“Yes.” With a side of carnal relations, if you don’t mind. Damn. How would he ever make it through tonight?
She poured two glasses. “You don’t mind that Yvette and Jeremy left so soon, do you?”
“No.” He watched as she came toward him. “Why? Do you?”
“Certainly not. Though I did enjoy my chat with Yvette.”
That arrested his attention. As she handed him his glass, he said, “And . . . er . . . what did you two discuss?”
Staring down into her glass, she said, “I told her all about Durand and why we had to marry. She thinks he’s mad.”
“He is. Though it’s a crafty sort of mad.”
She nodded. “Yvette agreed to write to me about whatever gossip she heard of him.”
“That’s good.” Edwin downed his wine, then went to fetch himself another. It was the only way he was going to get through the next few hours with her looking like that.
Clarissa didn’t seem to notice. “I didn’t mention the blackmail aspect to her. I wasn’t sure if you’d want her to know of it. Was that right?”
He forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. “Yes. I’d rather not worry her over it until it becomes necessary.”
“It did occur to me, though, that . . . well . . .” She toyed with her glass. “I wondered if perhaps the blackmail had something to do with what you mentioned this afternoon. About your mother. And her assault.”
He froze in the midst of pouring himself more wine. God, he hadn’t even considered that she might think that. “No. Not at all. Something else entirely.” Down went his second glass of Madeira.
When he said nothing more, she asked, “Will you tell me about it?”
Damn. The last thing he wanted to explain right now was his father’s spying. “The blackmail, you mean?”
“No. Your mother’s assault.”
That threw him off guard. He faced her, eyes narrowing. “Why?”
She swallowed. “Because . . . well . . . it seems to have affected you profoundly, and I should like to know what happened.”
It occurred to him that there might be deeper reasons for her request. What had Yvette said? Treat her with kid gloves.
Perhaps this was the way to do it. Show her his darkest secrets, so she might show him hers. He stepped nearer. “If I do, will you tell me why you shy from me?”
She blinked, then bobbed her head.
“Very well.” He gestured to the chair in front of the desk. “But you’d better sit down. It’s not a pretty story.”
At those words, Clarissa felt a sudden queasiness in her stomach. But this was what she’d wanted, to know what had happened to his mother and how it might bear upon his feelings toward what had happened to her. Which she’d now promised to tell him, and wasn’t at all sure she should.
But this couldn’t go on. She might as well get it over with.
Edwin went to close the door to the study, probably so the servants wouldn’t hear, and then to pour himself a third glass of Mad
eira. Clarissa frowned. She’d never seen him take more than one before, and it worried her. At least he only sipped this one, as if buying time.
When he spoke again, his voice was carefully measured. “It happened when I was eight and Samuel six. Father had just left to go to town one afternoon, so we were playing in the coat closet downstairs, having escaped our napping nurse. Father’s oldest friend came to call, and we watched from our hiding place as Mother invited him to visit with her in the drawing room while he waited for Father to return.”
His back stiffened. “We didn’t know the man very well—he’d just returned from a long trip to America. But Mother knew him from before she and Father married, and they seemed cordial.” He sipped some Madeira. “Anyway, Samuel and I got into a silly argument about something, and since we knew Mother was in the drawing room, we ran in there to have her settle it.”
A shuddering breath escaped him. “It took a moment for us to register what we were seeing. At first, it looked like the man and Mother were playing some game on the settee, tussling like Samuel and I were wont to do.” His voice grew choked. “But then I realized that the man’s mouth was smothering Mother’s, and he was holding her down while he dragged up her skirts. She beat on his back, but though she wasn’t exactly a small woman, she couldn’t get him off her.”
Clarissa knew firsthand what that was like, having a man who was stronger and fiercer on top of her and not being able to get free. Just hearing Edwin’s account made her hands clammy and her mouth dry.
He cleared his throat. “Samuel just stood there, unable to comprehend what was going on, but I wasn’t about to let Father’s ‘friend’ hurt her, so I cried out for him to stop.”
Pivoting to face her, he stared blindly past her with a haunted expression. “The bastard clamped his hand over her mouth and told me they were playing a grown-up game, and I should go back to my nurse. But I saw the stark terror in her eyes, the tears running down her cheeks. So I launched myself at him, determined to get him off her.”
The Study of Seduction Page 22