A Certain Latitude (17 page)

He slim hands laid the paper aside and undid the clasp of the leather case.

“Marry me, Clarissa.”

Against cream colored silk jewels blazed and glittered, a parure of precious stones.

She gave a soft sigh.

It was only then he dared to look at her face. She lifted the necklace from the case, gazing spellbound at the play of light on the jewels.

Had she not heard a word he’d said?

Her head turned, her expression stunned. “No, I can’t marry you, Allen.”

He raised himself to his feet again, humiliated and angry. “Christ, you’re no better than any other woman. I should have known. A man gives you jewels and you get wet for him—I was a fool to think you might be more than that. They’re stones, Clarissa. Lumps of rock. I offer you my beating heart.”

She clutched the jewels a little tighter in her hands. “I regret you misunderstood—there was never any possibility that our arrangement should last more than the duration of the voyage, or mean anything more than what it was.”

“I told you things about myself I’ve never told anyone. I—how can you go to Lemarchand?” He wanted to leave his mark on her pale skin, grasp her slender shoulders and wrench sense into her, and clenched his fists tight so he could not touch her. “You know he prefers boys?”

“You mean he might choose my mouth or arse?” She gave a chilly smile at his discomfiture. “And if he does prefer boys, why does he want a mistress?”

“Because he can’t get what he really wants.”

She laid the necklace back into the case, settling the jewels into their niches. “You assume—or invent—more than you could possibly know. I regret I cannot accept your offer, Mr. Pendale.”

“Why not?” He couldn’t help asking. He had to know, even if her answer would tear him apart. Clarissa Onslowe, he knew, was nothing if not honest.

“I don’t love you. I cannot love a man who does not know what he is.” She held up one hand to silence him. “You play at the law, you have admitted you play with any woman who is available. You admit the trade is cruel and heartless, but you will never act upon your beliefs.”

“But Lemarchand—”

“Lemarchand knows what he is. I do not love him but I know where I stand with him. I do not approve of what he is and I dislike much of what he does—his ownership of other human beings, his arrogance. But you and I both know we are all guilty, even if we are safe at home enjoying the prosperity the trade brings us, sipping tea sweetened with sugar from India. As guilty as that wretch Blight with his whip.”

“But you know who I am. You know everything about me.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I have never really known what you are, Allen. Not for all your confessions aboard ship, or your avowals of love. Because I think you do not know yourself and I cannot love a man who drifts through life.” She looked away and whispered, “And—and I desire him. I am sick with longing for him.”

She took the pen and hastily signed her name, one copy after the other.

He could not believe this was the same woman who had lain in his arms and looked upon him with such trust and tenderness. If she had not loved him, it had certainly felt like something very similar.

She looked again at the jewels, lifting a shorter strand from the case, a bracelet, or—

“It’s not for your wrist. Allow me to show you, ma’am.” He took the fine cotton of her gown in both hands at the bodice and ripped. His hands shook, with anger, he supposed. He wasn’t sure what he felt—lust, grief, jealousy, humiliation, certainly. He wanted to hurt her, one way or the other, yet he claimed—he knew—he loved her. “March can buy you other gowns. Allow me to complete your sensual education.”

“Let me go!” She hit him then, her hand cracking against his face as he loosened her breasts from her stays. “How dare you—”

“Oh, you’ve allowed me greater liberties than this.” He pinched her nipples, this time to hurt her, not arouse her. “I know you, Clarissa. I know the sounds you make, the expression on your face, when you come. I know—”

“I was mistaken in you. I hate you!” She struggled to her feet, aiming a barrage of blows at his face.

“I know your deepest secrets, Clarissa. Remember you told me about the report you’ll write, the first time a woman has come to the islands and observed the conditions of the slaves. Do you think you’ll find time in March’s bed? Or do you think he’ll whisper secrets to you in the dark? Or maybe it just doesn’t matter any more.”

He trapped her against the table, thigh to thigh, shoving his erection against her as he reached for the jewels. “This is how it fits. Not on your wrist, but here, Clarissa.
Here
.” He fastened the strand to her nipples and was glad when her breath hitched and she winced at the pressure of the clips. He caught her wrists, pinning them behind her. “It hurts, doesn’t it? But it’s a pleasurable sort of pain I think you’ll become accustomed to, and even enjoy. You’ll like it when March shows you off like this, his plaything. His property.” He pulled at the jewels. “He could put you on a leash, as though you were his favorite bitch. You’ll enjoy that too—” He stopped as he sensed a change, her body slackening against his, her breathing quieted. What the devil was he doing?

“Allen.” Her voice was very soft and tears shone in her eyes. “I thought once you were my friend. Please, do not poison what we have had. I must ask you to leave.”

He released her wrists, wondering if he had bruised her and what other damage he might have inflicted on her, and on himself too. As he stepped back, he became aware of his own hurts—a sting at his mouth, painful spots on his shins—he had not been aware at the time that she had kicked him—and an overall ache and exhaustion, as though he had lost a bout in the boxing ring.

Without a word, he bowed and walked away, out of March’s house, and, he hoped, out of Clarissa’s life.

She took a deep breath as the door closed behind him and sank to the floor, shaking and finally letting the tears flow. The intensity of his feelings, his violent anger had shocked and surprised her, fool that she was. Certainly she had not expected an offer of marriage—that had taken her entirely by surprise and, from his inarticulate proposal, she suspected it was not something he had intended, although it did not lessen his pain when she refused. She could not say she was sorry. If she’d said she cared for him, but not in the way he wanted, it would have been like rubbing salt into an open wound. She wanted to tell him she honored the confidences he had whispered to her and the extraordinary intimacies they had shared; that she would miss him.

Best to let him be angry, to hate her if he must, and she must accept the guilt and the chill he left in his wake.

The note March had written had fallen to the floor and lay face up next to her.

Madam,

You told me what you wanted from a lover. These poor baubles are the best I can offer.

Be mine.

Lemarchand
.

She unclipped the cruel little clips from her breasts and ran the heavy stones over her hand. Light flashed in diamonds with the cold brilliance of stars; sapphires held the deep intensity of an evening sky and moonstones glowed, subtle and sensuous.

“He remembered,” she whispered as the stones warmed against her skin and she could not help smiling with absolute delight and anticipation. “He listened to what I said. He understood.”

Clarissa had once dreamed of walking naked by moonlight through an ancient house into the arms of the lover of her imagination. That man existed only as a foolish abstraction; his earthly equivalent had failed and insulted her.

He had also offered her marriage and the protection of his name.

March had offered neither.

But it was to March’s bedchamber that she made her way, perfumed and adorned, by the light of a full moon casting splashes of silver light through the tall windows of the house. Her bare feet were as silent on the floorboards as those of his slaves.

Did March own her, too, now?

Outside March’s bedchamber, his valet, Finch, a taciturn Englishman who was one of the few servants in the household, moved forward to open the door.

She stepped inside.

The room held March’s scent. overlaid with that of the pungency of a scented candle alleged to keep mosquitoes away. The only other light in the room came from the moon, creating a dramatic interplay of silver and black. The moon was hidden, the room plunged into near darkness as, with a swish, the punkah descended—a canvas screen designed to create a breeze by its rise and fall, operated by a slave on the balcony outside. Moonlight flooded the room once more as the punkah rose.

Ahead of her, March’s bed, draped in the filmy white of a mosquito net, awaited. And he—the hairs on her arms stirred beneath the wool of her cloak—he was present, hidden in the shadows. Watching her. Waiting for her.

Her constricted nipples tightened.

She heard the snap of fingers, and the punkah rose and stilled.

“An apparition.” Silk whispered, rasped on male hair—she guessed he had discarded his banyan—and a dark shape moved between her and the window, a long shadow cast onto the floor; there was light enough to see that March was naked and fully erect. His loosened hair flowed onto his shoulders.

“Show yourself, spirit,” March commanded.

She raised her hands to the fastening of her cloak and let it drop, releasing a slight gust of salt that clung to it still. For a moment, the floor beneath her feet heaved and swayed like a deck, and she heard Allen’s voice again.
Oh, please, Miss Onslowe, do shock me.

March moved his head, a lift of the chin, summoning her from her ghosts to his imperious presence, and she stepped from the dark puddle of her cloak toward him.

“Ah. The queen of the night.” His gaze traveled over her, pausing at the jewels at her ears and neck and breasts, admiring his possessions, the beautiful things he had bought. “The jewels become you.”

She bowed her head.

He gestured with his head again, a different command, accompanied by a slight gesture of one graceful hand.

Down
.

She dropped to her knees and ran her hands up his thighs, long-muscled, cool, sleek with dark hair, to trail her fingertips up his cock— he was hot there, hot and eager, skin stretched taut. She explored him further with her fingertips, the dark weight of his ballocks, the tender skin of his inner thighs, the hair curling tight at the base of his cock.

He didn’t move, but he was not indifferent. His breathing quickened.

She touched her tongue to the smooth slick head, drew back and licked him, around and down, exploring the bumps of veins, his shape and taste and scent, for her own pleasure.
Let him wait.
Beneath her palm his ballocks tightened.

Not indifferent at all. How long would it be before he dropped the control, the pretense? Before he demanded and took, gripping her head with his hands, groaning as he gushed into her mouth?

She blew on his cock, damp from the attentions of her mouth and bit softly at the base. Why let him suffer further? She took him in her mouth, lasciviously sloppy and wet, her breasts pressed against his hard thighs as she sucked and licked. Her pinched nipples throbbed, wet heat pulsed between her thighs. If she squeezed her thighs together she could come, she was sure of it, but restrained herself—this was for his pleasure; all her concentration centered on him.

He groaned, the first sound he’d made, and now his hands came up to cup her head, to guide her, tilting her face and throat, tremors in his legs and belly. His fingers dug in her hair. She raised her eyes to see him, head thrown back, jaw clenched, belly and arms and shoulders tight and sculpted—a man fighting to loose and spend. She took him deeper, breathing through her nose, working one finger to the very base of his cock, beyond his ballocks. Rubbing the ridge, a little roughly.

Rough enough to make him surge salty into her mouth—a quantity indeed, although he was deep enough to spend mostly into her throat. But she wanted to taste him, to share the moment. Her quim clenched, the clips on her nipples announcing their painful presence anew.

His hands moved to her shoulders. He sighed and toyed with a lock of her hair.

“You may stand.”

She did so, excited by his formality, the indifferent tone of his voice. She knew better—she’d felt and tasted his excitement, his abandon.

She stood close enough for her jeweled nipples to brush against his chest.

He raised a hand to tug gently at the jeweled strand, creating more pressure on her over-sensitive nipples. His mouth closed on hers, nipping, sucking; his tongue coiled against hers, sweet and arousing, drawing a soft moan from her. Slow wet kisses on her throat, her jaw, her lips, her shoulders, returning to her mouth with an insistent thoroughness.

He pulled away. “Now make yourself come.”

Dazed, wanting his mouth again, she stood and stared at him.

He put his mouth to hers. “Do it.” His voice was low and seductive. His tongue licked her mouth. “Touch yourself.” He lowered his mouth and licked a swollen nipple. “I expect to be obeyed. You know that, don’t you, Clarissa?”

“Yes, sir,” she managed to gasp.

He pushed her toward the bed, drawing the mosquito net aside. “Sit.”

She sat and let him arrange her— legs raised and parted, her quim exposed to him as she lay back against the pillows. One quick, painful flick to her nipple.

“I’m waiting.”

He retreated to the end of the bed to watch her. She was about to perform. Of course she should be shamed and horrified—she was, wasn’t she?—but another part of her dared and urged her on.

Her breasts, first—tingling and swollen, the nipples hard under her fingertips. Maybe she could come if she stroked and flicked enough, but she knew March wanted more—to see her fingers dip into her quim, draw her swollen folds apart, and play with the erect ridge of her clitoris. First, a slow trail of her fingers down her belly, onto her thighs, a fleeting brush against the hair that, in her present position, concealed nothing, but framed her most intimate parts.