No longer hesitating, Rook drew her into his arms. He was surprised she had stayed strong for so long. The other women he knew would be blubbering wrecks, and even now she was trying to stem her tears with small breaths.
She was soft in his arms. Compassion – that’s what he felt. Compassion and tenderness, he told himself.
His body was asserting something else. It was asserting that the woman was warm, smelt of orange blossom, and that her breasts were intimately pressed up against his chest. He scowled at himself in disgust.
Clara was slowly feeling calmer, and rubbed her damp eyes on Rookdean’s shirt. She could hear the steady, but fast thump of his heart under her ear. She supposed he was still out of breath from the exertion, but as she shifted in his arms, the rapidity increased. She spread her hand over his chest, his waistcoat had become unbuttoned in the fracas, and his shirt hung slightly loose. One layer, just one layer was between her kid-gloved hand and his naked chest. She could feel the heat rising from his body, and her palm became hot.
“Clara…” his voice was gruff.
“Hmmm?” Clara replied distractedly, spreading her fingers wider. Strangely enough, all thoughts of Sir Matthew left her head. Lord Winterbourne would take care of him, and she knew that not all men were like Sir Matthew – he was a deviant. She had grown up surrounded by her Uncle Daniel’s male friends, and held no fear of men.
She would talk to Ralph, and hopefully it could be resolved soon. The only thought in her mind now, was how lovely this was – being held by Rookdean.
“You shouldn’t…” He cleared his throat. “It must have been very frightening for you. You should… lie down…in your chamber…on a bed…no, not on a bed…a chair.” His hands tightened on her shoulders.
“Hmmm?” Clara replied again. She loved hearing him talk – the way it rumbled through her ear.
“Clara. We should make our way inside now.” She listened again to the rumble and tried to ignore the words.
“It’s peaceful here with you,” she found herself saying, “I’ve never been kissed –” She was about to say, ‘soviolently’, but a finger gently pressed on her lips, stopping the words. His thumb softly lifted her chin up from his chest, until she faced him.
“No woman should ever be kissed in such a way, for the first time.” Rook said. His voice was low and with intent.
Clara was just about to say that shehadactually been kissed before, even though she couldn’t admit by whom. She licked her dry lips to start, and her tongue swiped the pad of Rookdean’s finger.
“I don’t want to frighten you,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Clara blinked at him. She could feel his breath on her face, and she literally ached for his touch. All words were now forgotten.
She could not reason this attraction to Rookdean. Of course he was handsome, but so were half a dozen other men at the party. There was just…something. Something intangible.
He could not explain it. She had been through a frightening experience. She should be crying and hurt, and Rook should be taking her back to her aunt. Instead, he was looking at her and feeling unknown emotions course through his body: tenderness, affection and a strong desire to show her exactly how a man should treat a woman.
He wanted to kiss the bruise on her shoulder and lick away the hurt – to show her that passion did not have to acquaint with violence.
Barely had he held a decent conversation with Clara Lockwood, yet there was something about the girl. The fierce anger he’d felt at seeing that monster’s hands on her, had felt like a searing flash of lightning through his body, shocking him into action. Savagery had surged and all control, the control he had always fought so hard to retain, had disappeared.
As a consequence, he’d lain into the animal and, as with all men that cowed women, he had whimpered like a child, barely fighting back. Rook had wanted him to fight. He’d wanted an excuse to hit the man, but he was unconscious after the second fist. Thank God, Jack had appeared, if not… It did not bear thinking about. He only hoped his own innate conscience would have arisen.
His eyes dropped to her lips, to his finger brushing her mouth. She’d never been kissed. Her lips should stay untainted, but that monster had already marked her with violence, and Rook justified to himself that he could erase that violence with gentleness and restraint. He would keep the kiss light and…compassionate.
At the same time, he could feel his body protesting – it wanted Clara Lockwood – and not with restraint and compassion but with wildness and fervour.
Leaning forward, he softly whispered his lips over her forehead, sliding his hand across her cheek, around her neck, and then resting it gently at her soft nape. He remembered seeing Taylor’s hand viciously tangled in her curls; it must have hurt when he’d pulled the man from her, and he gently caressed the back of her neck, trying to soothe away any memory.
His mouth slipped down, over her eyes, and the lashes flitted against his lips like moth’s wings on a dark night. Finally, he reached her mouth. Clara’s lips were already parted, and he kissed them – sliding his hands forward to cup her face and tilt it – his broad palms encompassing her.
He kept the kiss soft and light, although on hearing the sigh of pleasure that left her, he pressed slightly harder. She tasted of the cherries, which had been laid out for luncheon, and he wanted to push in further – to better taste her heady sweetness.
He resisted. She was an innocent and, although he had already justified his actions in his own mind, he told himself he mustn’t linger with her further.
He broke the kiss and looked at her. Her lashes fluttered open, and he so desperately wanted her to say something inane. Something to put him off: to douse his ardour for this debutante.
She licked her lips. “Thank you,” she whispered warmly, “for taking away the taste and the memory.”
He groaned aloud at her sweet words; he wanted to lay her down on the ground and take more memories away. To obliterate any bad remembrance, she may ever have had – and in the most primal way possible. Why did she have to be so goddamn tempting?
Briefly, the masquerade woman intruded on his thoughts – he had thought her sweet and tempting as well. Was he so shallow that two women could do this to him in the same week? Or, had he simply been too long without a female in his bed?
Could it be that they were one and the same? He looked at Clara’s face, visually trying to compare the two. However, it had been too dark in the sunken garden to clearly distinguish the masked lady’s features, and to be truthful, he hadn’t paid much attention. Now all he could see was Clara’s large, exotic eyes, lit with an amber glow around the pupil.
No, this was a damn nonsense! he thought, shaking his head dismissively. Clara had never been kissed before; she had admitted it herself. She seemed kind and gentle, and although her tender disposition called to some part of him, he had to let this go.
He had a domineering, sensual side that the masquerade woman had seemed to meet – and respond to. Clara seemed delicate and mild, and he didn’t tarrywith the innocent. Even outside of bed, Rook could be forceful and downright arrogant. He needed someone who would fight her corner, and call him an arse when needed. He acknowledged silently, that he wasn’t thinking about a mistress, but a wife.
Regretfully, he stood up. “We should go. Your aunt will tend to you. If you do not wish to come down to dinner, I will understand. Do not worry about Taylor, we will see to him.” He could see the confusion in her face at his abrupt ending to their kiss, but she quickly hid her bewilderment and murmured her agreement.
Rook escorted Clara through the garden; he kept the conversation light, fussing over her with questions and advice. She was quiet, and he was worried that she may be more distressed than he had first thought – both from the ordeal with Taylor and from his own touch. They entered the house via the servant’s entrance; a distinct disgust at his own actions causing him to rush her along.
ΦΦΦ
