A Fine Passion (19 page)

Jack held James’s gaze, read his eyes. “Are you saying that she might not even be
acknowledged
by the family, that they might still, seven years later, treat her as an outcast?”

“Yes.” James nodded very definitely. “The Altwoods aren’t renowned for their forgiving natures. I greatly fear that, regardless of what she allows to show, their…rejection hurt Clarice deeply. Returning to the fold to plead my case will unquestionably exacerbate long-buried wounds. Worse, certain members of the family might take advantage of having her at their mercy, in the sense of having her in a position of begging for their help for me, to…”

In imagining what vindictiveness his and her family might visit on Clarice, James was out of his depth; that showed in his confused, distressed expression as he searched for words. “Well,” he eventually admitted, “I don’t know
what
they might take it into their hard heads to do, but whatever.” James fixed Jack with a for him belligerent and decisive look. “I don’t want Clarice placed in such a situation on my account.”

A minute ticked past, then Jack exhaled. “I see.”

“Indeed.” James leaned across the desk. “So will you help me, dear boy, in dissuading her from going to London?”

Jack held James’s gaze, read his sincerity. Knew the matter wasn’t as simple as James had painted it. But…he grimaced. “The best I can promise is to think about it, along with every other option.”

James smiled. “Good, good.”

His immediate relaxing made Jack inwardly smile, fondly, if cynically. Having explained his problem and handed it to Jack to resolve, with his customary single-mindedness James turned back to the task on his desk. He dipped his pen in the inkwell, then frowned at the sheet on his blotter. “I’d better get on with these lists, then, heh? Don’t want to delay you, and they’ll take a few days as it is.”

Jack finished his list and left it with James to fulfill. He departed the rectory without encountering Clarice; he considered, but didn’t seek her out. Opting to take the longer route home, he sank his hands in his breeches’ pockets and ambled down the drive, and did what he’d promised James he would.

He thought about dissuading Clarice from going to London.

Unlike James, he could see some distinct pros as well as the obvious, now he’d heard the full story of Clarice’s past, cons.

There was no denying that once in London, she would command the family’s immediate attention. More, they would accept that she would not let them stand aside and not support James; if they wanted her to leave them in peace, they would have to act in James’s defence. Not having to convince people of one’s steely and unbending nature was an advantage he appreciated.

On a darker note, he hadn’t forgotten the not-quite-a-gentleman with the round face. If he persuaded Clarice to remain here and leave the London mission to him, in stirring matters up in London, might he precipitate some action directed against James here—here where Clarice would undoubtedly insist on standing in front of James?

Not a comforting scenario. In such a situation, he would be second-guessing himself constantly, hamstrung in prosecuting James’s defence in London.

In similar vein, given he seriously doubted his ability to convince her to remain at Avening, if he refused to take her with him, she would travel to London on her own. Not only would that leave her facing the con James sought to avoid, it would also leave her a free agent, one beyond his immediate reach.

In London.

If, alerted by her activity on James’s behalf, the round-faced man took it into his head to silence her…London was a far more dangerous stage if she became a target, and he wasn’t prepared to allow her to become a target here, in the sleepy country where she was surrounded by people who knew and valued her. As Anthony’s carriage accident had proved, the sleepy countryside wasn’t all that safe, not if one was stalked by one skilled in the art.

Jack knew all about such things; he didn’t need to dwell on them. Turning out of the rectory gates, he headed down the road and turned his mind to London, to the nature of the welcome James was sure awaited Clarice there.

Was James right? He might have been right seven years ago, but was that how matters still stood within the Altwood clan? Certainly Anthony and his clergyman brother didn’t view Clarice as
persona non grata
, as a female ostracized by their family. Swinging through the manor’s gates, Jack looked up at his house and made a mental note to charm Anthony that evening and see what he could learn.

However…

He looked down, staring unseeing at the graveled drive as he climbed the long slope to his front door. Even if James was right, and Clarice faced a hostile reception in London, regardless of whatever pain that might cause her, did he, or James, have the right to interfere, to make that judgment—the judgment that she shouldn’t face that pain—for her?

He mentally replayed that moment when she’d first decreed that she would go to London on James’s behalf. She hadn’t made the decision lightly, in haste, without considering the pros and cons. She knew better than James what she would face in town; she’d known what she was doing in deciding to go.

James hadn’t asked; she’d insisted on making a sacrifice on James’s behalf. Was it right for him to dismiss that as meaningless? Offering themselves as sacrifices was what warriors did…and she was a warrior-queen.

Jack grimaced and kicked a larger stone out of the driveway, then paused to look down the rolling meadows to the stream. He wished he didn’t understand her quite so well; in some respects, it made life more difficult.

Protectiveness, especially with respect to females, especially females of his class, was second nature, something bred into him; as with James, it was an instinctive reaction. If the lady in question had been anyone but Clarice…but it wasn’t. With her, unlike James,
because
he understood, he had to think before he acted, because for her—for a warrior-queen—protecting her might not mean the obvious.

Protecting Clarice, acting in her best interests, might actually mean taking her to London with him. Allowing her to brave the wrath of her family and beard the dragons of her past and their rejection, potentially to conquer it, to overcome it, all while he was there, by her side, for support. That she had the right to face whatever battles she chose was, in dealing with her, a very real consideration. To his mind, he had a corresponding right to stand by her side, but not to stand in her way.

He stood for a time, assessing his logic while the burbling of the stream soothed his senses. He couldn’t fault his analysis, his reading of her. Eventually, he turned and continued up the drive.

There were other, to him highly desirable outcomes that would be served by taking Clarice with him. He didn’t underestimate the logistical difficulties, yet the chance of placing him and her together in a situation tailor-made to help him persuade her to look at him more deeply, to consider him as her consort, was hard to resist. In London, especially given their misson, she would see sides of him few ever had, and all against the backrop of his and her rightful circle, the ton.

At some point, he would have to jar her into seeing him as more than a brief liaison, as a lover for all seasons rather than just one. Spending time together alone, not necessarily private but without being constantly surrounded by people who relied on them and demanded their attention would be essential; the chance of spending time together in London seemed god-sent.

At the back of his mind lay the notion that in order to succeed in his pursuit of her, to change her mind and convince her to consider matrimony again, he would need to exorcise the ghosts he presumed must exist given her past history with men and marriage. Dispatching such ghosts would be much easier if he could see them, and London was their haunt.

His front door rose before him. He halted before the steps, stared at the door, and let the final thread of his argument run through his head.

The final consideration. Him.

Taking Clarice with him to London meant he would know she was safe. Regardless of all else, in order to function efficiently, to concentrate and accomplish all James needed done, he would need that assurance. Fussing over her, hemming her in, here or there, would put her back up, and perhaps reveal too much of his intentions too soon, but if she was with him, he would know without needing to ask.

Drawing in a breath, taking his hands from his pockets, he climbed the steps to his front door. James would have to live with his fears; he did not intend to put a foot wrong in his pursuit of his warrior-queen.

J
ack joined Griggs and Percy in the estate office. Percy produced the list he’d extracted from Anthony; Jack read through the workmanlike effort, then commended Percy, who glowed.

Howlett appeared to announce luncheon. In the dining room, they found Anthony propped in a Bath chair, looking pale but grimly determined.

“If I can be forced to remember the entire family,” he said in response to Jack’s raised brow, “in all its glory, root and branch, I can sit up.”

Jack smiled and took his seat. “You’d better be sure not to damage anything, or Connimore will be unbearable.”

Anthony arched a brow. “Spoken from experience?”

“Just so,” Jack affirmed.

The meal passed comfortably. Jack, Griggs, and Percy discussed the farms Percy would see that afternoon. Anthony teased, but mostly simply listened. Despite his bravado, his broken bones were still painful.

At the end of the meal, they strolled into the front hall, Percy wheeling Anthony in the chair. Jack caught Anthony’s eyes. “If I were you, I’d get what rest you can. Clarice said she’d come by this afternoon to bear you company.”

Anthony’s face lit with delighted, almost childlike enthusiasm. “Excellent!”

Percy was less sure. “Perhaps she plays chess?”

Anthony raised his brows. Both he and Percy looked inquiringly at Jack.

What did they think? “I wouldn’t be surprised, but don’t feel too badly if she trounces you.”

Anthony chortled. Two footmen carried his chair upstairs; Anthony waved cheerily as they carted him along the gallery back to his room.

Jack repaired to the estate office with Griggs and Percy. After a final round of conferring, with Percy armed with a detailed map of the estate, Jack and Percy set out to do the rounds, Percy in the gig behind a calm and stately mare, Jack on Challenger.

Jack hadn’t had the gray gelding out for two days; Percy eyed Challenger’s consequent snorting and cavorting with overt distrust.

Jack grinned; tightening the reins, he brought Challenger to pace, aloof and unrepentant, beside the gig as Percy steered the mare down the drive. “How are your riding lessons going?”

Percy cast Challenger a look, then pointed at the mare. “Crawler had me out on Matilda here yesterday.”

“And?”

Percy shrugged. “It went well enough, but we didn’t get past a trot.” He glanced again at Challenger. “I’ll never be able to manage a horse like him.”

Jack smiled and looked ahead as they turned out of the drive. “You don’t have to. Being able to ride Matilda will get you around the estate well enough. You don’t need to ride like the wind.”

They rattled and clopped across the stone bridge. Scenting the open fields beyond, Challenger tugged at the bit, restless and not understanding why Jack didn’t want to gallop. “Speaking of which”—Jack ruthlessly held the gelding on a tight rein—“one of the consequences of riding horses like this is that they need to run.” He nodded ahead to the fields north of the road. “You know where we’re headed—the Delancey farm. If I leave you here, can you find your way there? I’ll let Challenger stretch his legs and meet you in the lane outside the farm gate.”

Percy nodded. “I won’t get lost. I’ve got the map, and Griggs said it was accurate.”

Jack saluted and wheeled away.

Two minutes later, he was streaking across a field not yet planted with its summer crop. Challenger crushed the stubble of winter wheat beneath his pounding hooves; the scent of the dried stalks and the smell of bare earth warming in the sunshine rose and flowed over them.

Jack gave himself up to the moment, to the race that was not a competition but simply a private joy, that sent a rush of exhilaration down his veins unclouded by any risk, any consequence. He and Challenger flew across his lands purely because they could, and wanted to.

Perhaps needed to.

The sun shone down; the breeze was a mere wisp of sensation. For one finite moment he understood what it meant to feel his heart was singing.

In the same moment, he realized what it truly meant to be home.

It was odd how, sometimes, different things connected, or more accurately made a connection in the mind. While riding free on Challenger’s back, thundering across his lands, his fields, Jack had felt a sense of rightness, of home and all that meant to him—not before, but now—click like a jigsaw about him. As if him being there was the final necessary piece to make his life whole…bar one.

With Percy beside him, he visited his tenants and refreshed his memories of his eastern holdings. When the afternoon waned, he returned to the manor with Percy, well pleased on all counts. Sending Percy in to report to Griggs, he took Challenger to the stables; he spent a companionable half hour chatting to Crawler, who also approved of Percy, untutored town whelp though he was. All was progressing well on that front.

Returning to the house via the garden door, Jack walked into the front hall, his bootheels ringing on the flags. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, senses suddenly prickling, he looked up—and saw Clarice poised on the landing. She’d been on her way down, had heard his footsteps, and paused; their gazes met, locked, then calmly, regally, she continued down.

Jack watched her descend. Watched the subtle shift of her hips under the fine muslin of her gown, a creation in rich burgundy that highlighted the full curves of her breasts, the long lines of her thighs fleetingly outlined with each downward step. He drank in her queenly self-assurance, her fine features serene, her dark hair coiled, a lustrous coronet about her head.

In his bones, he sensed her strength, that deep well of feminine unruffleability, of elemental power that called to him, captured him, anchored him. It was blindingly obvious what the ultimate piece of his jigsaw was. All he had to do was secure it, seize her and bind her into his life, fit her into his picture, to make that picture whole.

Complete.

He reached for her hand as she neared. She surrendered it, no doubt expecting him to bow over it. Instead, he closed his hand about hers, engulfing it. “Come with me.”

He turned and made for the library, his stride unhurried, but definite. Her hand locked in his, he towed her behind him. Surprised, she thought about resisting; even facing the other way, he sensed when she decided to humor him, to see what he wanted of her.

As it transpired, that was precisely what he wished to make plain.

He set the library door swinging, towed her through, caught the edge of the door with one hand, and shoved it closed. Twirled her so her back was to the door, then walked into her. Backed her until she was pressed against the panels, then moved closer yet, until the lush curves of breasts, stomach, hips, and thighs were trapped against him.

The sensation sent a surge of possessive lust through him; he dammed it, but didn’t hide it as he looked into her eyes, dark and darkening, widening not so much with surprise as interest, a simple uncomplicated wish to know what he thought he was about. Not the slightest tinge of fear clouded those glorious eyes.

He caught his breath, bent his head, found her lips, and let her feel what he wanted.

Her.

Not in any civilized way, but in every way imaginable.

He wasn’t the least surprised when she met his invasion with a challenge of her own; she didn’t know that her acceptance of his unrestrained ardor as if it were simply her due was a potent challenge in itself. She might have learned the techniques of sexual interaction from a library of learned texts; she hadn’t learned the nuances that could apply, that might be brought to bear.

In that respect, with her, even he was learning.

Her arms had been trapped between them, her hands gripping his sides; as desire flared and the kiss ignited, she released her hold, pushed her arms up over his chest, over his shoulders, then reached higher and speared her fingers into his hair, holding him to her.

He wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was she.

The kiss raged, sensual battle joined…

Footsteps in the hall, a footman passing, jerked them from the spell, had them both hesitating, considering, assessing.

Clarice pulled back from the kiss, broke it. Her breathing quick and shallow, from under lids suddenly heavy, she met his eyes, green and gold etched with desire.

A desire that sent her own need spiraling. He wanted her, here, now, and she wanted him.

“How?” She licked her dry lips, held his gaze, let him see she was serious.

He studied her eyes, then reached to the side. She heard a dull click; he’d locked the door.

His hand returned to her side, then slid down to her thigh. His eyes hadn’t left hers. “Like this.”

His fingers curled, and her skirts rose. Up, then higher. He drew them to her hips, then slid his hand beneath; reaching down between their bodies, he found her curls. His questing fingers blatantly stroked, then pressed past, parting her damp flesh, stroking lightly, then probing more deeply.

He didn’t kiss her again, but watched her, leaving her wholly aware, totally undistracted from the physical sensations. Aware to her fingernails of the intimacy as he shifted his hand between her thighs and slid one hard finger into her.

Her lungs seized, her gasp strangled in her throat. She gripped his shoulders, fingers sinking in as he pressed deeper and stroked. Her lids lowered, but she couldn’t not watch his eyes, not watch him watching her…

He eased his body back a fraction; she felt his other hand working between them, realized he was dealing with the buttons at his waist. Then the rigid length of his erection sprang free. His fingers left her; he drew his hand from between her thighs. She felt his hard palms glide down and around her thighs, then he closed his hands and lifted her.

Hoisted her up against the door. Spread her thighs as he did and stepped between.

She gasped and grabbed his shoulders. He closed with her, pressing between her thighs; she felt the broad head of his erection seek her entrance, find it, and sink in. Just a little.

Then he thrust home.

He filled her. Then he thrust that last inch until she felt him high, near her heart. Then, slow and controlled, he withdrew and slowly filled her, inch by inch, once more.

Then he repeated the sensual torture, one that had her gasping, too soon softly moaning. Tightening about him, locking her legs about his hips, she tried to urge him on, but he kept to his slow, deliberate rhythm, one that unraveled her senses, that sent waves of dark, illicit delight coursing through her, that steadily, inexorably, yet unhurriedly built the familiar blaze within them, but held the conflagration back.

He didn’t kiss her; they were both more or less fully clothed. Yet they stood pressed against his library door, intimately joined, and there was nothing to distract her from the sheer, unadulterated physicality of the moment, not just the powerful need that drove them both but the reality of him inside her, of the heavy weight of his erection sliding into her sheath, of her body so eagerly welcoming him in.

Of his taking her, filling her, possessing her.

She came apart on a breathless cry, glory imploding, pleasure enveloping her, swamping her, coursing down her veins, releasing her.

Jack covered her lips in the instant she crested the peak; he drank her cry, rode out the waves of her pleasure, then his body, held too long in check, slipped its leash. He surged powerfully into her, one, twice, three times, then with a groan muffled between their lips, joined her. Felt his seed release deep within her, felt in the deepest depths of his soul that he was home.

“I’ll meet you at the folly tonight.”

They’d rested for half an hour, even managed decorously to consume a pot of tea and a plate of cakes; Jack hadn’t been keen to see her walk out of his door, not so soon after they’d both been reduced to staggering.

But, as usual, she’d recovered well. He’d accompanied her to the front door; they now stood side by side on his front step.

At his words, she cast him one of her direct, faintly reproving glances. “You’re getting greedy.”

He held her gaze, without a blink replied, “And you aren’t?”

She humphed and looked ahead. After a moment, she conceded, “Very well.” She stepped down to the gravel and started off down the drive. “But I might be late.”

She didn’t look back but waved a hand in farewell.

Jack grinned, and savored the view, along with the knowledge that she’d be at the folly not a minute later than usual. After that interlude in the library, he’d wager his life on it.

The dip in the drive hid her from his sight; turning, he went into the house, grin fading as he realized just how true his previous thought was. With her, it was his life he was gambling with.

He paused in the hall, instinctively searching for ways to tip the odds in his favor; this wasn’t a game in which he had any intention of throwing in his hand. That being so, knowledge, as always, would be his best weapon.

Looking up the stairs, he considered, then headed for Anthony’s room.

His reluctant guest was growing increasingly restless, but Connimore had decreed that if he wished to take his place at the dinner table, then he had to rest until the first gong. Consequently, Anthony was glad of any distraction, even one that involved discussing his family.

“I wasn’t much about when it happened—away at school, and even when I was at home, the subject was never really discussed. Just the occasional comment one of the elders would make, you know the sort of thing.”

Jack nodded. “How would you describe your parents’ view of Clarice?”

Anthony screwed up his face. “I’d say that while they were shocked speechless at the time, it was a dashed long time ago, and it wasn’t as if she committed a crime, for heaven’s sake. Plenty of scandals much worse than Clarice refusing to marry that stick Emsworth. I know Melton—her father—raised a dust to end all dusts over it, but at least in my branch of the family, I’ve never detected any opprobrium that would make it difficult for Clarice to return to town.”

“What about the other branches? The connections?”