by Gill, Tamara
Clara pushed her sex against his. He was rock hard and if she did not find her release soon he’d come again.
“Stephen,” she gasped, her hips rocking and pushing against him with increasing tempo.
He held her steady, his balls hard and aching. “Come for me, darling,” he said, pushing up against her as he pulled her onto him from behind.
She threw her head back, gasping as her body shattered in his arms. “Oh yes, Stephen,” she cried. There was no use trying to stop, he climaxed again. Her breasts bounced before him and he reached up, pinching her nipple as she rode him through her pleasure.
Clara collapsed to his side, and he wrapped her up in his arms, loving the fact she fit him so well.
“Well, that was certainly pleasurable,” she said, grinning up at him. “However will we stop such interludes?” He clasped her cheek, kissing her slowly.
“Yes, it was,” he said when at last he pulled away. “And there are other things we can do besides that will be just as pleasurable if you’re interested.”
Her eyes brightened with interest and he inwardly chuckled. “Really? However will I keep away from you?”
He grinned. “That, my lady, is why you will not.”
Chapter 11
Three days later Clara received a note from her friend Lady Davenport from London regarding an article that had been published in the paper. Julia had sent her a clipping of the piece and Clara slumped onto the sofa in the upstairs parlor as she read words that hundreds of peers too would have devoured.
A little image had been drawn for the amusement of the paper’s readership depicting a woman, similar in coloring to her and a man of similar features to Mr. Grant in a compromising position in a library. The article mentioned a daughter of a duke having been seduced by one not of her rank and implied that her stay in the country was solely due to being ruined by the fiend not worth her notice.
She rubbed her brow, pain spiking behind her eyes and for a moment the room spun. Who had written such a piece of malicious text and why? Clara read it again, certain that she could not be mistaken and again the words jumped out at her, taunting, laughing and ruining her.
The little drawing had the woman dressed in black and there was no doubt in her mind that it was her that the article had been written about. And there had been only one other person who had seen her standing beside Mr. Grant in a library in such a way.
Lord Peel.
The urge to scrunch up the article in her hand grew the more she thought about the man who had tried to take liberties that were not freely given, and now this. To disgrace her in such a way when she had never done anything to him, other than rebuff his advances was not to be borne. Had her father been alive she was certain that he would never have been so disrespectful to her.
A duke’s daughter.
Clara blinked back the tears and she stood, walking to the window to look over the grounds. Is this what society would do to her now that her father was gone? Or was this simply a taunt, a warning that she should remove Mr. Grant from her life or suffer worse embarrassments?
Something told her it was the latter.
The sound of footsteps sounded in the hall outside and she quickly wiped at her cheeks, turning to face the door and whoever had called. Although she already had an inkling of who it would be.
A footman knocked on the door, stepping inside and announcing Mr. Grant. She bade him enter, not moving from the window lest he see her upset.
“Mr. Grant, how good of you to call.” Clara clasped her hands at her front, unsure of how to tell him what had been disclosed to her today. He would be furious she imagined and hurt, but would he see the implications for them at this affront?
The footman closed the door, leaving them alone and Stephen smiled, coming over to her and pulling her into his arms. She went willingly, breathing deep his scent of sandalwood and goodness. For he was a good man, no matter what she’d once thought of him. How wrong she’d been all those years ago, and what she was about to say to him would be very hard for them both to hear.
“Clara,” he said, kissing her soundly.
She lost herself a moment in the embrace, not wanting to face the truth of their situation. Wanting to for a little while longer be cocooned in their bubble in Kent.
“I missed you.”
“I only saw you yesterday,” she said, trying to make light of his words and yet, they rang as true to her as they did to him. She’d missed him also. In fact, she’d come to realize of late with growing concern that she hated when he left.
“Come sit with me, Stephen. There is something you need to see.”
A small frown played upon his brow, but he followed her to the sofa and sat beside her. Clara picked up the article from the small table where they sat and handed it to him. He read it quickly, his mouth turning down in disapproval, a deep scowl between his eyes.
“How dare the bastard? I ought to call him out.”
She met his eyes, reading the truth behind his words. “I thought the same. This is most certainly the work of Lord Peel.”
Stephen screwed the clipping up and threw it into the fire. “Do not react or show any concern over such an insulting piece. When he knows that we will not respond there will be little he can do.”
Except start to make up stories to suit his nefarious means. Ruin her reputation forever…
Clara clasped her hands in her lap to stop their shaking. “You know Lord Peel. He’s vindictive and doesn’t like to not get his own way. My disinterest in his attempts of courtship have brought this on, and that you’re the one gentleman whom he never thought to have to consider as a possible rival has led him to act out in such a way.”
He grinned, taking her hand, his thumb running circles atop it. “Am I a rival for your hand, Lady Clara?”
Her gaze met his. Never before had they talked of courtship, that what they had been doing with each other these past weeks would ever lead to anything more lasting. Did Mr. Grant wish for there to be more between them, and if he did, did Clara want there to be?
“I had not thought about it.” The lie almost choked her and she cleared her throat as Stephen narrowed his eyes on her. “A stolen kiss here and there is not marriage inducing, is it not?”
He pulled back a little, watching her warily. “I think what we’ve been doing is a little more than kissing, my lady.” He studied her a moment before he said, “I will be honest and tell you that at first I did not think of such a possibility at all. You’re far above me in rank and wealth and there is little that will change my circumstances. I do not need a London lord to write an article and draw a picture to tell me that truth.
“But I’ve come to care for you, more than I thought would ever be possible knowing our tumultuous history. I would be a liar if I did not admit that I’ve thought of you as my wife. As quickly as I thought such a thing I dismissed it due to our different circumstances. It does not mean, however, that I do not want such a future with you.”
Clara pulled her hand away, rising and going to stand before the fire. She bit the inside of her bottom lip, not sure how she would get through this conversation that they had to have. A conversation long overdue.
“I do care for you, Stephen. So very much,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But I cannot marry you. There is too much of a divide between us and this article is just the first of many such articles that will nail home what the ton would think of my marriage to you. We will be ridiculed, shunned, our children too no doubt. People will laugh at how changeable I am. They all know that I once despised you, and now look at me. I…” She stopped speaking, shocked that she was about to say a word she’d never uttered to anyone else ever in her life.
Stephen’s face shuttered, all warmth seeping from his blue-green orbs. “All this time I thought that you had changed and yet you’re still the same. A woman afraid of what others think of you. Do not forget who you are, Lady Clara. You’re a duke’s daughter, an heiress, no one can touch you if you do not l
et them.”
She shook her head, wanting to believe his words but knowing she could not. She was not that strong. She may have seemed to everyone that she was formidable, cold and above reproach, but she was not. “Whether I like it or not, they’re my friends. For the rest of my life I will have to attend the Season and be a part of that world. I cannot be ostracized. I have no one, Stephen. No family, nothing left to me that is blood. My friends are all whom I have left.”
“You have me. Am I not enough?”
Oh, he was enough, he’d always be enough, but it could not just be the two of them forever.
“I cannot just have you, Stephen. There are other things to consider and you know that.”
He stood and ran a hand through his hair. He strode toward the door and fear shot through her that he’d leave. “If you loved me I would be more than enough, Clara. You’re certainly enough for me. You’re all that I want in this world. I live to hear your voice each day, to kiss your lips, and breathe in your scent. I did not think I was alone in this emotion.”
She took a step toward him and stopped when he held up a hand to halt her. “You are not alone in that, but I cannot marry you. My marriage should be the joining of two great families. For all that you are, your beautiful soul and heart, I cannot give you mine in return. I’m sorry.”
“Spineless and cold to the very end. Had I not known you these past weeks I would not have thought it possible for someone to be so callous.” He laughed, the sound mocking. “You do not disappoint, Lady Clara. A viper to the very end.”
“Stephen,” she pleaded, striding toward him. She grabbed his arm as he went to leave and he shrugged off her hold.
“What, my lady? What is there left to say?”
Her heart shattered at the broken look in his eyes. She’d made him feel that way. She had been the one to do this to him and she hated herself for it. “You’re right, I am scared of what others will think, what they will do to me. Lord Peel’s threat is there for all to see and next Season when I’m in town his little article may see me ostracized already. That world is all I have left. Please understand, I have no one left to protect me from them.”
His face contorted into a look of contempt. “Nonsense. You have me, at least, you had me,” he corrected. He turned for the door and wrenched it open. “Have a happy life with your lord, Lady Clara. May the nobility and all its trappings bring you joy.”
She stared after him, his words echoing through her mind like a death knell. She swallowed the sob that wanted to wrench from her. Had they just parted? Parted forever? Her stomach roiled and she stumbled to the door in her haste to catch up to him. She jerked the door open only to see no sight of him.
Clara ran for the back of the house, ignoring the startled gasps and looks her staff gave her. She pushed open the servants’ door that was a mere few short steps to the stables only to see Stephen pushing his horse out of the yard and toward his own estate at a full gallop.
“Stephen,” she yelled, heedless of who heard her. “Stephen, wait!” I’ve made a mistake…
She watched until she could no longer see him and jumped when a clap of thunder sounded overhead. Clara looked up at the sky, watching as the first drops of heavy, large raindrops fell from the sky.
“Damn it,” she muttered, turning for the indoors. She would travel over to his estate tomorrow and make it right. Once they had both calmed down and she was thinking more clearly, she would amend this riff. It was not over between them. Not yet at least.
Chapter 12
Scotland, Mid-March 1810
“That’s it, I’ve had it with you, Brother. Eat your breakfast, bathe and get on your horse back to England. You cannot mope about Scotland for the rest of your life.”
“I can and I will,” Stephen replied, moving about the one piece of bacon he had on his plate. He stared down at the food, knowing he was moping and that his sister was right. He really did need to return to his estate that he’d promised his brother-in-law he’d take care of for him. But how could he return there, the one place he knew she would be.
Clara.
He clenched his jaw, reaching for his cup of coffee. The thought of her always brought both longing and anger in equal measures. He’d not seen her since the day of their parting, almost four months ago now. He’d packed up his belongings that very day, placed his steward in charge of Ashby Cottage and rode for Scotland. Multiple times he’d thought to turn around, go back and fight for her. Make her see that he was more than what he’d been born, a common man with very little to recommend him other than his loyalty and good character. He was the man for her. If only the stubborn wench would see it.
Instead, she’d thrown him off. Told him to his face that he was not good enough for her exalted breeding.
He shook his head, throwing his napkin down beside him and pushing back his chair. “I’ll see you at luncheon.”
“No you won’t,” his sister said, standing and reaching the door before he had a chance to escape. “I’ve instructed a servant to pack up your things and at this very moment they are being bundled into a carriage. You’re returning to England today and that is the end of it.”
Stephen glared at his twin, turning to her husband who sat at the head of the table, watching them both with amusement. “Dinna look at me, lad. I’ll not be going against my wife. I suggest ye shouldna go against yer sister either.”
“You’re kicking me out?”
His sister’s shoulders slumped and she clasped his hands. Hers were warm and soft and it made him miss feeling such a way as well. He’d been cold since he’d left England, although he wasn’t sure if it was because of the climate in the Highlands or because his heart had simply stopped beating.
“We would never use such terms, but we are setting you on a correct path. That being south and to London. You need to speak to Lady Clara. Maybe she has changed her mind. Your absence may have been the catalyst that had made her see that you were indeed the man she loved and wanted as her husband. Not some stodgy, old titled lord.”
Laird Mackintosh cleared his throat. “I hope that isna a reflection on what ye thought of me, my love.”
His sister turned and the adoration that was etched on her face whenever she glanced at her husband made Stephen want to both retch and cry. He was a foolish fop.
“You’re Scottish. I’m referring to the English only, my dear.”
The laird chuckled and cut into his kippers. Stephen sighed. “She’s probably betrothed by now. She had many suitors besides myself before her father died. Louise wrote in her last letter that Clara was back in town and taking part in the Season. What’s left of it in any case.”
“You know that I’ve never been fond of Lady Clara. Heavens, she was not the nicest to us, but if she was different with you, redeemed herself and you fell in love with that side of her, then you need to go win her back. Do not live to regret doing nothing, Brother. That is not who we are. We’re Grants. We get what we want.”
“’Tis true, I can vouch for that,” the laird said, agreeing with his wife.
Stephen stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “I will go and I will see what is at play in London, but I cannot promise that anything will come of it between us. I’ve not heard from her, and nor have I written in turn. It is possible that it is too late.”
“It is never too late to win back one’s love. I can vouch for that.” Sophie clasped his arm, walking him to the door in the great hall in which they ate most of their meals here in Scotland. “Go, my dearest brother. I expect to hear news soon of your impending marriage.”
He threw her a small smile, not wanting to ruin her hope that he himself was feeling very little of. Even so, he would return to town and see what was afoot, and if Clara was as indifferent to him as her words of dismissal made her out to be four months past.
Chapter 13
London, April 1810
Clara stood in the ballroom of Lord and Lady Davenport’s home and only just stopped herself fr
om gasping out loud. Tonight was the first time she’d seen Mr. Grant in some time, and for the first hour of the assembly, she’d not been able to look away from the striking appearance he cut within the nobility.
His superfine coat and silk breeches were cut to fit him perfectly, his silver waistcoat and faultlessly tied cravat accentuated his lovely jaw and sinful mouth. She’d not been able to look away, and not only because he made her body yearn with a longing she’d pushed down over their time apart. But because her friend, a woman whom she had at times vented her dislike of Stephen was currently hanging on his every word across the room from her.
Clara took a sip of her ratafia as she stood with a group of friends, all married and all thoroughly engrossed in their conversations regarding marriage and children. Clara had tried to take part as much as she could, listen and impart any advice that she could, but since Clara was unmarried and not a mother, her friends were often dismissive of her input and so she’d learned to stay quiet and simply nod when they looked her way.
It was easier than to tell them their conversations were boring and if she were not their friend she would have fallen asleep on the spot hours ago.
“Is that not your neighbor, Clara?” Julia said, staring in the direction that she’d last seen Stephen. “I did not know Lord Davenport had invited him.”
Clara feigned surprise and glanced about until she spotted the dratted man. Oh yes, it was him, laughing and talking as if she did not exist. And she supposed she did not any longer. Not since she had told him he was not worth her time simply because he was not born nobility.
What a horrible person she was.
“Yes, I believe so,” she said, matter-of-fact. “He must be back from Scotland.”