Of course his frank words shocked her. But they also intrigued her. They also sent tiny tongues of fire licking through her just beneath her skin. Naked and beneath him. Her limbs felt heavy, her entire being sparking with need. “This is a marriage of convenience,” she reminded him. “In name but not in deed.”
The pad of his thumb brushed the base of her throat. “Fucking you would be most convenient.”
There it was again, that filthy word. Ridiculous that it affected her. He was depraved. She should be properly appalled. Disgusted. Instead, a fresh onslaught of molten heat blossomed through her, beginning between her thighs and radiating everywhere. Even the tips of her ears felt hot. She imagined every part of her, from her head to her toes, flushed pink.
“You agreed to my bargain.” If only her mouth weren’t so dry as she reminded him. If only he didn’t make her so weak.
Slowly, he rubbed a circle of fire on her bare skin with his thumb. “I agreed to marry you, love. Nothing more.”
“But of course you agreed to my terms.”
Ravenscroft considered her, still far too near for comfort. “I professed your ruination. I orchestrated our nuptials. But I never, not even for a moment, promised never to bed you, little dove.”
She thought back to their conversation on the night they’d met. To her great shock, she couldn’t recall him ever promising to obey her terms. He’d been adamant, in fact, that he wouldn’t wed her at all. Until her father had arrived, and Ravenscroft suddenly declared that he’d ruined her.
She stilled, an icy sensation streaking through her. How had she failed to realize he’d never actually agreed to her terms? She had no vow, no oath, no written arrangement. Not a single reassurance. And yet, like the lamb bound for the proverbial slaughtering, here she sat, Lady Ravenscroft. How thoroughly he had routed her. Now she was exposed, vulnerable to enemy forces.
Clara felt even more scattered than before. She mistrusted him. Part of her was angry that she had allowed such a clever manipulation. Part of her still longed for his lips upon hers. “Are you saying you intend to force…relations upon me?”
He grinned, flashing his teeth again. “Never.”
Relief washed over her. She exhaled.
His next words set her back on edge. “Fair warning, love. I’m skilled in the art of persuasion.”
There was no doubting his meaning or his intentions. But she was a Virginia girl, and she wouldn’t be cowed by any English rake, no matter how pretty his face or tantalizing his touch. She tipped up her chin in defiance. “Fair warning, Lord Ravenscroft. I’m equally skilled in the art of shooting.”
He laughed, the sound as pleasing to the ears as he was to the eyes. Mellifluous and low and alluring. “So you’ve warned before, Lady Ravenscroft. I can see you’re in your papa’s bloodthirsty mold. Where is your pistol, darling? Perhaps I ought to disarm you now before it’s too late.”
Tucked into her trunks, but she wasn’t about to tell him where. Let him wonder, the scoundrel. How dare he wed her with every intention of seducing her? What else did he plan? To refuse an annulment? Keep her from returning to Virginia? Claim all her dowry for his own?
“You’ll never know,” she told him, catching his hands in an attempt to keep him at bay. “What else do you intend to do now that we’re wed, my lord? Has this been nothing more than a game to you?”
His expression sobered. “You’re not a game to me, little dove.”
“Call me by my name then.” When she would have disengaged from him, he tangled his fingers in hers, refusing to release her.
“Clara,” he said softly in his proper English vowels as though it were a precious word to him. Or maybe a vow. And then, again. “Clara.” He raised both of her hands to his mouth for a kiss to each. A third time. “Clara Elizabeth Ravenscroft.”
“Clara Whitney,” she countered. The mere utterance of her name in conjunction with his felt somehow just as intimate as his hand up her skirts.
“Not any longer.” He turned her hands over, kissing each palm, and she realized for the first time that one of her hands remained gloved and the other bare. He’d swept her away so easily she’d failed to notice. “You’re mine now.”
If only his possessive proclamation didn’t stir some weakness within her. “I’m my own.”
“No.” He leaned into her at last, kissing the side of her neck. “You’re most definitely mine,” he said against her skin. “I’ll take great pleasure convincing you of it.” Another kiss, a dart of his tongue over the sensitive place just beneath her ear before he nipped her lobe. “But for now, we’ve arrived.”
She became aware of her surroundings all at once. The brougham no longer swayed and rocked. How long had they been parked? Mortification sunk into her, heating her cheeks all over again.
“Come,” he said. “See your new home, Lady Ravenscroft.”
She didn’t bother to correct him.
he butler’s mien was as grim as Clara felt on the inside.
By the glaring light of day, the Earl of Ravenscroft’s home on Curzon Street showed itself to be even shabbier than she’d first realized. The carpet was thin and outmoded. The wallpapers were faded. Even the window dressings looked like embarrassed spinsters trying to hide themselves in the corner of a ballroom so no one would notice how gauche they were. From the dour butler to the furniture from last century—which desperately wanted a polish—the whole place was in need of a woman’s touch.
Some other woman’s touch, she reminded herself. She could provide the coin but she had no intention of lingering and toiling over the threadbare Aubusson. He couldn’t force her to remain. She was now a woman of her own means, and as soon as she could extricate herself from the earl’s hedonistic clutches, she would.
