Her question surprised him.Everything,he wanted to say.Every part of you. All your innocence, all your passion, every bit of your delectable body.Instead, “I want you to lose yourself. Give in. Watch me as I bring you pleasure.”
He was well aware of his depravity, leading a maiden down the garden path of the dissolute. She’d kissed with a charming inexperience that suggested she’d kissed a scant few men, if any, before him. She was a virgin, a naïf he’d sworn to chastely court. And yet here he was, hand up her skirts, inside her drawers, playing with her, craving not only her climax but also her complete abandon. He was already teaching her how to be wicked.
It was as if she’d heard his words herself, for a change came over her. Her hands flew to his chest, pushing him back to the squab opposite her. He went, allowing her to overpower him with ease. Perhaps she wasn’t quite ready to be as wicked as he wanted her to be. Perhaps she lied to herself. She straightened her posture into a stiff, ladylike pose, fidgeting her skirts into place.
“A marriage in name only, my lord,” she reminded him with the cool, august bearing of a queen. She could be proper when she wished, the spitfire before him. “As I said, the terms are not negotiable, and I’ll thank you not to place your hands upon my person again.” She blushed furiously as she said the last.
But he wasn’t about to accept her dismissal so easily. He raised his fingers, still glistening with the evidence of her desire, to his mouth, and tasted them. Sweet and musky. His cock went painfully rigid against his trousers. “Never again?” he asked with a wicked grin.
She stared at him. He’d shocked her. But he’d also intrigued her, and he could see it quite plainly. “Never again,” she repeated, her tone rather faint. She swallowed. “Our agreement won’t change. Now if you’d be so kind as to return me to where I belong? I don’t suppose it truly takes this length of time to get a carriage back to my father’s home from where you found me, regardless of theabsolute Belgravia crush.”
She was turning his own words against him. Yes, she was a clever minx. But even the most clever of minxes could be outfoxed. He’d win her yet, even if he did dread the day he’d have to face her wrath when she realized he had no intention of allowing her to go traipsing back to Virginia like the lamb bound for slaughter.
“Very well,” he agreed with a relaxed air he was far from feeling. He rapped on the carriage, signaling to his driver that their circling was, alas, at an end. Not all wars could be won in a single battle, but he was prepared to lay siege of the very best sort.
he earl had put his hand up her skirts.
And she’d let him.
Clara could not force the thought from her mind. Not as she went about her preparation for dinner that night. Not as she dressed for breakfast the next day. Not as her father addressed her with the frigidity of a stranger. Not as she politely inquired as to the wellbeing of Lady Bella’s mother. (Still as much of a harridan as ever and merely the victim of a bad fish course conflated with a tendency toward melodrama). Not at all.
Worse, she’d enjoyed it. Her mind relived that heart-stopping moment in the carriage again and again. He’d been handsome, dressed to perfection, no plum half-moons beneath his intense eyes as he’d had that night in his study. And he’d been intent upon her, looking at her as though he longed to devour her, catching her in his seduction as easily as if she were a butterfly trapped in a net. One swift journey up her skirts, and she’d been done.
And Lord, the way he’d made her feel. It had been sinful for certain, but she’d never experienced anything like the molten heat and honey, the dizzying pleasure of his long fingers touching her very core as he watched, as he made her watch. He’d touched the part of her even she’d dared not touch. Now she wondered why, for it was clearly a most receptive and delightful place for such a thing.
Heaven have mercy on her, she’d only been alone in his presence twice, and the man had already made her as much a sybarite as he. A most disquieting realization. Perhaps something was wrong with her. She certainly felt out of sorts, as though her body were too heavy or her skin too tight, her thoughts all wound up inside like a ball of twine.
“Clara, dearest? Where is your mind?”
Clara jolted from her sinful musings, cheeks going hot before she could collect herself as she met her stepmother’s gaze. Ravenscroft was to call upon them today for tea. More flowers had arrived that morning, so sumptuous and lovely and dear that she was certain he couldn’t afford them. They’d been accompanied by a note with a single word.
Again.
Yes, that was precisely what ailed her—the portent of a lone, menacing, thrilling word. “Forgive me, Lady Bella. I was merely gathering wool.” She attempted a smile she didn’t feel. In truth, she simply wished to have done with this ridiculous courting nonsense Papa had devised. The sooner she could wed the earl, the sooner she could leave him and his troublesome hands, wicked mouth, and beautiful face behind.
“You were granted a reprieve yesterday,” her stepmother observed. “Have you not wondered if perhaps it was providential? You could still refuse him, deny him access to you, forget all about this madcap sense of romance you’ve allowed to rot your brain.”
Providential indeed, she thought weakly. “Not in the slightest, my lady. I’m committed to staying the course. Do you not love my father?”
Lady Bella’s expression softened, and somehow the effect rendered her even lovelier than she already was. “I love your father very much.”
“And what if someone had told you not to wed him? Would you have listened?” Clara knew another twinge of guilt for asking the question and using her stepmother’s weakness for her father against her. However, her cause needed all the help it could manage to swindle, borrow, or steal.
Lady Bella’s lashes swept down over her gaze. “Your father would not have allowed anyone to come between us. But what we share is rare, Clara. It’s a special bond, the sort that cannot be nurtured in a hasty courtship or a longing glance cast across a ballroom.”
Truly, did Lady Bella suppose Ravenscroft the sort of man who made eyes at a lady over the quadrille? She was about to answer when the earl himself was announced. Here was the man she couldn’t shake from her mind, and he was just a mortal after all, with hair that was a bit too pomaded this afternoon for her liking and a shade of stubble upon his jaw. While his wardrobe was perfection—tailored trousers and a gray waistcoat, all the mode—the darkness beneath his eyes had returned.
He bowed, and she had to admit that he cut a lean figure. Not at all the build one would have expected of a man given to indolence, womanizing, and drink. His hips were narrow, shoulders broad, and she spied not a hint of a paunch beneath his layers of fashionable clothing. He was an enigma, at turns precisely what she’d expected and then at other times quite the opposite.
“Lady Bella,” he greeted, the epitome of polite sophistication. His gaze lingered on Clara for a beat longer than necessary, and an unwanted surge of heat swept over her. “Miss Whitney.”
The tea was weaker than Clara preferred, though she didn’t particularly care for the English custom of teatime. The conversation was stilted in the extreme, steeped in Lady Bella’s obvious disapproval and displeasure. For his part, Ravenscroft either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He carried the conversation with his easy brand of charm. He knew how to banter, and he knew how to win over virtually any opponent.
“How are your sisters, Lord Ravenscroft?” Lady Bella asked, still cool though the earl had undeniably begun to thaw some of her ice. “You have two, yes? Lady Alexandra and Lady Josephine?”
He inclined his head. “You are, of course, correct as ever, my lady. Both are well, thank you, but perhaps a trifle in need of some sisterly guidance from a female. It’s my fervent hope that Miss Whitney might become dear friends with them.”
“I’m sure Miss Clara would enjoy such an arrangement, in the event of your marriage.” Lady Bella said the last as if it tasted bitter upon her tongue. As though their marriage were still a questionable matter.
